Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

-Los Angeles, December 20, 2027-

Miles leaned against the sliding door frame which opened out onto the small balcony, a cigarette burning half forgotten in his fingers.

It was still raining, the mist obscuring the distant canyons even in the half-light which came with the dawn. Despite the rain, or perhaps because of it, it was still warm for the time of year - the air heavy with moisture and very little breeze to freshen it. Fleetingly, he thought of Paris - of the promise of early snow that had threatened to delay his flight - and it was hard to avoid a comparison of the two cities; a flicker of doubt at his decision to return here after so many years.

Putting the cigarette to his lips, he took a long, steady inhale, the smoke lingering in his throat, and the familiar taste of it an even keener reminder of his adopted home. The city below was coming to life - the haze of neon slowly receding, to be replaced by brighter lights - and the hum of traffic was punctuated by the occasional wail of sirens. Behind him, in the apartment, the sound of running water from the bathroom above mingled with the noise of the washing machine and the chatter of the twenty-four hour news station as it repeated its constant weather warnings.

...It had been just after six by the time Miles had pulled his car into the parking lot under the apartment building. There had been little conversation - both of them content to let the drive pass in silence - and he had pocketed his cell before getting out of the car and retrieving his briefcase from behind the seat.

The stifled groan from Phoenix as he followed suit did not go unnoticed, and Miles had frowned at him across the roof of the car. Phoenix had simply shrugged in return, avoiding the look and pulling that damned hat further down over his eyes.

At the exit, Phoenix had made as if to push open the door to the stairs, but Miles had blocked him, placing an arm firmly across the doorway and gesturing across to the elevator, already waiting with doors open.

"Don't be an idiot, Wright. I'm on the sixth floor. There's a couch opposite the elevator. You can wait for me there."

"Worried about me?" The reply had been laced with sarcasm, and a stubbornness that was reflected in the fact that Phoenix made no attempt to comply, his hand still on the door-plate and his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

"I have no intention of arguing with you, Phoenix. You were the one who asked for my help, as I recall."

"I never knew you cared, Edgeworth." There had been almost a bitterness to the words - an echo of the night that they had seen each other again for the first time in eight years - but after a moment and without meeting his eyes, Phoenix had turned away with no further resistance.

Miles had waited, silently, until the elevator doors closed and the illumination indicated that it had started to move, before turning away himself, and pushing open the door to the stairs.

Phoenix had been leaning against the wall when he emerged on the sixth floor - his pose deliberately casual - hands in his pockets and a slight smirk when Miles had paused to catch his breath. It was the first opportunity he’d had to see Phoenix's face in a proper light - the dried blood on his clothes and his left eye which was now almost completely closed. For a moment, Miles had regretted the fact that he had not insisted on driving to the nearest hospital, but had no desire to debate the issue in the hallway, even if the building was largely deserted at this time of year.

It was only a few yards to the apartment, and he'd hesitated for a moment, fumbling with the key in the door, the awkwardness of the situation suddenly dragged into sharp clarity by the memories that it brought with it. Putting the briefcase carefully on the floor by the door, he had walked into the living area without looking around, unwilling to meet Phoenix's eyes. He'd shrugged off his jacket and removed his tie, tossing both onto the couch.

"The bathroom is upstairs. I suggest that you take a shower."

Phoenix had offered no argument this time, and once Miles had heard the sound of the bathroom door close, he'd opened the sliding door, turned on the TV and poured himself a drink.

...A last, slow drag on the cigarette, before Miles leaned out to extinguish it in the small foil ashtray that he had bought the day after he arrived. On the balcony wall next to it was a glass of bourbon, and he picked it up, the taste of it blending with the smoke when he took a sip.

There was the click of a door opening upstairs, and he was suddenly aware that the sound of water had ceased - but he made no attempt to move.

It was funny how things worked out. If Phoenix had bothered to ask himself a year ago, the last place he'd thought he'd end up was in Edgeworth's bathroom, showering off. Granted, the circumstances were less than ideal, but the facts still remained.

He'd stripped down after making sure he was alone, leaving his clothing in a small pile on the counter around the sink. His pants weren't too bloodied up, and he figured he'd ask Edgeworth later if he could borrow a shirt.

He stood there in the hottest water he could stand, until it had warmed his skin nearly red. It had only taken him a few extra seconds to sort out the bilingual, foreign bottles of soap that Edgeworth had collected - strong smells of citrus, sage, and other things he wasn't sure he could name heated by the water and filling the shower stall.

Phoenix was surprised to find only his locket and his underwear left near the sink when he was done. Trucy had bought them for him for Christmas a couple of years ago, and they were a product from one of the Gavinners’ shows she had attended - purple boxers with the words ‘Love Love’ across the back, and ‘Guilty’ across the front. He had laughed and shaken his head at the time, but he actually found them quite sweet, in the odd little way that seemed to punctuate everything in their relationship. This time, she had brought him some mint shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel from New York, and a small keychain and poster from her tour with her Uncle Valant which both had signed in silver marker.

She had only been back in L.A. for a week, and already he had managed to get himself half beaten to hell. Phoenix gave himself a once-over in the mirror after he had wiped it clean of steam, and was almost surprised to see how rough he actually looked. There'd be no sneaking that one by Trucy when he got back home, for certain. He gently poked at the purpling and swelling skin around his face, wincing when he touched a bit too hard.

Still, nothing was bleeding anymore. There was that.

He towelled off his hair and slipped on the locket and the boxers, throwing on the bathrobe that the sneaky bastard had left him when he'd snuck off with his clothes. He didn't belt it, leaving it open as he stepped out of the bathroom, hair still half-wet.

The washing machine was rumbling when he stepped downstairs, and the TV news was on in the living room. He walked closer to the open door, where Miles was standing. It was almost a keen reminder of everything that he could have had, here. Miles was there, close enough to be real again, and they were together again… but somehow not, thanks to the bitter years that stretched between them. He was quiet for a few seconds before he finally spoke, not wanting to break the moment.

