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Edgeworth presses the badge and magatama back into Phoenix's hand, and Phoenix knows what's next. His cold is receding and his head is clearing, and as the pain meds fade out of his system so too does the childish hope that Miles Edgeworth would find some reason to stay in LA. I have work to finish in Europe, he'll say. I didn’t intend to be back here in the first place.
"I leave the rest in your capable hands...partner," is what he says instead, and it confuses Phoenix enough that he forgets to ask how yesterday’s court session went.
Edgeworth stays through the rest of Iris’ trial, and even if Phoenix is grateful he doesn't get his hopes up. Because the worst part always comes after, and Miles Edgeworth always leaves.
And Edgeworth does leave, as expected, this time with an apology and a proper send-off at the airport.
“I’ll call,” he promises, which is decidedly different from how his previous farewells have ended.
“O-Okay,” Phoenix says, unsure if he’s talking to the same Miles Edgeworth he’s come to know over the past few years. He’s not even sure if they’ve ever swapped cell phone numbers.
But it turns out they must have at some point, because one month later his cell phone buzzes off the desk with the name “Edgeworth” flashing on the caller ID.
“Are you at the office?” Edgeworth says, as if this isn’t the first time he’s ever talked to Phoenix over the phone. As if they’ve been casually calling each other like this their whole lives.
“Uh, yeah,” Phoenix replies. “What’s up?”
“Good,” says Edgeworth, and with that cryptic non-answer he hangs up. Phoenix stares at his phone, trying to remember how to check his call history to prove to himself that this wasn’t all just a weird hallucination, when he hears a knock at the door.
He doesn’t know what to expect, and despite the recent phone call it’s certainly not Edgeworth. Except there he is, standing in the dingy hallway in all his stuffy glory, as though he hadn’t been halfway across the world the last time Phoenix was aware of it.
“Edgeworth, wha—”
“There’s a case I’ve been working on that could use another pair of eyes,” Edgeworth says, brushing into the office. "In particular, it could use your turned-around way of thinking." He sets his briefcase on the coffee table and stares at Phoenix expectantly.
“Wha— But— You’re in LA?”
“Yes,” he replies, a little stiffly. “Was that not obvious?”
“Not at all,” Phoenix says. He’s breathless and bewildered, struggling to accept the fact that Edgeworth is here and nothing drastic has even happened to warrant it.
“I said I’d call,” Edgeworth points out, and Phoenix can’t help but laugh.
"Sure, but you never mentioned anything about being back in the country. And usually people share that kind of news a little further in advance." Edgeworth’s fingers tighten around the handle of the briefcase in a gesture that Phoenix recognizes as preparing to flee. He moves to the couch and sets a hand over it reassuringly.
"But I'm glad you're here," he adds, and Edgeworth's face softens. "Now what were you saying about needing my help?"
As far as Phoenix can tell, Edgeworth is back to stay this time.
“I was able to wrap up my assignments earlier than expected,” he says, spreading seemingly endless amounts of paper over the coffee table. Phoenix pushes some books aside and pulls up a chair across from him.
“I’m surprised Franziska let you go.”
“Franziska does not need help from tiresome prosecutors,” Edgeworth dully recites. “Or overbearing little brothers.”
Phoenix laughs and reaches for a stack of notes. Edgeworth swats his hand away.
“Start here,” he says, pushing a folder into his hands instead.
“You can’t be bothered to just give me the rundown? A good old classic ‘Miles Edgeworth opening statement’?”
“We’re not in court, Wright,” Edgeworth sniffs. “Besides, would you trust me to?”
He trusts Edgeworth with a lot, certainly. Probably more than he should, given their history (updated autopsy reports notwithstanding). But the criminal justice system needs someone who will press against the narrative of assumed guilt, and Miles Edgeworth, for better or worse, is a prosecutor. “...No.”
“Good. I’m not paying you for your listening skills.”
“You’re not paying me at all,” Phoenix replies, to which Edgeworth’s mouth quirks, and it’s somehow a novel thing, to learn that Miles Edgeworth knows how to make jokes.
“Regardless, any insight you have is appreciated,” says Edgeworth. “The evidence against the defendant is a little too airtight, so good luck finding any contradictions.”
“‘A little too airtight’, huh? Did you just come here to brag, then?”
“I came here for your assistance.”
“Because we’re partners,” Phoenix realizes, and that’s the crux of it—Edgeworth trusts him to catch what he’ll miss, to nudge them both ever closer towards the truth, guilty or not guilty aside. They’re partners. Two sides of the same coin. It’s comforting, knowing that Edgeworth is always at his back.
He hunches over the table and gets to work.
