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Gavin is a coward, which is why he takes Miles.
Miles reasons this out calmly in the back of the sedan (stolen? A rental, surely, with that harsh smell of industrial cleaner wafting up from the floorboards). There’s something tied to cover his eyes, his hands are ziptied behind his back. Miles’ feet are bound together at the ankles with duct tape. There is probably residue on his handmade leather Paolo Scafora shoes. Thinking back to his ruined cravat and blood stained suits, Miles wonders sourly if his wardrobe would qualify as a collective asset for insurance purposes in future.
The car goes over a bump in the road a little too quickly and Miles is jounced across the flooring, landing with a painful thump.
“My apologies,” Gavin calls out from behind the wheel. “The roads are rough but the destination is to die for.”
His banter is wasted, designed for a personality like Wright who might yell back, or sulk and seethe. Miles is busy, calculating the roughness of Gavin’s voice and approximate distance (dehydrated, and thick from lack of sleep- too far to reach in a single lunge). Prison escapes are a rarity but not impossible. Should Gavin have wished to implement a thought out plan, he would have had an excellent chance for success. Unfortunately for him, this was clearly prompted by Miles’ visit to the maximum security prison for a follow up interview with a previous offender. Miles had been in proximity and Gavin had been impatient. Now here he is: friendless and exhausted after thirteen hours on the road. The same pathetic lack of follow through that ensured his downfall before would do so again now. The only question was whether or not Miles would survive to the end of it.
When the car jostles again, the bag to his left rolls over. Quietly and carefully, Miles scoots backward until his bound hands fall on the zipper. He rests for a moment.
Gavin flips on the radio, like clockwork at the top of the hour, thumbing through the stations until he reaches breaking bulletin: the Chief Prosecutor of Japanafornia, Miles Edgeworth, has been abducted from the Greater Area Maximum Security Prison. The suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous-
Miles eases the zipper down slowly, muffled by the sound of the radio and the car fighting the terrain outside (a poorly maintained road, unpaved with a slight increase in elevation). He reaches inside.
Miles feels the skin of his thumb split, separating. Quickly he pulls away, jamming the wound against the back of his jacket to stem the bleeding. If he bleeds into the bag, Gavin will know he has tampered with it. With his other hand, he continues to check the contents more carefully. Rope. A folded up tarp. A hammer. An oddly shaped glass bottle, small like perfume. It takes him a moment to reason out the sharpest object, handling it gingerly to avoid another injury.
A bonesaw.
He does pause then for a scant second.
This is hardly his first foray into physical danger because of his line of work. Miles had accepted some time ago that he was likely to meet his end in some violent and flashy manner, like father like son. Dismemberment, however, seems excessive. He doubts Gavin even has the muscle or dedication to do so correctly. Miles resigns himself to a jigsaw puzzle reassembly in the coffin before cremation.
He considers using the bonesaw to cut through his zip tie. He will certainly injure himself along the way with the sharp serrated blade. It will be a point of no return.
And Gavin still has the prison guard’s gun.
No, Miles decides. He can afford to wait, the risk is a calculated one. Gavin isn’t likely to harm him until they reach their destination or he would have done so already. And Gavin has given Miles some necessary courtesies: allowing him free to use the restroom in privacy at the side of some deserted road, or to drink water on his own from a carefully rationed bottle of Dasani. Best not to jeopardize those privileges at this point, there is no telling how long the trip might continue.
Miles inventories and rezips the murderbag pragmatically. As he does so, his hand chances against something small and cool on the floor nearby. It is Miles’ own fountain pen, usually kept in a small travel case. As he had been shoved unceremoniously into the car and tied up, he had dropped his briefcase in an explosion of papers and detritus. It must have come loose then, shot like a projectile from the force into the car along with him. It’s a lovely little model, a Monte Blanc with smooth even writing. It’s perfect for travel because of its sturdiness: resin tipped platinum with a sharp, sharp nib.
Miles conceals the pen in his sleeve with little difficulty. He might not have ever discovered any of Trucy’s tricks to their full extent, but he’d picked up a few helpful tips from close observation. He uses the fold of fabric around his heavy cufflink to finish the illusion. One helpless prosecutor, ready for victimhood.
On the radio, the new bulletin slides into a radio talkshow. It’s morning, then, or nearly. If it will be light out, his chances to be found will increase exponentially. The DJ finishes her chirrupy greetings, and then puts on a song.
Klavier’s husky-smooth voice fills the car and Gavin begins to laugh.
“How fitting,” he says darkly, but he seems cheerful enough. His hands drum against the wheel and he even sings a little part of the chorus: atroquinine my love, let’s raise a glass together…
There is peculiar emphasis there. Miles supposes that answers the question of what is in the glass bottle.
