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“Edgeworth! Hey!”
“Wright?” Miles’ inkwell wobbled as he shot a hand forward to grab his bag from the far side of his desk. A phone call from Phoenix almost always spelled trouble, and it didn’t help that his voice sounded so tense over the line.
He didn’t allow himself to think that his voice sounded tense all the time, these days. “Everything alright?” he finally asked, standing from his cramped desk and slipping his leatherbound satchel onto his shoulder.
“No, yeah, uh.” He heard a telltale scratch of fingers against scruff on Phoenix’s end. “It’s not… I mean, don’t worry.”
The prosecutor cocked a brow and tried not to comment on ‘worrying’ being his default state regarding Phoenix’s affairs. “Typically, being told not to worry tends to accelerate one’s predilections toward such a state, but I digress. Did you need something?”
“Well, I… Yeah. Yeah, I guess I just need a favor.”
“Of course,” he said without a second thought. “Anything.”
(It probably should have frightened him, just how literally he meant that.)
“I– Er, would you mind just picking up a couple of things for me from the store? I’ll pay you back, of course,” he added quickly, tacking it on like an incentive. “I’m just… worried about leaving Trucy by herself.”
Oh. False alarm, then. “Not a problem.” Miles settled back into his seat, brandishing his treasured pen. “What do you need?”
Phoenix mumbled into the phone, shuffling some things around, presumably. “Okay, uh… some… clear soup? What does…” A few taps sounded from a keyboard. “So like a chicken noodle soup—the one with the stars, if they have it, please—and then a box of acetaminophen—wait, that’s just Tylenol. Why don’t they just call it Tylenol?”
Miles scribbled down the list. “Branding restrictions, I suppose.”
He heard the phone shift. “Yeah, maybe. Well, anyway. Kid’s Tylenol. And can you just… I mean, just look at the box, make sure it’s… good. Not open or tampered with or anything.”
“Mm.” He scratched ‘children’s’ just under his previous note, then let his hand fall still as he glanced back up the list. “Wright?”
Phoenix hummed.
“Why do you need children’s medicine?”
He heard the man click his tongue. “Uh.”
“Is something wrong with Trucy?”
“Well, I mean. Not… wrong, exactly, but she just—” Miles heard quiet murmuring in the background. “Oh no, sweetheart, don’t worry. Stay here, alright?” Another murmur, and then, moments later, the faint closing of a door. “Look, Edgeworth. She’s… warm, and sore, and… I don’t know. She’s kind of sick and I think it might be the flu, but I’m just…” He let a deflating sigh escape his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
The crack in his voice was subtle, like one you would find in an ancient, creaking house’s foundation. It took a trained eye and an ant’s perspective to spot it.
“I’ll be about forty minutes, alright?” he asked as he slipped on his coat; the paperwork would have to wait until morning. “We’ll figure it out. Children get sick all the time. You don’t need to worry.”
“Edgeworth, no, it’s– it’s really no rush, I didn’t mean to bother you with this–”
“It’s not a bother, really. I’m headed to the store now, so just give me a call if you think of anything else you need.”
Phoenix was silent on the other end.
“Wright?”
“Yes, yes, I… I hear ya. I will.”
It wasn’t often that Miles was able to help Phoenix, but he wanted to do whatever he could. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Phoenix. She’s going to be alright.” Using his first name might have been digging a little deep, he would admit, but it was meant with all sincerity. It was a bridge between them, a ladder that put them on equal footing, at least for the moment.
But he was only met with more silence. Miles almost debated just saying his goodbyes until he heard a soft, shuddering breath at the end of the line.
“Thank you, Miles.”
- - -
In Riley’s defense, she didn’t know anyone had died at this Walmart before. She had only been working here for, like, a month. No one told her about any freaky ghosts that wandered around!
But, honestly, what else was she supposed to think when that super pale guy blew past the front doors in his funky Victorian getup, muttering to himself about soups and thermometers? They probably built the store over this dead guy’s mansion or something. He marched around with a cart like he was evacuating the building, manically pulling stuff off the shelves and throwing it into his pile. She even caught him trying to pick between two bottles of Gatorade for, like, five whole minutes, and then when he finally decided on light blue, he tossed four more bottles of it into his cart!
Whatever. She could just… ignore him, probably, and then he’d leave the store, hopefully, and she wouldn’t have to tell her manager about anything else going on.