Bit by bit, Edgeworth reveals the minute details of his life in the days since his return.
They’re flipping through reference photos of airplanes, and Edgeworth comments on the inconvenience of having been handcuffed mid-flight. They’re grabbing coffee near the courthouse, and Edgeworth waffles before buying two swiss rolls that he carefully packages away.
“For Gumshoe and Kay,” he explains, and that’s how Phoenix learns of Edgeworth’s young associate.
They’re at Phoenix’s office, notebooks and photos strewn around mugs of cooling tea, while Edgeworth catches him up on the recent developments of a new investigation.
“The problem is the timing. The body couldn’t have been thrown down the well before the prisoner’s escape attempt, which means it must have happened at some point during the circus show, which means our client is the only person who would have had the opportunity…”
“Wait, there was a circus show at a prison?”
“Yes, a circus,” Edgeworth says, annoyed at the interruption. He pauses for a moment, then allows, “I suppose it does sound odd, out of context.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Phoenix shrugs. “Actually, I think I’ve seen about the same. Don’t tell me it was the Berry Big Circus?”
“Familiar with them too, then?”
Phoenix makes a face. “A little too familiar, for my liking. I had a client from there.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it was back when—” He stops abruptly, because underneath the absurdity of those memories lies a staggering amount of devastation, the source of which is sitting across from him now.
“Ah,” Edgeworth says. He has the decency to sound contrite. “That one.”
They haven’t talked about this yet—Phoenix doesn’t want to talk about it, because the last time he tried getting Miles Edgeworth to open up about his feelings he fled halfway across the world in an attempt to bury them.
But Edgeworth shuffles uncomfortably and clears his throat and it looks like they're going to talk about this anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I needed to get away from...everything, and time to heal. I didn’t think about how it would impact you.”
“It’s fine,” Phoenix says, even though it’s not.
“It’s clearly not,” Edgeworth replies. “I shouldn’t have...cut you off like that. I...have a bad habit of doing that, it seems.”
You really do, thinks Phoenix wryly. Aloud, he says, "But you're here now."
“Yes.”
“And maybe there’s a way for the body to have been hidden in the well before the show, and then dropped later?” Phoenix adds, returning to the original topic before Edgeworth can continue down this path of conversation.
Edgeworth assesses him with a long, wary look, then sighs. “I just need to investigate more. I don’t have enough evidence yet.”
“Welcome to the world of defense attorneys.”
“I’ve acted as a defense attorney before,” Edgeworth reminds him. “As your replacement, even, I might add.”
“And it never gets easier, does it?”
“There are more hurdles for defense attorneys than prosecutors, I’ll admit. Which reminds me, I should get going in order to get an early start on the investigation.”
“Keep me updated,” Phoenix says. Don’t leave, comes a whisper from the back of his mind, and he blames the circus memories for that. Edgeworth has been over at his office nearly every other day since his return, with no hint of leaving the country again. Phoenix has always been inclined towards benefit of the doubt, but it seems that two weeks is hardly sufficient evidence against three years of precedent.
Edgeworth turns around in the doorway and meets his eyes. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, cutting to the heart of Phoenix's insecurities, and the clack of the door seals his promise.
They go out to celebrate Edgeworth’s success the next evening.
“Not with Larry,” Edgeworth says, and Phoenix agrees. They still haven’t recovered from the last Larry excursion.
Phoenix takes him to Eldoon’s in honor of Mia’s post-trial tradition. It’s cheap and it’s salty—perfect for fueling the highs of a win or drying up the useless tears of a loss. It’s the former today, he cheerfully informs Eldoon, who whips them up two bowls of his saltiest ramen.
Edgeworth chokes upon taking his first bite. “What is this?!”
“It’s ramen, Edgeworth,” Phoenix says. Eldoon slams a giant bottle of sake on the counter between them, accompanied by two small glasses. “Heard of it before?”
“Obviously I’ve had ramen Wright—”
“What’s wrong then? It’s hearty.”
“It’s certainly doing something to my heart,” Edgeworth grumbles.
“What’s life without a little hypertension, anyway?”
“Between this and your haphazard approach to cases, I’m starting to think you might actually have a deathwish.”
Phoenix laughs and pours them both a cup of sake. “To salt, the spice that gives me life.” From somewhere in the back of the cart, Eldoon huffs his approval. Edgeworth rolls his eyes.
“To logic and the pursuit of truth,” he counters. Nerd. They down their drinks and Phoenix pours another round.
“To trust in our partners,” he says, raising his glass high, “and faith in our clients.”