The pieces line up inexorably, like resetting a chess game post-match. Knight here, bishop there - bonesaw, poison, together. When Kristoph Gavin finishes his extremely unpleasant plans for Miles, he will take his little bottle and end his brief foray into freedom with a poisonous murder suicide. A romantic notion, to die dramatically with your greatest foe, arm in arm. Miles rather doubts it would work. If Vera Misham managed to eke through a poisoning, Phoenix Wright’s billy goat stomach is likely to result in mild dyspepsia. Still, it will be a shame about Miles. Wits and a fountain pen are little match for a loaded gun.
The car stops.
“We’re here,” Gavin says pleasantly.
~~
Though the blindfold blocks his view, Miles can feel the warmth and light of the early morning sun. Gavin has the gun pressed directly into his back, marching him up some uneven trail and when they reach the crest, Miles pauses.
“Can’t I?” He asks.
Gavin hesitates and Miles stays very still. One hand still keeping the gun to his back, Gavin pulls the blindfold down.
The trees are beautiful, the bright green of early summer. The sky is blue and on the plains below them a river snakes its way through dotted purple wildflowers (fleabane? Somewhere near Six Rivers National Forest). A breeze rustles his makeshift blindfold, made now, he sees, from his own cravat. Miles has no intention of making his final bid here at the edge of a cliff where both are as likely to go over the edge as either alone. Perhaps his compliance now will result in opportunity later.
When Miles has his fill of the landscape, he turns his head slightly to look at Gavin. The man is unkempt and scruffy. His time in prison has been unkind to him, long golden hair thinning at the temples and peppered with gray. His plastic prison issue glasses are oversized on this face, frames far too thick and blocky. The prison suit, too, hangs badly on his frame. It is a far cry from the glamorous man in bespoke suits who paid a hundred thousand dollars for a single piece of forged evidence.
Gavin notices him looking. He reaches back up and pulls the blindfold back into place. It is now slightly looser because of the handling.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Miles asks lightly.
Gavin does not reply.
~~
If Miles has a hope it is this: Gavin is a coward. His victims included a twelve year old girl and a man struck on the head from behind. An aware, cognizant victim, one whose eyes he had looked into while committing a terrible act, is not something Gavin has ever had to contend with. The blindfold is as much for Gavin as it is for Miles.
Miles is unsurprised when his shoes move from path to gravel to the wooden steps of a front porch. Gavin would want to conceal his crimes and he would not want to kneel in the dirt while committing them. To him, such acts of violence were noble and necessary. Scrabbling through leaves and bugs would not be appealing.
Each step is a thought. Now? No, perhaps… now? But something holds him back along the way. Miles will know when the time is right, he must trust such a time will present itself before his death. He is sat in a wooden high backed chair, arms still behind. Gavin attempts to remove the tape in order to re-secure Miles’ legs to each side of the chair, but the tape is stubbornly stuck to the kid mohair of his suit pants at the cellular level. The fabric tears, so Gavin removes it completely. Miles has his bare legs taped tightly to each chair leg, directly against the skin. It will retain a substantial amount of trace DNA, at least, whenever he is moved. This is an awkward position to use a saw, but a good height for a swing of the hammer. He listens to the sound of Gavin shaking out the plastic tarp.
Gavin has regained his good humor in preparation for his task. He is humming his brother’s song under his breath as he walks into the other room for the rest of his tools. Miles grips the pen, worked free from its ornate cap. It will tear his rotator cuff at this angle, but if he can lift his arm backwards, bring them down together at an angle, then…
There’s a shuffle and a thud. Gavin’s song stops abruptly.
Miles tilts his head, straining to listen.
A tremendously loud sound, heavy furniture toppling, smaller thuds hitting the floor (a bookshelf has overturned, how, why).
Quiet.
Has Gavin gone mad? Is he gathering his courage, working himself into a rage against the furnishings before turning the hammer on Miles?
Slow footsteps (reluctance? anticipation?). This is Miles’ chance. He grips the pen. When did his palms become so damp with sweat? Something is wrong. He should strike. This is the moment, this is it! Still, something stays his hand. Fifteen years under the shadow of guilt for murdering his father and Miles can’t manage to fight back even to save his own skin. It would have saved a lot of grief to have had this realization of his personality sooner.
Miles has the sense of someone standing over him. Looming, really, but for some reason it’s less threatening than it should be.
“Well?” Miles dares to ask.
A hand presses against Miles’ chest, palm open and fingers splayed. For a moment it rests there. The hand… there’s something about the hand (familiar, less pointed at the fingertips). Then two fingers hook the front of Miles’ dress shirt, mostly open because of the rough treatment. The hand yanks downward and the remaining buttons snap off, rolling around the room. The fingers trace up and down the center of Miles’ chest, against his white silk undershirt. It’s bewildering. Why would Gavin do this?