“Pardon me?”
Riley let out the world’s most undignified squeak as she whipped around, coming face-to-face with Victorian Ghost Guy. His eyes were painted with bags, wild with… something? Maybe anger? It was probably anger. His cart was piled high with different food, medicine, cold packs, warm packs, crackers, first aid supplies, and a little stuffed elephant (one of those microwavable ones from the ads on TV) that sat proudly in the child safety seat at the front. Honestly, it looked like he just opened one of those parenting magazines about ‘Things to Buy for a Sick Kid’ and just grabbed every item on the list.
“Terribly sorry,” he continued, tightening his fists on his cart. “Where are your blankets?”
Blankets? What did he need blankets for?? To warm his dead corpse body that they were probably keeping in the freezers in the back??? She pointed a few aisles up, and the man gave her a rather courteous nod.
“Thank you. Have a lovely day.”
She watched as he rushed away, in awe that he didn’t try to steal her body or something.
Sigh. Maybe her sister was right. She really should get a job at a normal grocery store.
- - -
A knock at the door roused Trucy from her doze. She sat up weakly, staring up at Phoenix with half-cracked, bleary eyes, and he softly ruffled her hair as he stood from the couch. “It’s okay, Truce. Just a friend.” With a slow blink, she nodded, and he stretched out as another song from her movie started to play.
Okay, sure. He’d admit that he felt a little strange inviting Edgeworth here, now, to his apartment of all places. He hadn’t been here in… a while, to say the least, and it had been even longer since he came on his own.
But Phoenix really didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t let Trucy see how frantic he was, didn’t want Gumshoe to see the state of his apartment, and just couldn’t ask Maya—she was out of town and, as such, unreachable.
Miles was his only choice and, more than that, Miles was someone he trusted… wholeheartedly. He’d hand Miles the reins to anything, everything, really. He couldn’t think of anyone better to take care of the medicine, to come into his home when they were in such a vulnerable state.
(And, yeah, maybe if that had the little added benefit of finally being able to see Miles again, at a normal time of day, then… yeah. It would be fine.)
What he wasn’t expecting, of course, though he couldn’t be blamed for such an oversight, was for Miles to be standing before him with armfuls of bags digging into his expensive overcoat, looking windswept and horribly frazzled, panting as though he had sprinted up the stairs. They stared at each other as Miles heaved in the open hall.
“...Edgeworth?”
“H…Hello, Wright,” he said in two short breaths, barely managing to keep himself from hunching over. Phoenix quickly ushered him inside, taking a couple of bags as he held the door ajar.
“This looks like… a lot more than Tylenol.”
“Just wanted to… oh, lord. To make sure she had everything.” He wheezed just once before unloading his purchases onto the counter.
Everything was right. Anything that Phoenix could possibly think of was here, along with a few more things that hadn’t even crossed his mind. A brief illness settled in his stomach, behind his eyes. He almost felt dizzy at the thought of how much this all cost. “Edgeworth, I… I mean, I really just needed th-the two–”
“No, no, don’t…” Miles took another deep breath. “Don’t worry. It’s covered.”
“Edgeworth,” he whispered, eyes wide.
In lieu of responding, Miles shuffled through the bags, extracting a rather sizeable plush elephant. “Er,” he hummed, then cleared his throat. “May I?”
Phoenix glanced down at the toy in his hands, then back up to where Miles’ silver eyes nervously darted between him and–
His daughter, resting on the couch with eyes pinched shut and nose wrinkled.
Words failed to come to his tongue as warmth filled his chest. Phoenix nodded, waving him over to where Trucy was lying. “Hey, Truce? Mr. Edgeworth has something for you.”
The girl blinked her eyes open, sitting up halfway with her blanket tucked tightly around her. The poker player watched in awe as Miles (the Miles Edgeworth, the fearsome prosecutor of worldwide renown and fame with a terrifying record and even more intimidating reputation) kneeled down on his living room floor, amongst the toys and tissues and misplaced socks, to present the elephant like an offering, extended like a knight relenting his sword. She watched, starry-eyed, as Miles explained that they could warm it up and that it was hers to keep.
Phoenix fumbled with his words after that. “You’re, uh.” Different hung at the front of his mind, next to incredible and wonderful and soft. “...helpful,” he sheepishly finished, watching Miles wander into the kitchen.