“Got any ice?”

Miles didn't speak or turn away from the window immediately, instead sipping the bourbon and watching the rain drip from the balcony above onto his, forming small pools in the corners which stained the wood a darker colour. He was aware of Phoenix standing behind him before his voice broke the silence, the soft sound of bare feet on the wooden floor and the familiar scents of his own bathroom warming the air.

It reminded him of other mornings - another apartment in a different part of the city, the smell of coffee and the jingle of tags on Pess' collar as he shook, stretching himself out after a good night's sleep. He half-expected to feel Phoenix's arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder as they watched the sun rise over the city and listened to the early morning news bulletin. But that was a lifetime ago, and he shook off the memories before leaning out to replace the half-empty glass on the wall.

“Larry called yesterday. Apparently he is in Las Vegas, although I am still unclear exactly why. Something to do with art, I presume.”

A slight smile and Miles shook his head wryly at the memory of that conversation, sliding the door closed to shut out the sounds of traffic as he turned to face Phoenix.

“Yes, I have ice. But I don't think-”

The words faded as he noticed the open bathrobe, Phoenix's hands shoved carelessly into the pockets, pulling it back far enough to reveal that ridiculous underwear and the shadow of darkening bruises across his ribs. Even in the dim light cast by the flickering television they were obvious enough.

It was achingly familiar, and the memories crowded back - the smell of a hospital in winter and later, his fingertips tracing the outlines of fading bruises and healing cuts on Phoenix's skin. Then, they had been the remnants of a fall from Dusky Bridge and of being swept downstream among the debris until somehow - somehow - Phoenix had been found wedged between the bank and a rock and pulled from the water.

It took a few seconds before Miles realised he was staring, and then he glanced away with a frown, stepping around Phoenix and walking back towards the kitchen.

“I am beginning to regret not insisting on taking you to the hospital, Wright.”

There was a slight smile at the mention of Larry, and Phoenix almost spoke before Miles turned, but then hesitated and looked away as he felt his eyes on him. It was half uncomfortable, but he didn't move to close the robe or further cover himself against Miles' gaze.

The seconds passed and he turned when Miles walked around him, following to the breakfast bar and resting his hands against the cold counter top.

“That bad, huh?”

Of course, Phoenix knew how bad it was, he felt it with every breath that was too deep. Still, from the darkening skin he'd seen in the bathroom mirror, he knew it wasn't anything broken. He'd just have to take it easy for the next few days until he started feeling better, that was all.

“I can take care of myself, Edgeworth.”

He'd catch hell from Trucy when he got home, but he was sure he'd be fine.

“Considering the state you are presently in, Wright, I hardly need to point out the contradiction in that claim.”

Stepping into the kitchen area, Miles picked up the ice bucket, tipping the melted contents into the sink before refilling it from the dispenser set into the door of the refrigerator. He set it down in front of Phoenix, standing opposite him and placing his own hands flat on the other side of the breakfast bar. His index finger tapped lightly on the counter as he examined Phoenix's face with forced detachment. The heat of the shower had opened the cuts on his lip, cheek and brow, although none were bleeding, and although the dirt and dried blood were gone, somehow he looked worse, the swollen and purpled eye now so much more obvious against clean skin.

Miles looked down, uncomfortable again at his own scrutiny, his gaze dropping instead to Phoenix's hands where they rested on the dark grey counter top. For the first time, he noticed the grazes on his knuckles - the mystery of the other small, healed scars that he had noted there on previous occasions suddenly answered. So this was not the first time that Phoenix had been in a fight.

It seemed an alien concept to Miles - that Phoenix would strike a stranger, even in self-defence - even if that stranger were trying to beat him into a pulp over a game of cards. And for some reason it angered him that it was even necessary - that Phoenix still continued on in his choice of profession - despite the danger, despite Trucy, despite his work on the Jurist System, despite the fact that he had every opportunity to retake the bar examination...

He stopped himself, putting aside that train of thought with a frown. It was none of his business what Phoenix did, Miles reminded himself - Phoenix had made that more than clear on several occasions since they had renewed their acquaintance.

“Those cuts need cleaning properly before they heal. My medical supplies are limited, so salt water will have to do.”

It wasn't a question - his voice deliberately firm - considerably more so than he felt. He had already boiled the kettle, and it was resting on the stove with the water still cooling. Next to it were a whisky tumbler, a tube of antiseptic gel, two neatly folded, clean towels and a small roll of cotton wool.

“Sit down.”

Phoenix looked away as Miles studied his face, his gaze unfocused and directed toward the kitchen. He couldn't meet his eyes for those few seconds, the looking away something born of habit from too many years alone.

He listened to Miles and he half opened his mouth to argue, to tell him to fuck off, that he could take care of himself... but he didn't. Instead he simply sighed, climbing onto one of the bar stools. Maybe it was because he half hoped that Miles' insistence meant something, maybe that he still cared. The realization that it mattered to him one way or the other made him want to push away again, a gut reaction tempered by years alone.

“Fine, fine.”

His voice was half-quiet, almost resigned. He wasn't sure who he was done fighting - himself or Miles.

The TV chattered on in the background, some special report about the year's top Christmas gifts.

Miles was almost surprised that Phoenix didn't argue. He had expected it - his fingers tensing slightly against the counter top in anticipation, and in answer to the brief hardening of Phoenix's expression.

It was a look that Miles had learned to associate with a stubborn closing off in response to questions or concern and which Phoenix seemed to have perfected in their years apart - which had replaced the easy openness he had once criticised Phoenix for. Often, it prefaced a sarcastic remark or an implied insult, bringing with it an icy unease - the echo of a conversation in the Criminal Affairs Department over a decade ago when he had returned from his first year in Paris.

But the argument did not come and instead Phoenix sighed, pushing himself up onto one of the tall stools and turning his head towards the television. Miles could only see his profile, but he was certain that Phoenix was not watching the pictures that flickered across the screen and he frowned, hesitating for a moment before he turned away.

