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Most people forget that Phoenix has an art degree. Actually, Phoenix forgets too, a lot of the time – that part of his life is very distant, hardly more than a dream. The only reminder is how unnaturally good his doodles are – tiny intricate floral things that crowd the corners of his notes and watermark his special Wright & Co. stationary. They're nice distractions from tough or tragic cases, in their elegance and geometry yet complexity and unpredictability, and Phoenix enjoys how they make even the darkest of murder cases look nicer and prettier. Some days, like today, he just doodles because he's bored.
The Judge must be having a tiring day. Phoenix is having a tiring day, and he hasn't been banging a gavel for the past half hour. Today's witness has been particularly insufferable – so much so that it's only been thirty minutes and the Judge has already called recess. Sometimes Phoenix wonders what it would be like to get a normal case, an easy one, one without all the complications and twists and hidden connections and secrets.
Speaking of twists – specifically, complex twisty things – this doodle isn't going as well as Phoenix would hope. He abandons it and flips the page over, casting around for something else to draw.
“What's wrong, Wright?” Miles Edgeworth asks, peering nearsightedly at Phoenix from over his notes, which he's reviewing – unlike Phoenix, the “artistic type.” “I thought that was looking …. nice.”
Phoenix shrugs. “You can't see it, anyway,” he says, taking a jab at the other man's failing vision. He'll need glasses soon. “And I didn't like it.”
“My vision isn't that bad. Just 20/40,” Edgeworth says with dignity.
“Well, then it must be your taste in art,” Phoenix comments dryly. He starts a new drawing, switching to pencil, and keeping one eye on the prosecutor. Long, loose strokes, not another tiny doodle.
Edgeworth has brushed off the barbed comment, taking no offense – it's Phoenix, after all. The quiet is comfortable, relaxed, an oasis of calm in the middle of what promises to be a harrowing day. The prosecutor puts aside his notes after a few minutes, realizing he's already been over them too many times, and simply stares into space, his chin on his fist. Distant objects are slightly blurry, he notices with faint annoyance. Perhaps Phoenix is right – he will need glasses.
“Perfect,” the defense attorney mutters softly, the scratch of his pencil filling the room. Edgeworth quirks his eyebrows curiously, turning to see what Phoenix is doing. “Just a minute,” Phoenix mutters, scribbling madly. “Gotta shade.”
“Shade what?” Edgeworth's curiosity is thoroughly piqued. Phoenix doesn't respond, finishing with a flourish and holding the paper at arm's length. Edgeworth tries to peer around it but can't catch a glimpse.
“Not bad, not bad,” Phoenix says to himself, sounding pleasantly surprised. “It's been a while since I've tried portraits, and this was a quick one, but for all that, not too shabby.”
“What is it?” the other man snaps impatiently, and Phoenix raises his eyes to meet Edgeworth's.
He's smiling, and, as has too often happened around Phoenix lately, Edgeworth's heart starts to pound. What a stupid, irrational reaction. The prosecutor draws back slightly and covers his mouth with his hand, and when Phoenix turns the paper around, Edgeworth is instantly glad he had. It will hide his reaction.
It's him. Rendered sketchily but clearly masterfully, in profile, appearing just as he had when he'd sat lost in thought the moment before. Dark, bold lines shape his face, and the lighting appears dramatic, the shadows dark. The corners of his mouth are downturned slightly, and his eyebrows are drawn together contemplatively. The way Phoenix has drawn him ….
“Sorry, I don't know what came over me,” Phoenix says, with a little, awkward cough. “I don't normally do portraits, anyway. But the lighting was right, and you looked really nice like that, so I just kind of ….” He trails off, giving a vague gesture with his hand.
“I looked nice?” Edgeworth asks, his voice strangled. “Um, I --” He's stammering, still covering his mouth with his hand, hiding his reaction. This is – this makes him feel – like a teenager, the teenager he never was – fluttery, nervous, excited – and it's so awkward. He doesn't like the feeling. Not for Phoenix.
(But then again, he does.)
“That's very – that's really good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady and only half succeeding. “The picture, I mean. You're – it's really well done.”
“Thanks,” Phoenix says, ducking his head and blushing. Is perhaps – is Phoenix feeling just as strange as Edgeworth is? No, he thinks. Probably not. “It's really quick and I'm not in practice anymore, but ….”
Edgeworth's mouth is dry, but he manages to speak the words – “Can I – can I keep it?”
“Do you want it?” Phoenix asks, surprised.
“I mean, you drew it. And, and it's quite good. Quite good. Yes. But – why did you decide to draw me?”
“Like I said,” the defense attorney coughs, “The urge just sort of …. hit me.” Why had he said that aloud, about Edgeworth looking nice? Okay, okay. Phoenix has been looking, just a little. Edgeworth has a good face to look at. His straight nose, high cheekbones, calm eyes, and black-gray hair smoothly framing his face – perhaps Phoenix is just a tiny bit fascinated. A tiny bit. And so what if his heart gives a little jump whenever he sees that face? So what if he stopped paying attention during a trial – during a trial – the other week, struck suddenly by how beautiful Edgeworth looked right then? So what? It didn't mean anything. Edgeworth is an old friend. A good friend. A close friend.
Okay, it's not like Phoenix wants to kiss him or anything. That would be ridiculous. “You're ….” he tries to say, but trails off. A reckless urge hits him. “Edgeworth,” he says, steeling himself.
The prosecutor's mouth opens slightly at Phoenix's tone, fighting ridiculous hope from his expression. Surely Phoenix wouldn't be asking anything like that ….
“Sometime, when we're not so busy ….” Phoenix continues slowly, “Would you like to go --”
“Court in session! Both of you, get ready!” a deep voice cuts him off. It's the Judge, commanding as he could be, when he wanted to. Phoenix feels at once immense relief and crashing disappointment. Oh, well. Edgeworth probably wouldn't have said yes anyway.
Damn it, Edgeworth thinks. That may have been going in a very good direction. Oh well. Phoenix probably wasn't going to ask what he hoped for anyway.
The two lawyers stand, and gather their notes and evidence, as well as one drawing. Edgeworth slips it into his binder, and Phoenix smiles to see him do so – but only to himself. Maybe one day he'll ask the rest of his question.