“I had my fair share of turns taking care of Franziska when we were younger,” he supplied, picking through his bags yet again. “And… I don’t say this to be rude, but you look… terrible, if I may put it delicately.”
“Gee, thanks,” Phoenix snarked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, Trucy’s been up all night with an upset stomach so… didn’t get much sleep.” Truth be told, he hadn’t even noticed himself getting tired. The spikes of anxiety that ran through him kept him on edge ever since Trucy first began murmuring about a tummy ache, and when her fever hit, well…
He hadn’t really been able to sit down since then. The churning in his stomach paired well with the need to constantly refill Trucy’s water bottle (despite the fact that it never emptied) and replace the wet rag on her forehead kept him on his toes. Sure, he had taken care of sick kids before, but this felt… different. This was different, in too many ways to count. It wasn’t like someone else could step in to be soft for her.
It was Phoenix, and Trucy, and that was it. ‘Love’ was a job that fell squarely on Phoenix’s shoulders.
At least that little first aid kit that Mia bought him all those years ago, when he first came into the office with a runny nose and fever, was finally coming in handy. She shoved him out the door because ‘99.8 is still a fever, Phoenix.’ He chuckled at the thought of what she might do to him now, learning about everything he had worked through over the years. If the first time he had been hit on the head didn’t kill him, then Mia would make sure the second went flawlessly.
She’d love Trucy. He found himself thinking that a lot.
“Ah.” Miles’ smooth voice pulled him out of his musings. “Here we are.” The little medicine box had a picture of a child with a comically large thermometer sticking out of his mouth. The other (the only one Phoenix had actually asked for) was more simply labeled. “I decided to purchase cold & flu medicine, as well, in the event that may help to ease her symptoms more effectively.”
“Oh, thanks.” Phoenix tried to ignore the warmth in their brushing fingertips as he took both boxes, scanning over the folds and flaps and seams for any signs of tampering. “It says ‘take with food,’ here, so…”
“Not to worry.” With a flourish, Miles pulled two cans of chicken soup (with stars, of course) from their plastic wrappings.
Phoenix could barely suppress his grin.
- - -
Trucy sat reclined on the couch, quietly munching a buttery cracker as Phoenix tucked the blanket back around her sides. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, Pumpkin?”
“Why did Mr. Edgeworth say that the stars in the soup would make me feel better?”
“Well,” he drawled, glancing over his shoulder at the red-swathed man currently fiddling around the kitchen, looking for a pot to start the soup in. “He knows you like magic, and that you like stars, so he probably thought you would enjoy it more if he made it sound more… magical.”
She wrinkled her nose with a tiny, performative frown. “He should know that wasn’t real magic. His presentation was all wrong. Where is his routine?”
Phoenix swallowed a chuckle, putting on his most serious face for his daughter. “Oh, right, of course. Why don’t you let me tell him, alright?”
She slowly nodded, almost to herself, and Phoenix pressed one final kiss to her forehead before standing with a groan.
Edgeworth had nearly every cabinet open, picking through fading mugs and plastic plates with separators built into the frame and thrifted appliances. Without saying a word, Phoenix gently nudged past him, opening the second-to-last door by the stove, and pulled out a medium pot, turning it over twice in his hand.
He cocked an eyebrow with a grin as Edgeworth sighed. “Naturally, the last place I checked,” Miles grumbled, holding his hand out for the dish and setting it on a stove eye.
Phoenix chuckled. “Yeah, it’s cool. Kinda funny to see you here being all… ‘domestic.’” He says that last bit with air quotes, but Miles doesn’t turn to meet his gaze. “I guess I didn’t realize you hadn’t been here in a while. But, yeah. Pots and pans over here.”
For some reason, the man frowned. “The can says to use a ‘saucepan,’ Wright.”
“Well, yeah. It’s just a pot. They’re the same thing.”
They stared at each other, silent, the furrow between Miles’ brows never fading. Phoenix barely managed to cover his mouth in time to cover his laugh. “Edgeworth, no. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”
After some sputtering, Miles set the soup can down, frown toeing the edge of ‘playful’. “Well, clearly they wouldn’t make a distinction if a distinction wasn’t necessary.”