Slipping off his father's signet ring, he laid it on the counter, washing and drying his hands thoroughly before half-filling the tumbler with water from the kettle. There was salt in a cruet beside the stove and he added a generous amount, watching it slowly dissolve as he held the tumbler up to the light, the residual heat from the water warming the glass under his fingers.

He placed the glass on the breakfast bar, scooping up the other supplies and depositing them beside it. Phoenix did not look back at him when he stepped around the counter - in fact, Miles was certain that he turned his head further away.

Damn the man. This was equally as awkward for the both of them, and accentuating that with deliberate avoidance was hardly the way to reduce it. Jaw set, Miles pulled a piece of cotton wool from the roll, shaping it into a small ball between the thumb and index finger of his right hand as he reached for his reading glasses.

The sudden sharpening of his vision brought the injuries into harsh relief. Miles frowned again as he dipped the cotton wool in the salt-water, squeezing it lightly to rid it of the excess before applying it to the cut on Phoenix's brow.

“You look like hell, Wright.”

He knew that Phoenix did not need to be told - the observation only made out of a desire to fill the silence with something other than the nonsensical babble of the television and the awareness of the warmth and the scent of him only inches away.

“Yeah…” Phoenix hissed as the salty water touched the cut on his brow, and he pulled back instinctively. “ ...Thanks for telling me.”

He set his face, trying not to flinch away again. Miles was too close - too close for how many years they had between them, and again there was that desire to hold onto him this time, to reach out for him and this time... this time not let go.

The TV droned on, something about a cat that had learned to sing ‘Jingle Bells’. It was background noise, something that, try as he might, couldn't distract him from how terribly close Miles was now.

He almost reached up to touch his hand, to pull him away, but he didn't. He simply closed his eyes and set his face against the sting of the salt water.

Miles jerked his hand back when Phoenix flinched, the frown deepening for an instant as he watched a single drop of the salt water trickle slowly down Phoenix's bruised and swollen face.

Fleetingly, there was an instinct there to halt its progress with his thumb - to brush it away gently and let his fingers linger on Phoenix's skin in its wake, just as he might have done without thinking, once. Miles knew that if he closed his eyes he could remember how that would feel with a clarity that was almost painful, and for that moment the nine years that had separated them seemed to evaporate.

The moment dragged on, until the demanding jingle of a news bulletin broke into his thoughts, a bored-sounding announcer reporting a shooting outside the District Courthouse. His attention was drawn to the screen for a second and there was a sharp, cold and entirely irrational dread that the victim would be someone he knew before he remembered where he was - when he was - and the moment passed.

7:33am, and Miles looked down at Phoenix again, belatedly re-applying the cotton wool and forcing himself to concentrate on the task in hand - on the rapidly cooling dampness of the swab and the sting of salt water in the paper cuts which dotted his own fingers. But his mind still wandered to the telephone calls that he would yet have to make on both his own and Phoenix's behalf, a mix of irritation and weariness washing over him at at the prospect.

Reaching for one of the neatly folded towels he shook it out, dabbing at the cut a little more pointedly than was entirely necessary before applying some of the antiseptic gel in its place. Then he turned away, laying the towel out on the counter and scooping up a handful of ice to place in the centre. Folding the corners over, he twisted the edges of the cloth to make a neat bundle, before stepping back in front of Phoenix and holding it out.

“For your eye. And try to refrain from moving your head until I have cleaned up your lip.”

“Thanks.”

Phoenix took the ice pack, touching it tentatively to his left eye and then gingerly holding it in place. The cold was a relief against the hot throb of his skin, and he closed his other eye for a few seconds. He was exhausted, really. The game was supposed to only run for a few hours, and then all of this happened.

He was too tired for this shit. Too tired to know that Trucy was going to be upset when he got home. Too tired for Miles to be right there, real again. He was worn out, and he finally gave up.

Phoenix let out a heavy sigh, slouching slightly in his seat. He was tired of fighting everything, of keeping his distance from people, of running from Miles, blaming him for everything. They had both fucked up, he knew that. Maybe now was their chance to fix what had happened when they were both still young. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. But he had to know, either way.

He wasn't that stupid kid anymore… but some things never changed. He reached out, slowly at first, until he closed the small distance, resting his hand on Miles's waist.

He said nothing, but he could feel the warmth of him under the shirt, and it was reassuring, somehow. Phoenix knew that if he wanted, he could imagine how his bare skin felt; he could number every freckle that dotted it.

He closed his eyes again.

Miles waited until Phoenix had applied the ice to his face before he prepared another piece of cotton wool, dipping it onto the salt water and squeezing it between his fingertips.

In the periphery of his vision he saw Phoenix slump in the stool - the movement underlined by a deep sigh - and there was a brief smile in return as he turned back to stand directly in front of him. There was no humour in it - just a recognition of the exhaustion that he knew was beginning to cloud his own mind as his eyes met Phoenix's briefly.

He leaned in to examine the neat split that bisected Phoenix's bottom lip. In the background, the washing machine had fallen silent - leaving just the sound of the rain beyond the sliding doors and the relentless drone of the television cycling through the same garish Christmas adverts which Miles had seen a thousand times in the past few days.

The sudden weight of Phoenix's hand at his waist and the heat of Phoenix's palm through the light cotton of his shirt was unexpected. He froze, eyes narrowing in response to it as his focus snapped back to Phoenix's face even though it was unreadable - one eye covered and the other closed, eyelashes dark against lightly-tanned skin smudged with lack of sleep.

There was a sharply renewed awareness of their proximity, of Phoenix's knee against the outside of his thigh - of the smell of soap and shampoo and his shower-heated body warming the air between them. That deep and painful ache of familiarity returned, and part of him wanted to return the touch - to take another step closer and eliminate the last of the distance between them.

He took a breath; a sudden memory of closed eyes and those words whispered into the dark a decade ago - of standing on a mountain above the city and looking down at the pink, hazed sunset with a sense of vertigo and a fear of falling that was reflected back at him every time Phoenix looked at him or held out a hand.