… he wouldn’t.
Miles inhales discreetly, recognizing the mix of cheap cologne and even cheaper aftershave. He startles, enough that the blindfold slips, just a fraction, from one eye.
Phoenix Wright leans back enough so that Miles can see him. He looks terrible, of course, as anyone working an investigation overnight might look, but aside from the usual mussed sleeplessness, Phoenix’s eyes are incredibly dark and introspective. He clearly notices the slipped blindfold, meeting Miles’ gaze coolly. Neither of them speak.
Then Phoenix trails his hand down Miles’ torso (checking for injuries?) and then underneath the fabric, flat against his bare stomach. Phoenix lowers himself between Miles’ legs. Miles lets out a shaky sigh. He lets go of the pen when Phoenix’s other hand slides along the inside his thigh, just inside the hem of his boxer briefs. The metal pen bounces loudly against the floor and Phoenix pauses to look at it. The almost stern expression on his face softens. You see there, I was going to fight back, or at least I was thinking about it, Miles wants to say. I’m perfectly fine, so don’t fuss. When will the backup arrive?
There is a little flick of red on Phoenix’s left hand that appears to be smeared blood (had he hurt Gavin? For Miles?) It stoppers the words at the source. Want hits Miles like a hammer blow. He has always wanted Phoenix, now he’s beaten down by it.
Phoenix’s eyes drop down to Miles’ lap. His tightly fitted silk underthings are wonderfully breathable in the summer heat, but conceal little. The adrenaline of his near-murder, the exhaustion of the harrowing drive, the gratitude and affection are irrepressible.
Phoenix squeezes Miles’ thigh once, then uses that hand to free Miles’ erection. His hands are hot, the room warming from the heat of the summer sun coming in the windows. Miles had thought about this, not this but this, Phoenix’s hands on him like this, the kind of thoughts that lingered after a trial or a dinner or a smile in passing that lasted just a little overlong. Those daydreams died, held up to the light, and could die now if Miles said no, our friendship, my work, we can’t - but they can, they are.
With a shudder, Phoenix leans his whole body in, rutting clumsily in his pants against Miles’ bare thigh. The angle is poor, probably Phoenix has never touched a man like this that wasn’t himself, but he is so enthusiastic that one can hardly doubt his sincerity. He’s close enough to kiss now and so Miles tilts his face and bites, teeth in Phoenix’s ear painful but not enough to break skin. It’s outrageous, it’s untoward, it’s completely understandable that Phoenix would see Miles half undressed and prepared for slaughter and have to have him at once. Miles feels crazed himself at the breathtaking arrogance of Gavin to aspire to die alongside the best man Miles has ever known.
Phoenix thrusts twice more against Miles, the sharp teeth pushing him over the edge. His hand doesn’t stop moving even as he lays half in Miles’ lap in the afterglow.
“Did you kill him?” Miles asks, right against his skin.
“Do you want me to?” Phoenix asks back with naked earnestness, and then Miles comes hot in his hand.
Within three breaths there’s the sound of sirens just outside. By the time the police burst inside, Miles is rubbing his freed wrists, wearing Phoenix’s hoodie and looking perfectly prim.
“Good work, Detective,” Miles says when Gumshoe roars through the cabin. “Put Gavin under surveillance at hospital and have Blackquill take my deposition at the office on Monday. I assure you I am quite alright and not in need of medical services. Handle this scene properly and I daresay there will be a raise in this for you.”
Gumshoe’s token protests taper off at the prospect of future money.
Phoenix has, in the meantime, scooted over near the door. He listens to the police taking Gavin into custody with a flat expression. Superficial injuries, minor concussion, sprained wrist when pinned beneath the falling shelf.
“Phoenix,” Miles says and Phoenix snaps to attention. “Take me home.”
Phoenix gets behind the wheel of the police car and Miles lets him, despite the lack of license and the treacherous mountain roads. He dozes lightly along the way, startling awake now and again at stoplights. Phoenix leaves a hand warm against his thigh to comfort him. The trip is quiet in a soothing way.
“Where are you going?” Miles rouses himself suddenly. This is not the way home.
“I won a house once,” Phoenix says, a non sequitur. “In a poker game.”
“Did you?” Miles blinks the sleep from his eyes feeling muzzy.
“It’s too long a drive for one night,” Phoenix continues. His thumb rubs a circle against Miles’ bare skin. “You can video call Blackquill Monday, so take some time off.”
“I must-”
“Conflict of interest, prosecuting your own case,” Phoenix says sagely. “Better to let them handle this at a distance. No chance of anyone citing collusion. We’ll just go off for a little bit. You can get some rest and I’ll go get you some clean clothes, groceries… whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want,” Miles echoes. “That sounds nice.”