“This is just the ladders argument all over again, they’re functionally the same–”
“And if we were classifying objects based on functional similarity then perhaps all careers are identical! After all, their ‘function’ is to produce income, is it not? Or, or perhaps you were considering food, with the function of providing sustenance? Let’s just erase all distinctions between Japanese and Vietnamese cuisine while we’re at it, French and German, since they’re ‘functionally the same'– ”
“Shh, shh!” Phoenix snickered, thrusting out his hands in a knee-jerk reaction to cover his mouth. “Trucy!” Phoenix hissed from behind grinning teeth, glancing over his shoulder and barely peeking at the girl on the couch from over the kitchen counter. Her head was already bobbing, fighting a doze. “You have to stay quiet, man.”
And his fingers brushed against–
When he turned back, staring into sharp gray eyes, his fingers were touching Miles’ lips.
He should have jerked away. (But he didn’t.)
(Why didn’t he move?)
Edgeworth’s fingers curled around his wrist, frown deepening even further. “Don’t ‘man’ me, Phoenix Wright, I am not some common–”
Phoenix shushed him again by grabbing his sleeve and wrenching him around, turning them both to face the countertop. “Alright, alright, whatever. Let’s get the sauce pan on the stove, then.” Miles huffed quietly, shifting things around on the counter, while Phoenix stepped around him, hand ghosting over the small of his back, as he reached for a spoon.
They worked quietly in an awkward sort of orbit. When Miles cracked open a can and dumped it into the pot, Phoenix would take the near-empty container and fill it to the brim with water. When Miles stirred the soup, Phoenix would reach around and adjust the heat, sending licks of blue flame higher or lower. The smell of warm broth and the hypnotic swirl of stars in soup soothed Phoenix’s spiked nerves.
“Grilled cheese, you think?” Miles murmured over his shoulder as the music from Trucy’s movie swelled.
“Mm,” he hummed, grabbing the bread from the top of the fridge. Buttered slices exchanged hands, pans found their place on empty stove eyes, two kinds of cheese arranged lovingly on sandwich bread.
Miles took the first sandwich out of the pan and carefully scratched a knife over its surface. “Do you…”
Phoenix cocked his head, and Miles stepped closer (so close, incredibly close) and voice low. “Do you think we should cut this into a star shape, as well?” He spoke just over a whisper, eyes full of worry and earnest.
This was something odd to get used to. Miles Edgeworth was not exactly ‘uncertain,’ in any form of the word. And yet, these days he was hemmed with hesitations, patient and careful and cautious, as though the Wrights were beasts not to be frightened, lest they flee.
Not everyone had the luxury of hopping on a plane to Europe at the drop of a hat.
“Do you want to?” Phoenix asked.
He shrugged, a minuscule smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I think Trucy might enjoy it, but I’m worried I won’t be able to cut the shapes right. Unless you have a… sandwich cutter? Is that a thing?”
God, he wasn’t supposed to be this easy to woo and persuade. He was supposed to be stoic and strong and unflappable! Lawyers and poker players alike needed to live by this one cardinal rule!
So why was Miles freakin’ Edgeworth able to make him want to bury his face in his hands or in Miles’ chest, surround himself with warm and lovely things? Why did Miles caring for his daughter make him want to throw away all his hesitancy about letting people in, letting people come close, and just… wrap himself up in him?
It didn’t make any sense at all. But, based on previous experience, feelings didn’t usually make much sense.
“Sandwich cutters are a thing,” he quietly explained, “but we don’t have one. I think she’ll like whatever you make for her, Edgeworth.” The man nodded, and a look of the purest determination passed over his face. Phoenix had to stop himself from grinning at his eagerness.
A few messy cuts later, and after some digging around in a closet that Phoenix had forgotten about entirely, Trucy was all set up with a newly rediscovered tray table, a small bowl of soup, and a tiny, star-shaped sandwich.
“Thank you,” she croaked, sniffling loudly as she shifted on the couch, curling into herself. “Id smells nice.”
He tried not to giggle at the ‘stuffy nose’ quality in her voice. “Of course, honey. Whatever you need.” In Phoenix’s defense, he hadn’t exactly planned on rubbing elbows with his daughter while she ate. Unfortunately, her sad plea to have both him and Edgeworth sitting with her on the couch held more weight than either man had really anticipated.
Phoenix dipped a discarded corner from Trucy’s sandwich (the ones that Miles had so carefully carved away but hadn’t wanted to waste) into his soup. Then, Miles passed him the box of medicine behind Trucy’s head.