Nine years. Nine years to rebuild his life - since he had finally taken that step into the void only to find that this time, he had chosen too well and too late. And even then, Miles had known that he could never really forget - that he could never really replace what he had lost through his own inability to speak or to act.

In a way, his life had become a memorial - an acknowledgement of what Phoenix had done for him in that courtroom one cold December - of what Phoenix had taught him about justice and about friendship.

It had been six months ago when he had received the offer from U.C.L.A. The letter had been waiting for him in his mailbox when he returned from a weekend in Hanover to a summer storm breaking across Paris and dispelling the humidity that had been building for weeks.

He'd left his bags still packed, walked there in the rain - hair plastered to his face and his feet taking the route across the Seine and through the Latin Quarter unconsciously. He hadn't bothered to telephone ahead - after more than a year he was as familiar with Alain's routines as Alain was with his.

The conversation had been short, and in the end Alain had nodded, standing up to refill the glasses of merlot which stood on the low table between them. "Rentre chez toi, Miles. Go home. You need to deal with this - with him - for your own good. One way or another." There had been a shrug at that - brown eyes completely serious in a way that they only ever were when they argued, or when Alain talked about his children - before he had leaned in and placed a kiss on Miles' forehead that both of them had known would be their last.

And now… Miles placed his fingers under Phoenix's chin, tilting it upwards - enough that the split across his lip was visible in the light from the kitchen as he dabbed at it carefully with the cotton wool. There were lines on Phoenix’s face that he did not remember from a decade ago - around his visible eye and across his brow, following the faint horizontal mark on his forehead where that ridiculous hat had prevented the sun from browning his skin.

Mechanically, he reached behind Phoenix to drop the damp cotton wool onto the counter, squeezing out some of the antiseptic gel onto his thumb one-handed and smoothing it across the cut. His thumb lingered there afterwards, tracing the outline of Phoenix's lips - the warmth of the hand still resting on his waist almost burning his skin. He knew that he was tired - too tired to make a rational decision. But he knew too that Alain had been right.

Another breath, and then he leaned down, eyes closing as his lips brushed Phoenix's in a soft kiss. It was clumsy - half on Phoenix's mouth and half not as he tried to avoid the split; the tang of salt and the scent of antiseptic masking his memories of the past and of the taste of him.

And there it was, what Phoenix had been waiting for since days after he had hung up the phone with Miles for what had seemed like the last time - what he had been trying to convince himself for so many years that he didn't want, that he couldn't have anymore.

For a moment, the years seemed to disappear and it was like nothing had happened at all. Their lips met briefly, almost clumsily, familiarity gone among the years that stretched between them, and it was then that the reality of it all came back to him. This wasn't a decade ago, and he was older now, arguably wiser, but he still couldn't deny that he loved Miles Edgeworth.

His mother often asked him why he didn't move from the city, why he didn't chose somewhere else to raise Trucy. Somewhere quieter, with nice schools. The answer was always a near-predictable "you thought it was good enough to raise me here". The truth of it was that L.A. was always Phoenix’s home… and it was where he belonged. It was where people expected to find him, and he knew the city was as much a part of himself as anything else was.

And besides, he had to stay here, in case he came back.

He had learned to sort out everything, to put his life back in order. He’d found a job. He had stopped drinking, the ghost of Miles Edgeworth no longer chasing him so closely. The pain was no longer a keen stab in him, it had receded to a dull ache that punctuated his days and nights. It was a void, something he learned to ignore, or better - to fill with other people. Trucy had helped him get by those years more than he knew how to say.

Things got easier. Not necessarily better, but easier. But he had still expected it after the phone call - for Edgeworth to come back, to show up one day and make everything okay again. For them to pretend that nothing had happened, or even for Edgeworth to call him an idiot… anything, as long as it was Edgeworth.

And now here he was… here they were, and Phoenix didn't care if he was making the same stupid mistakes all over again. He was older now, different from the kid he used to be - the one that believed that if you loved someone enough, everything would take care of itself. He knew better now, but somehow, he was still doing the same things because he knew that it was what was right. This felt right, more than anything else he had done.

He opened his eyes, looking away and moving the ice from his face to his ribs. He half flinched at the wet and cold on his skin, the ice starting to dull the ache there. He was as exhausted as before, but he didn't move from the barstool. He couldn't bring himself to move just yet, his hand still on Miles' waist and the skin underneath warm against his fingers.

The news prattled on in the background, reduced to almost white noise. The rest of the apartment was nearly silent, save for the sound of the rain outside.

And what happened now?

Miles opened his eyes as he straightened up from the kiss, half trying to catch Phoenix's gaze. But Phoenix looked to the side, turning his head away from Miles' fingers as he shifted the bundle of ice from his face.

He looked down, at Phoenix's shoulder where the open robe had slid to one side, exposing his collarbone, and at the bruising on his side which stood out starkly against the white towelling. Neither of them spoke, Miles glancing down at his own hands, and absently rubbing the remains of the antiseptic gel into his skin.

“Phoenix, I…”

His mind prompted him to apologise; to say that it was just a stupid mistake - that he shouldn't have done it, and that it wouldn't happen again. They were the same things that he had said the first time, after that impulsive, half-drunken kiss in the rain with Phoenix half-leaning against him and laughing at something he had said.

But this time there had been no laughter and no alcohol. This time, there were no bitter words. Phoenix didn't pull away from him, didn't put his hand to his mouth or look at him with that mixture of shock and anger that had sobered him in an instant; didn't stumble away leaving Miles with the lingering sensation of lips against his and disgusted with his own lack of control.

This time, there was just silence - but the hand did not move from his waist. Instead, strong fingers tensed reflexively against him as Phoenix pressed the ice to his ribs and flinched. And this time it was instinct to lay his own hand over Phoenix's in response, even if only for a few moments - to feel the grazed skin under his palm and allow himself to admit why he had been so damned angry at the Detention Center and in the car afterwards.