Right. This was going to be the hard part. He let Trucy eat as he finished reading over the directions. The couch shifted as Miles settled back in, holding his own little bowl of soup in his lap.
“Mr. Edgeworth, did you know that The Princess Bride was actually a book first?”
Miles gave a quick glance between the girl and the television. “I… I might have heard that before.”
(Sometimes, people who were much older and much wiser than Phoenix said they could feel it when it was about to rain. Something in the air, they’d explain, a shift in wind or twist of clouds. The smell of moisture in the breeze. A tightening in the heart. Phoenix never got it when he was younger. All he knew was that rain was nice. Rain made mud. It made the plants grow. It drew all the worms out of the earth. It made those lovely sounds that lulled him to sleep at night. He never really got the notion that rain was a bad thing; it was just something that happened. Something that brought a shift, a promise of a new little life that was about to begin.)
The prosecutor met his eyes over the eight-year-old’s head, then lowered his chin, giving her his full attention. “But I don’t know too much about it, Ms. Trucy. Would you mind telling me more?”
(And just then, he understood.)
His daughter turned to him with a wide, crooked grin on her face. “Miss Trucy?” she whispered, far too loudly to keep it an actual secret from anyone. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and after Phoenix gave a silent nod, she turned back to the man on her left.
(He could feel the rain.)
As the young magician began her speech about how Fezzik’s role was written for André the Giant (“which isn’t even his real name,” she exclaimed), Phoenix gently coaxed her to eat more of her soup between sentences. Miles carefully nodded along, asking detailed questions and carefully waiting for Trucy to find the answer she wanted to give.
Just like that, her bowl was cleared.
“Okay, Truce,” he started, cracking open the cardboard box and peeling away a packet, “this is called ‘cold and flu medicine,’ okay? It’s not supposed to taste like anything, but we can get something sweet ready to eat afterward just in case, if you like?”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “Something… sweet?”
“Well, yeah! You know. Like a spoonful of chocolate syrup or something.”
Miles blinked at him.
“Because the grape cough syrup tastes horrible!” Trucy emphasized, sticking her tongue out.
The prosecutor stared at the duo. “That… That’s actually not a bad idea. It always used to be such a fight to take medicine, or get Franziska to take medicine, but… I can’t believe I never thought of that.”
I don’t really blame you, Phoenix thought glumly. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Miles and Franzi’s dad would have reacted if they complained about bitter medicine. “Well, now you know. It’s still really handy, even for me.”
Phoenix was very proud of Trucy’s resilience. She took her medicine in one fell swoop (after a couple “practice gulps”) and didn’t even ask for a drink afterward. Then, she continued to ramble about the movie to Miles, leaning against his shoulder like an aging tree.
So, he let his head tip back. He let it squish into the cushions, tilted just enough to see Miles out of the corner of his eye.
He let his guard slip, just a centimeter, as Miles cracked a grin between Trucy’s sleepy explanations.
(It felt good, really.)
- - -
“Phoenix.”
He felt a hand on his knee and immediately bolted to action with a jerk and a breath. He met Miles with wild eyes. The man had one hand cupped on Trucy’s head, the other just hovering Phoenix’s leg. As Phoenix quickly gathered his surroundings, the crease on Miles’ forehead grew deeper and deeper.
“I– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“No, no.” Phoenix held up a hand, discretely covering his racing heart. “I… Sorry. Just kinda jumpy these days.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Huh?”
The prosecutor nodded down, where the girl leaned against his shoulder, mouth agape and blanket askew.
“Oh.”
As though on cue, Trucy shivered, turning into Miles’ side as her nose wrinkled up.
“We can… take her to bed if you’d like?” he quietly asked, and Phoenix reached out a hand to brush aside her hair.
Still burning up…
“...yeah. She’d probably be more comfortable in her own room. I’ll need to get, uh… a wet rag, and some blankets so she doesn’t get cold.”
“Where are your washcloths?”
“Huh? Oh, they’re in the bathroom.” He waved a hand before slipping an arm under Trucy’s legs, the other behind her back. “I’m gonna take her in and then I’ll be right back.”
Trucy barely cracked her eyes open as Phoenix tucked her into bed. He carefully arranged her frog stuffie and her unicorn stuffie around her, tucked the quilted blanket up tight underneath her (‘burrito style,’ as they decided to call it). Then, after he kissed her on the forehead, he straightened up, only to find Miles standing in the doorway with an armful of blankets and a washcloth in hand. In the other was Trucy’s brand-new elephant.