Nine years ago he had believed that Phoenix was making a mistake - that perhaps, somehow, he had coerced him and that at any moment, Phoenix would realise what he was doing and with whom. Miles had fought against the temptation to believe Phoenix when he professed his feelings - the fear of being deceived, of being consumed again - too keen to allow him to consider his own until it was too late.

He was a different person now, he supposed - but some things remained the same nevertheless. He'd known that since he had first met Phoenix again over a year ago - since Phoenix had told him that he still loved him and he had refused to believe it, couched as it was in anger and recriminations.

Alain had been right, when he had told him to go home. They had both known that he did not mean Los Angeles - the city itself was no more Miles’ home than Hanover, or Paris. But Los Angeles was where Phoenix was, and where Phoenix was had been his home since a bleak December eleven years ago - where he had always returned to eventually, when Phoenix needed him - even if it was almost nine years too late.

He nodded toward the living room, and the large leather couch that faced the television.

“You should rest. I'll make some coffee.”

Something had changed, then - something subtle, but even Phoenix could feel it. He wasn't sure what to call it, but he knew, somehow, that it was important.

He almost reluctantly moved his hand from Miles's waist, his fingers wanting to linger there for a few more moments than he could let it, and he stood from the bar stool. The cuts on his face didn't hurt anymore, and somehow he knew that had to do with something more than the fact that they had been cleaned and treated.

He walked into the kitchen, dropping the ice and towel into the sink before stepping for the living room. He laid back on the sofa with a heavy sigh. It had been a long fucking night.

“Yeah, and what about you, mister hotshot attorney? You gonna sleep anytime this century?”

The words were edged with humor - not bitterness or sarcasm, for once - as he called through the apartment, laying back on the couch with one arm over his face and his eyes closed. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he was fighting it off, trying to stay awake, to not miss a moment of what would happen now.

It wasn't all bad. He cast a glance to the TV and let a half-smirk work onto his features before he closed his eyes, not falling asleep just yet, but allowing himself a few moments of rest.

The warmth of Phoenix's hand was replaced by the sharply contrasting coolness of conditioned air against the dampness of his shirt. Miles’ fingers brushed over the sudden vacuum lightly, aware that something had shifted in the space of the past few minutes, although he was not sure exactly what, or how - or even if it would last. But it was a truce of sorts, and enough that the awkwardness had evaporated for now. It had not quite been replaced by an atmosphere of friendship, but still - this felt closer to what they had once had than anything in the past year.

There was a small, quick smile at Phoenix's words as he picked up the tumbler of salt water and tipped the contents into the sink after the ice, rinsing his hands again before adding fresh coffee to the machine and flicking on the switch.

“This hotshot attorney would be asleep right now, had he not been woken in the middle of the night to deal with an act of criminal stupidity by the supposedly ace poker player.”

Miles leaned back against the counter, his palms resting along the edge behind him as he glanced up at the clock, an arch look in Phoenix's direction.

“As it is, I have calls to make in just over an hour - and I doubt that my case would be improved by your attending the Police Department in my bathrobe and... that item of underwear.”

Pushing himself away from the counter he opened the utility closet, busying himself for a few minutes transferring Phoenix's clothes from the washer to the drier. He had put everything in barring the sneakers - which stood by the front door next to his own shoes - the magatama, the wallet and the hat badge, which he had been fascinated to note still housed the electronic micro-camera Phoenix had told him about. The locket he had left beside the sink in the bathroom, having no idea what it contained, and no desire to pry into Phoenix's affairs.

Finally, he filled another fresh towel with ice, twisting it together like the first, before carrying it through to the living room and taking a seat beside Phoenix on the edge of the sofa. Phoenix didn't open his eyes, but Miles could still see the remnants of a smirk and he frowned, placing the ice-pack over Phoenix's eye and applying perhaps a little too much pressure as if to emphasise his point.

“At least try to reduce the swelling around your eye, Wright. I would prefer not to return you home to a hysterical teenage daughter.”

“Hey-”

Phoenix half-waved a hand at him to stop when he felt the pressure on his face, almost convinced that Edgeworth would keep pushing just to be a bastard about it. He raised his hand up to hold it in place, their fingers grazing for just a few seconds.

“Yeah well, this ace poker player would have clothes to wear if some sneaky bastard hadn't taken them while he was in the shower. And these… these are lucky.”

Still he smiled, holding the ice to his face, his eyes still closed. They were lucky, as far as he was concerned, despite the fact that he'd been beaten half to hell. What had happened with Miles, that clumsy half-kiss… that almost made it worth it.

“Who, Truce? Nah. She'll probably yell at me, though.”

She had seen him beaten up pretty badly before, and Phoenix was sure that her reaction to this latest escapade would be to tell him he should have taken her along so it wouldn't have happened. People seemed to be reluctant to sock him in the jaw with a girl around, especially an actress like Truce, who could turn on the waterworks at a moment's notice.

Still, it wasn't like he really expected Edgeworth to understand. Even Apollo was just barely getting that his relationship with Trucy was different from your typical father-daughter relationship, and that suited him just fine.

When they had met, he needed someone like her, someone to help him learn how to stand on his own feet. Truce had done that for him, and more. Phoenix was sure that, without her, he wouldn't have been able to get by for the past decade.

Like he'd said before - she was his reason for living. Apollo had just managed to edge in there as a close second. Phoenix was fond of the kid, even if he'd never admit it to his face. Hell, Apollo would be the one he'd bet on being more worried about him for getting beaten up like this. Truce knew by now that it was just how things went, and she knew how to roll with it. Apollo would probably tell him that midnight poker games weren't the greatest of ideas.

Maybe he'd be right, but that didn't mean he'd stop anytime soon. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

There was the electric touch of Phoenix's fingers against his, just for a few moments, before Miles pulled his hand away half-reluctantly, the sensation of it lingering on his skin.

“If your evening was an indication of what you regard as ‘lucky’, Wright, then I suggest that you consider a career change. And considering the state of your clothing, you're ‘lucky’ that I didn't simply consign them to an incinerator.”

His lips quirked up into a brief smile.

“However, if you would prefer to dress now, then I am sure that I have something in my closet that would suit.”

Phoenix's eyes remained closed, his expression softened almost into one of fondness as he mentioned Trucy, the smile that curved his lips reminding Miles of too many mornings and yet too few, which now seemed painfully distant. His gaze drifted down to the locket that hung around Phoenix's neck, and beyond it to a broad chest and the outline of his ribs under skin that was paler than he remembered.

There was a longing there - that Miles knew had always been there, haunting his dreams and lingering into the waking hours. To reach out and touch him - to feel the familiar warmth of him and to rest a hand on his chest above the silent beat of his heart. He took a long, quiet breath, the smell of the slowly brewing coffee beginning to fill the apartment.

“I hope that she does - you damn well deserve it.”

Abruptly, he pushed himself off the sofa, moving back towards the sliding doors. The rain had stopped, the remnants of the downpour dripping lazily from the balcony above, each drop reflecting the orange warmth of the sun as it edged higher above the mountains.

Pushing open the door, he stepped outside, the sound of the traffic rising up to greet him, now settled into a busy drone that heralded rush hour in the city. Fishing his cigarettes from his pants pocket, he lit one, taking a long inhale and closing his eyes against the sudden nicotine rush.

“You never did tell me why you called me, Wright.”

“Alright, as long as you're not trying to play dress-up.”

There was a smirk, and Phoenix closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the almost odd warmth of Miles just inches away now, something he had wished for for what seemed like ages now.

He was tempted to stay on the sofa, to close his eyes and honestly rest for a bit, but Miles moved, and something pulled at him to follow. Phoenix walked out onto the balcony after him, the last remnants of the rain dripping from the eaves. The city was awake now, but he rarely got to see it like this.

He shrugged, tucking his hands into the pockets on the robe as he leaned against the balcony and stared out over the city. He closed his eyes when he spoke, looking away from Miles and the smoke which curled against the damp air.

“Apollo's out of town, and I couldn't call Truce.”

It was a half-truth, but those were as good enough as the full truth these days. To be honest, Phoenix had hoped that Miles would come. He had called because maybe he needed to know if Miles still gave a shit. He wasn’t worried about the charges - he knew they were bogus anyway, and he was sure he could have gotten them dropped on his own. He just needed to know if Miles still cared, one way or the other.

He'd gotten his answer, at least.

“I learned ten years ago that attempting to teach you how to dress properly was an exercise in futility.”

The balcony afforded more of a view of the city than Miles was accustomed to, perhaps because the rental was located on a higher floor than he would normally choose for a permanent dwelling. But the contrast to that afforded by his apartment in Paris was almost visceral. Here, there were no sharply-angled and slated rooftops; no cobbled street or elegantly arched bridge below; no river to push cooler air through the city; no Notre Dame or the gilded turrets of the Palais de Justice to catch his eye.

Los Angeles was an ugly place to him by comparison - low, square buildings, lots and malls stretching in all directions and uninspired for the most part by any attempt at architectural flair. From here, the monotony was only broken by the few skyscrapers of the business district, and the sunlight on distant mountains. He took a long drag on his cigarette - the dark, smoky taste of it and the scent of strong coffee which wafted out of the apartment providing a comfortable mask to cover the exhaust fumes drifting up from rigidly gridded roads.

For a moment, the unfamiliarity of it all washed over him - the loneliness that he remembered of the four years spent here in Manfred's shadow, and the few increasingly painful visits he had made in the wake of the telephone call from Phoenix. And following it came a sharp stab of uncertainty about his decision to return here, edged by a deep longing for the distant city that he was about to leave behind, likely forever.

But then there was the sound of Phoenix's bare feet on the decking - the rustle of his robe and the awareness of him at the edge of his vision, leaning half-casually back against the concrete wall with a quiet smile that Miles sensed rather than saw. And it was suddenly as though the world came into focus - the city below somehow less drab and the haze of humidity that was already rising no longer feeling quite so unwelcome.

“I see.”

He knew it was a lie. Not that Justice was out of town - Apollo had mentioned that himself the last time Miles had called to arrange his trip - but that Phoenix needed either of them in the first place. Lawyer or not, he was certain that Phoenix was more than capable of arguing himself out of the situation if need be.

When Miles had first heard that voice at the other end of the telephone, muffled and slightly slurred, he had been half convinced that the man was drunk - that that was the reason for the call, just as he had convinced himself of it the first time. But nine years ago that conviction had faded over time, to be replaced by emptiness and anger. Today it had been dispelled in an instant as he stood in that cold, concrete corridor outside the holding cell, and saw the split lip and the bruising for himself.

Had this all been some attempt at a childish test of his boundaries? Of Phoenix's ability to exercise power over him? The suspicion crept in unbidden, born of too many years dwelling on those few words crackling down a long-distance line and the sure knowledge that Phoenix had used his own weaknesses against him.

Another drag on his cigarette and he exhaled slowly, resting his other hand on the half-empty glass of bourbon which still sat on the wall by his side.

“In that case, perhaps you were lucky after all. Had you succeeded in being beaten half to hell last week, there would have been no-one to call.”

He couldn't help the hint of accusation in the choice of words, although his tone of voice was entirely flat.

“Hey, I clean up alright enough for a parent-teacher night.”

That's what life had become, for Phoenix. That's what Edgeworth had missed - the struggle to pay the bills and the almost routine his life had fallen into. Truce had school, and he had work. Edgeworth had missed it, and there was no amount of explaining that could ever truly bring him to understand. Even if he had been there, Phoenix knew that Edgeworth would never have understood how a guy goes without buying groceries for a week to pay the power bill. Edgeworth would never understand something like that, and he knew it.

For Edgeworth, there never was the need to risk himself like he had so many times just to make sure his kid had clothes to wear to school. The phrases ‘scratch and dent’ and ‘thrift store’ probably weren't even in Edgeworth's vocabulary - but for Phoenix, they were too real.