He flicked his eyes up, and Miles’ mouth tightened. “I just… wanted to take care of it for you,” he mumbled.
These affections were like a stab through the heart, sometimes. The idea that they had this, but only for a little while, only while they were both on the same continent, always lingered.
But for now, he could let it wash over him. Wash over them both.
Phoenix nodded, and Miles quietly shuffled forward, daintily laying the cloth across Trucy’s brow. The blanket—a soft, duckling-fuzz yellow thing with honeycombs printed on it—draped over her, and Miles carefully patted it down against the bed, sandwiching Trucy in between. He laid the toy at her side and, almost instinctively, Trucy wormed her arms out to pull it in, snuggling closer to the warmth.
Just a brush, a tap, of the back of his hand against her sweat-soaked hairline, and he pulled away.
The attorney shifted, slipped his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “We should… probably…” Miles glanced over, and he tossed his head over his shoulder, back toward the door.
And Miles hesitated. Only for a moment, yes, but it was there in the way his hand clenched over his chest.
Then, with a nod, he dipped out of the bedroom, and Phoenix softly closed the door behind them.
The oddness of it all didn’t quite strike him before. Miles and Trucy and he, all snuggled up on the couch watching a movie and eating soup together, wedged between age-softened cushions and stacks of homework and papers, crayons and toys scattered on the coffee table in front of them.
Without the buffer of his daughter, standing here and staring at Miles, still dressed in his work clothes in the middle of his tornado of a living room, Phoenix began to feel something twisting in his stomach. “Sorry ‘bout the mess,” he mumbled, quickly shuffling around to pick up dirty clothes and old dishes. “She, uh. I wasn’t expecting her to get sick.”
“Hardly anyone does, I believe.” Miles did not look at him as he spoke. Instead, he straightened out the papers resting on the coffee table, a little file folder of Trucy’s homework from school.
And Miles has done everything he came to do, hasn’t he? Phoenix has no reason to really keep him here.
(He ignored the twist in his stomach at the idea of letting him go.)
Before he could open his mouth to release him from his service, so to speak, Miles turned to look at him, eyes soft and steady, hand still placed on his chest like one of those statues that Phoenix studied in art school (Venus… something, right? The refined drapery certainly matched). “Would you like to take a shower while I’m here?”
If he was drinking anything, he would have choked. “What?”
Miles’ eyes went even wider, and Phoenix could almost swear he saw his cravat crinkle up like an offended cat. “Not–! Ngh, not…I only meant that you had mentioned earlier that you had been busy, and since Trucy would be supervised, you could–” With a huff, he threw up his hand. “No, never mind. Just… You can… take time to do what you need, if you want. While I’m here.”
If Phoenix was a stronger man, he would have said no. He would have turned him away, thanked him for his time, and handed him a fistful of cash for the trouble. He didn’t have a right or reason to keep him here, dangling in the balance.
God could damn him for being weak, if nothing else. “Are you sure?” Phoenix asked softly, his other hand clenched tightly in the pocket of his hoodie.
“Of course,” he murmured, smile as light as air.
And he hesitated (of course he did, could never let things lie, could he), hand hovering over the knob of his bedroom door. “Hey.”
Miles glanced up at him, blush just starting to fade.
“We’re the same size, aren’t we?” All he got was a nod. “You can borrow some stuff from my room if you want. Get comfy and everything.”
Phoenix thought he could see Miles’ lips tighten from here, but he dipped his head before he could put up any other protest.
He didn’t mean to let himself linger in the shower, really, but it was such a relief to have some time again, time where he could indulge for a few quiet minutes, knowing that everyone he loved was safe, even for just a moment.
When he managed to pry himself out of the steaming chamber, he found a small pile of clothes, neatly folded and laid out for him on his bed.
Affection at the domesticity of it all, of Miles folding himself into his life so effortlessly, bloomed hard and heavy in his chest.
He would need to foster this ache like a dying garden, fertilize the soil with what they could have been.
He kept his hair longer now than Miles had ever seen it, so he wasn’t surprised when the man’s eyebrows rose at the sight of his dripping-wet spikes, almost hanging down to the tops of his shoulders at this point.