There were times that it seemed they were complete and polar opposites… so there was no explaining that the game tonight was out of habit, after so many years. That he felt that the few bucks he could make were important, somehow. It wasn't that he wasn't getting paid enough for his Jurist System work, it was just plain old force of habit. That, and maybe he could use the cash to take Truce out somewhere nice. She deserved it, after all the hard work she'd done.

Edgeworth spoke, and Phoenix shrugged again, staring back out over the city. He was too tired to pick a fight right now, and he only stayed there for a moment longer before he turned and walked back inside. Once in the kitchen, he called back casually.

“Yeah, maybe you're right.”

Phoenix realised a second too late that there was something there - an echo of raising his voice a decade ago, of yelling across a courtroom and making sure his point was heard. What did he have now? There were days that he woke up and he didn't miss it, but others… other days he wished that he could have just gone back in time and stopped himself from making such a stupid decision of using the forged evidence in the first place.

He had to wonder where he would be, if he hadn't. Would he still have Miles, would they still be together? And what did that mean now, after the kiss? Did it mean anything at all?

He shook his head softly, opening up cabinets and searching until he found the one that held the crockery. He pulled out a plain white mug, filling it from the coffee maker and turning toward the fridge. Grabbing the small carton of half and half he screwed off the cap, pouring a bit in before putting it back and turning to fish through the cabinets for sugar. That and a  spoon to stir it all with, and he was done.

Dropping the spoon into the sink, he stepped back outside and leaned back against the concrete as he took a sip of the coffee.

“I'm sure you're the epitome of respectable fatherhood.”

Miles’ tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was no heat behind it. He had seen enough of Phoenix's approach to parenting to be certain that he had been the talk of the teachers' lounge - the disgraced lawyer with a poker habit and a daughter who was not his. Had Miles not known better, he would have looked askance himself at the notion of Phoenix as a suitable father.

But he did know better. He knew all too well the sharp intellect and the keen sense of justice that lay below the shapeless clothes, ridiculous hat and unshaven chin. The willingness to sacrifice everything for a cause or a person he believed in that made Phoenix Wright, in all the most important ways, an ideal choice for the role he had taken on. Miles wondered, absently, how long it had taken for Trucy's teachers to realise that too - if perhaps they had remained ignorant of it until the Misham trial, when Phoenix had once more become headline news.

He watched Phoenix surreptitiously, cigarette burning unheeded and fingers tapping lightly on his glass. The shrug - like Phoenix's expression - was unreadable, and Miles did not follow him inside, instead finishing the bourbon and letting the sun warm his face and ease his irritation.

Phoenix's answer, when it drifted out from the kitchen, did not answer his question. He recognised it for what it was - another manifestation of the evasiveness that he had observed in Phoenix since his return from Paris. It was something that had not been part of his personality nine years ago - then, Phoenix's openness and honesty had alternately attracted and repelled him. But Kristoph Gavin and all that he had done had taken that away, leaving behind a man who sometimes reminded Miles all too keenly of himself.

It was almost ironic, that in the years they had been apart, Miles had striven to find in himself the strength to emulate that honesty he remembered wherever he could, while at the same time Phoenix's life was moving in the opposite direction. There was a flash of anger at the injustice of it all, and at the knowledge that he too had likely contributed to the change in the man who professed to love Miles Edgeworth, both then and now.

He closed his eyes against the rising heat of the street below, putting the cigarette back to his lips and savouring the sharper taste of the last few millimetres of tobacco. The smoke mingled with the lingering aftertaste of the bourbon, and with the scent of the coffee as Phoenix stepped back out onto the balcony. A soft sigh before he opened his eyes, stubbing out the cigarette and forcing back a wave of tiredness as he turned to go inside.

“The Prosecutors’ Office will be open. I should make some calls.”

Miles was suddenly aware of the absence of his father's ring, his thumb worrying at the void on his finger that it should have occupied.

“Unless, that is, you would prefer a state-assigned attorney.”

“You might be surprised.”

Phoenix took another sip of the coffee, letting it warm through him and letting the smell of it wake him up. Christ, it had been a long fucking night. And what was he going to do now, when he got home? He couldn't just hang out here forever.

He shifted uncomfortably against the concrete and tried to ignore the sharp pain the movement brought. All he could hope right now was that Truce went easy on him, and that nothing was broken.

...Anyway. Truce wouldn't be happy when he got home. Maybe if he picked her up something on the way back? Something cute, she liked cute things. There was a little shop a few blocks from his apartment that sold little things that she liked - cell phone charms and hair things and whatever. Girly things. He'd just pick her up something from there and everything would be fine.

Phoenix looked sidelong at Edgeworth, chuckling once and shaking his head. No, he couldn't see him setting foot in there. No, he'd have to get dropped off on the way back home.

He took another drink of his coffee, feeling a bit better for having a game plan now. He shifted again, trying to find some way to stand that felt at least halfway comfortable before he finally gave up and stood without leaning back against the wall.

Phoenix followed back inside shortly after Miles stepped back in, giving one last parting glance back to the waking city before he retreated back into the cool of the apartment, sliding the glass door shut behind him. He waited a second after the solid thud of metal meeting metal silenced the sound of traffic.

“You think you can handle me as your client?”

He smirked, taking another sip of his coffee, more awake now than he had been mere minutes ago.

“After almost thirty years, I doubt you have the capacity to surprise me any more than you have already have, Wright.”

The drier was still rumbling in the utility closet when Miles stepped back into the kitchen; the towel, tumbler and spoon still in the sink and Phoenix's sneakers still by the front door, one of them flopping half on its side over his own shoes. It seemed oddly domestic, given the anonymity of the rented apartment and the gulf that had stretched between them for too long.

His father's signet ring was where he had left it, the gold gleaming dully under the recessed lighting. Miles ran his thumb over the worn engraving of the initials as he slipped it back on to his ring finger, mind running ahead to the conversation he intended to have with the prosecutor who had been assigned Phoenix's case. If he was lucky, it would be someone who remembered him - Payne, perhaps - someone who was aware that regardless of the nature of those memories, his grasp of the law was not open to question.