He was surprised, however, as he took in Miles. ‘Ivy U Players,’ the name of his old theater group, stretched across Edgeworth’s chest, which was now neatly wrapped in thick stretchy cotton. Black sweatpants hugged his legs, stance wide in front of the coffee table, as he fiddled with a remote.
Phoenix blinked at him. “O-oh.” Miles followed his gaze without thought, eyes darting down to his newly-acquired outfit.
“I– Sorry, was this one not… permitted? I can go–”
“No, no. It’s fine. I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to actually take me up on it.”
He folded his legs, crossing them over one another as he mimed tossing his head, not as whole-hearted as it might have been just three years ago. “Well, it is as you said. It’s rather comfortable.”
Phoenix laughed lightly to himself, a little thing that huffed out of his nose, as he found his own place on the couch, pressed hard to the arm as though Trucy was still between them. “Thanks for setting out clothes for me, too, by the way.”
Edgeworth shifted with a shrug, his hand threatening to drift to his elbow and instead tightening on the remote. “Of course. It’s no trouble.” Phoenix cleared his throat, Miles sniffed, and they were unceremoniously blanketed in a telltale silence with no room to grow. “I was… trying to find something to watch,” the prosecutor murmured, gesturing toward the screen.
The TV wasn’t anything fancy, really. The box said it was ‘smart,’ but Phoenix was more drawn to the fact that it was only $35 and was just tall enough to sit over the top of his combination DVD/VCR player (which he, of course, inherited when he started college). It was a few years old at this point, only purchased in a moment of some excitement when he got his first paycheck after graduation. “Oh, I don’t have Netflix or anything. We mostly just watch DVDs and stuff.”
Miles glanced over at him before casually offering, “Oh, let me add you to my account.”
“Nope.”
He frowned. “Wright.”
“No. No way. You’ve done way too much already.”
Miles set a hand on his knee, extending an olive branch right along with it. “For Trucy, then.”
He always knew how to play dirty. Phoenix let his eyes drift to the floor. “...Fine,” he said through pursed lips.
After a few minutes of fumbling, they managed to finally figure out how to download an app onto Phoenix’s TV (a shock to anyone, really, that these men had two degrees worth of education between them). Miles scribbled down his information in a planner that Phoenix retrieved for him and thankfully didn’t comment on the fact that it was mostly empty.
“We could set everything up on your computer while it downloads?”
That was easy enough. He had left it open on the kitchen table that morning. After plucking it up, he settled back into place next to Miles. He leaned in closer to see the screen, which made him bump his knee against Phoenix’s for just a moment. The screen wobbled. Phoenix’s heart thumped.
He shifted himself left, pressing his thigh against Miles’ and sliding the computer over to his lap. “You’re probably gonna have better luck with typing,” he mumbled, heat prickling at the back of his neck.
Miles’ pinky grazed the top of his hand as he took the computer (and Phoenix was only a little mortified at the heat it left in his wake, at the tingles that made him want to clench his fists and shove them deep in his pocket, if only to keep that touch on him for a few moments longer). “Thank you.” His fingers hovered over the keys with practiced ease, the look of someone who spent more time in his life behind a computer than not. A little huff of air rushed out of his nose, and Phoenix unthinkingly leaned in against his shoulder, taking a peek at what could have possibly inspired a laugh.
He was met with his erratic search history from that morning. Questions of symptoms of flu in children and when should I tkae my child to the doctor and safe tem perature ranges for children fever all stared up at him, the typos still woefully underlined with a red squiggle. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he dismissed, clacking away at the keys.
“But you were thinking it. I could hear it.”
Miles snorted, really snorted, at that, and Phoenix became painfully aware of the warmth of his leg pressing against his thigh. “You might be good,” he snarked, “but you are not that good, Phoenix Wright.”
He cocked his head, a smirk playing at his lips. “Maybe I am, Miles Edgeworth.”
The taunt felt good. It’d been a while since he got to pick with him, at him.
Miles’ eyes darted down. His smile faltered, just a fraction.
Phoenix swallowed and shifted away, prying their shoulders apart. “But maybe not,” he said, folding like a bad hand. Bruised knuckles met his lips, and he cleared his throat. “Anyway.”
He could feel Miles staring holes into the side of his face, but, thankfully, Phoenix had just become acquainted with a hole that started to fray at the edge of his hoodie. “...Anyway,” he conceded, turning back to the screen with a click. He logged in without issue, fingers dancing over the keys, and Phoenix silently watched as Miles added a new profile next to a little square that already had his name on it.