Extracting one of the plain white mugs from the cupboard under the counter, Miles poured himself a cup of black coffee. He could feel the tiredness lapping around the edges of his consciousness, and it half-surprised him. There had been a time when he would have thrived on it - when a night spent poring over a case-file, or interrogating a suspect at the Detention Center would have gone unnoticed - both mind and body used to the bare minimum of sleep.

But that had been a decade ago, and he knew now that the faint lines he had noticed etched into Phoenix's forehead were reflected on his own; that if he had not already had a full head of grey hair, he would undoubtedly have begun to find silver among the brown, just as he remembered his father's during that last year in Los Angeles.

The sound of the door sliding closed - silencing the drone of the city outside - drew his attention back to the present. Turning to lean back against the counter with an ease that reminded him of another kitchen, in another apartment, Miles shook his head. There was a half-smile, and he sipped the coffee, the bitterness of it almost making him grimace. It had been the best he could find at the grocery store down the block, but even then it was strictly utilitarian - a means of convincing his body that it was fully awake, no more and no less.

His eyes met Phoenix's, and he noted that the swelling around the other man's face had begun to subside a little; that there was a sparkle of humour in the blue depths that accompanied the smirk.

“I am hardly suggesting that it become a permanent arrangement. Justice seems more than able to represent your interests adequately. If he can't, then we both know that your re-sitting the bar exam would be no more than a formality.”

Phoenix took another drink of his coffee, taking in the smell of it and whatever wakefulness it could give him. It seemed almost like too little too late at this point, and all he really wanted to do was find a nice warm bed to climb into a sleep. At this point, he wasn't going to be picky about the specifics.

“Oh, I doubt that, Edgeworth. I've got more tricks up my sleeve than you might think.”

His smile was dark there, and he shrugged. He could have taken Edgeworth's words as an open challenge, but right now he was too tired and too sore to try anything stupid.

He sat down on the sofa, leaning back and resting his mug on the coffee table. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the incessant aching in his face and side.

Sometimes… sometimes pain was just life's way of reminding you that you're alive. It had worked for him well enough in the past years, pain like a tearing at his heart whenever he thought about Miles, and the reason that it hurt so much, Phoenix knew, was because he loved him. He always had, and he always would. But he still wasn't sure if he wanted to go through that again, knowing how it ended up last time.

When Miles mentioned the bar exam, Phoenix ignored it - used to the subject coming up, and he kept his eyes resolutely closed. He'd told him a dozen times before that he wasn't going to go through with that again. He'd told Gavin that, and he still meant it. The only place he had in court was from behind the scenes.

Miles arched an eyebrow in response to Phoenix's smile, then swallowed another mouthful of coffee. He had half-hoped the flavour would be less noticeable this time - but somehow it was worse, and he set the mug down on the counter, pushing it away with barely disguised distaste.

“Considering that you are currently attired in my robe, I think any exaggerated claims about the contents of its sleeves can be safely dismissed.”

The television was still running an incessant mixture of advertisements and news, and he quickly scanned the headlines as they paraded across the screen. It was a habit that he had never quite managed to lose, despite a change of both country and profession. And it had been the means by which he had first seen Phoenix Wright's name again - other than in his own handwriting on the letters he had mailed to Los Angeles for seven years with no expectation of a reply.

He could remember it clearly - a cool April evening; the sound of jazz drifting in through the half-closed window. The tea at his elbow had long gone cold, and he had glanced up from the paper he was marking, fixing on the silent television for a moment's distraction. And there it was - PHOENIX WRIGHT . His name - there and gone in an instant. For a minute, Miles had been sure he had imagined it, but the rest of the night had been spent seeking out the context; work abandoned in favour of American news channels and the Internet.

Miles had monitored the news constantly after that for details of the case - for information about Shadi Smith, Kristoph Gavin and Apollo Justice. He had debated with himself about returning to Los Angeles and then dismissed it, certain that if Wright needed him, he would call - despite everything.

But there had been no call, and the case had been won without his intervention. For Miles, it had served only as confirmation that Phoenix had moved on - that he had chosen to forget the past and that his letters had been written into a void. Still, when the Misham case hit the headlines only a short time later, he had been unable to ignore it - both the details of the trial and the revelation of the long-promised reform in the Los Angeles justice system capturing his attention entirely.

It had been a bittersweet moment when he heard that Phoenix had been exonerated of the accusation that had lost him his badge; when he had watched him leave the court, hat pulled down over his head and with Justice pushing a way through the waiting media. Miles had barely recognised him at first, until Phoenix had glanced up at the camera and those familiar blue eyes had looked at him from the television screen, just as they had the last time they had parted at the airport years before.

It had been almost surreal - that same image flickering across every channel for the best part of a day, as the news of Kristoph Gavin's crimes captured the attention of the world. It had been impossible to avoid, even if he had wanted to - even if his will had been strong enough to keep him from reliving that sharp mixture of pain and relief that the brief glimpse of Phoenix had brought with it.

Phoenix shifted on the sofa, and the movement distracted Miles from both the television and the memories. He expected no answer to his comment about the bar exam - it was a subject he had raised many times, and which Phoenix usually refused to even discuss. Miles watched him for a few moments, then shook his head, a wry smile as he pushed himself away from the counter and picked up the metal briefcase that still stood beside the door.

“Get some sleep, Wright - I can make the calls from the bedroom.”

But still he hesitated, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the case. That nagging suspicion returned - that somehow this had all been a game, and that somehow, Phoenix had won - just as he had when they had first met in court. That if Miles left him alone he would disappear into the Los Angeles dawn just as surely as he had nine years ago.

But he didn't look around, forcing himself to place a foot on the stairs, his voice perfectly steady.

“You'll have to present yourself at the Detention Center to sign a dismissal of charges, and then I'll drive you home. My cell is in the kitchen - I suggest that you call Trucy and arrange to take her out to lunch. Perhaps she will be more inclined to forgive you over noodles.”