Then, without hesitation, Miles typed in ‘Phoenix’.
“Hey, hey. I said I didn’t need one.”
He hummed and clicked on the screen. Phoenix’s name snapped into place.
“Miles.”
“Phoenix,” he replied with a bit too much sarcasm in his voice. Then, he clicked another little plus button and typed in Trucy’s name.
Phoenix didn’t realize he was being sucked in until he jabbed his finger directly against the screen. “Wait, can you change her little picture? She’d want it to be cute.”
Miles hummed again and hovered the cursor over a little pencil icon, which brought up a whole screen of square pictures.
“The little penguin one,” Phoenix murmured. And it was kind of awkward to hold his head like this, right? He let it rest on Miles’ shoulder, just until they wrapped this up. “She’s gonna like that one.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” He clicked, and another screen opened, full of snapshots of various children’s shows and other movies. Phoenix squinted at the screen. “Hm. It looks like you can fill in the shows she likes. …or something to that effect.”
“Anything with horses. All of the horse shows. And the ones about taking care of animals in the zoo.” He felt Miles nod, scrolling through the choices and adding the relevant ones to her list. “Any of those Night at the Museums if they have them.”
Miles followed along all the while, clicking things of his own accord and letting Phoenix watch as they joined Trucy’s list.
He failed to notice his eyelids growing heavier. He failed to notice his breaths growing steadier.
“Phoenix,” Miles whispered, tapping him on the knee.
“Mmgh?”
“I was just asking if she’d like this one.”
He cracked his eyes open (but when did he close them?) and immediately shook his head. “Oh. Oh, no. She hates that guy.”
Miles shifted and scrolled away in a blink. The clock on the wall across from them dutifully ticked away. “I suppose he does reveal magicians’ tricks. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Nah, nah, it’s fine. Y’ didn’t…” He stifled a yawn with card-calloused fingers. “You didn’t know. ‘S cool.”
With another nod, Miles slipped back into his rumbling explanations of something or other. Phoenix politely hummed and nodded along, feeling the softness of his borrowed hoodie carving soft lines into his cheek. His nerves died away with every passing minute (and he could’ve watched the time slip by, if he had managed to keep his eyes open).
He was not awake when Miles slid his fingers down his wrist.
He did not know that he let his fingers open, a flower unfurling its petals, and grabbed Miles’ hand like an anchor he was afraid to sail without.
- - -
Miles tried not to startle when Phoenix rested his head on his shoulder. He was terrified of making him think that this wasn’t alright, that these affections were unwarranted.
Instead, he pretended that it was perfectly alright. That Phoenix closing the gap between them with his touch was par for the course and expected and natural.
And when he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat twice over, it had nothing to do with the fact that his heart was drumming faster than it ever had before, warring loud and hard in his chest.
Of course not. It would disturb Phoenix, in any case, and he deserved the rest.
He asked about shows and movies until Phoenix finally stopped shifting, and just like that, he had been a pillow for both of the Wrights for the first time within mere hours of one another.
Miles didn’t want to be selfish, of course.
But this was… wonderful.
He couldn’t help Phoenix with much, not with the caging off and the secrecy and the (unfortunately, well-founded) concern about Miles’ involvement with his private investigations.
But he could help with this.
He could be here for this, for the warmth and the rest and the safety. He could be a refuge when the Wrights were done fighting.
His fingers hovered over Phoenix’s wrist, hoping to move his hand away from his leg (just to save the man from the concern when he woke up).
He could protect him with every fiber of his being.
Phoenix latched onto his fingers, a bear trap that he wouldn’t hesitate to welcome into his heart.
Miles’ breath hitched as Phoenix shifted on his shoulder, held his fingers tighter. He smiled down at the head full of spikes at his side, a quiet pride bubbling in his chest at being one of the very few who had the privilege of seeing him just like this.
Quiet, calm, at peace. Not a single barrier between them.
Miles sighed, the smell of Phoenix’s vanilla shampoo seeping into his very skin, the scent of whatever fabric softener he used wrapping him up in Phoenix’s warmth.
Even if he couldn’t help with much…
He could help with this.
With his free hand, Miles scrolled over The Princess Bride and silently added it to Trucy’s list.