“To the unwavering determination of defense attorneys,” says Edgeworth, and the sting that burns down Phoenix’s throat is from more than salt and alcohol. This one’s for you, Mia. From the solemn look on Edgeworth’s face, he’s paying respects to his own hero, too.
They slurp through their noodles, chasing down mouthfuls of salty broth with sweet sake, while Edgeworth provides a detailed recounting of the last twelve hours. His gestures become more and more animated the emptier the sake bottle gets, until he’s waving so wildly that Phoenix narrowly misses getting slapped in the face.
They’ve circled the conversation back to Larry, somehow, and his horrible, horrible new jacket. Larry had asked him for feedback on the “aesthetic” of his new persona, Edgeworth says, to which Phoenix nearly snorts broth out his nose.
“So, did you?”
“Of course,” Edgeworth says, “I told him to burn it.”
Phoenix’s knee bumps Edgeworth’s in the cramped space underneath the cart; his shoulders shake with laughter, and he can’t remember the last time he ever felt so happy.
“Apparently it’s couture, Phoenix,” Edgeworth drawls, and everything else that follows is drowned out in the echo of his name in Edgeworth's voice: Phoenix Phoenix Phoenix.
“Hey.” Phoenix pushes his empty bowl aside and leans against the counter. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
Edgeworth blinks once, slowly, and a small smile spreads across his face. “Yes,” he replies, “I am too.”
“Do you think you’ll become a defense attorney?”
Edgeworth glances up from his position on the couch. His legs are crossed; he’s catching up on today’s newspaper while his briefcase sits unopened on the coffee table. “Where did this come from?”
Phoenix shrugs. “I’ve just been wondering, I guess.”
“I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been on my mind either,” he says, and his eyes dart to the side. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“I know you’ve reconnected with Mr. Shields recently,” Phoenix offers tentatively.
Edgeworth nods and stays quiet for a long moment, thinking.
“It’s been...nice,” he begins, “to learn more about my father’s legacy from someone who knew him before—back then. And I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to follow in his footsteps, even if only for a few cases. It’s just…” He sighs heavily, setting the newspaper aside. “I spent a year reckoning with my past and defining a new purpose for myself. I could have become a defense attorney then, but I didn’t. And if I do so now…”
“It’ll feel like a waste of time?”
He exhales. “Yes.”
“You know, I thought I wasted my entire college career, after…” He trails off, but Edgeworth seems to know what he’s referring to, thankfully. “But Mia always told me that as long as I’m still alive, I haven’t wasted anything. It’s never too late to change course or switch paths, as long as it’s what you want. And you’re allowed to change what you want, at any point in your life.”
Edgeworth doesn’t respond, so Phoenix continues. “Sorry if it feels like I pressured you into anything, though. You don’t need to make a decision, or answer my question.”
“No, it’s...nice, to talk like this,” Edgeworth says. He looks slightly baffled as he says so, as if it’s strange to admit something so honest.
And it is strange, Phoenix realizes, to have Miles Edgeworth here in his office, sitting on Mia’s old leather couch, talking candidly about the future like this. Three years of shared history, of uncovering each other's traumas and overcoming life-threatening situations, and yet this is the first time Phoenix feels like he really knows Miles Edgeworth. Not the ideal he'd chased for fifteen years; not the prosecutor in the defendant’s chair, or even the one who wore a defense attorney’s badge; rather, this man who offers up the small details of his day and shares his hopes and dreams and worries.
It’s so startling that he laughs, and says, “I never would have believed we’d have these sorts of conversations, but yeah, it is nice.”
Edgeworth nods and takes a sip of tea. Phoenix goes back to sorting Mia’s old case files when Edgeworth chimes up again with, "Do you remember?"
"Remember what?"
"What you asked me. In the hospital."
It’s hazy, admittedly—Phoenix hadn't been in the best state of mind then. "To defend Iris?"
".. Nevermind."
"No, wait." It’s starting to come back to him—Iris’ hood wrapped over his head, the flash of green and gold transferring hands, the blurry outline of a red coat. “I said something about...staying in touch, right?”
“Yes,” Edgeworth says. His voice is soft—careful. “You asked me to talk to you more often. To not just show up once a year whenever you’re in trouble.”
And now Phoenix remembers—he had been so embarrassingly incoherent and teary about it that he’s surprised Edgeworth managed to decipher any part of that conversation at all.
He swallows. “So you came back because of me?”
“I had other business in LA,” Edgeworth swiftly responds. He clears his throat and glances away. “But your request wasn’t any small factor in that decision.”
“Of course,” Phoenix says, but he’s smiling, and underneath a curtain of bangs he can see that Edgeworth is too.
“What’s with Edgeworth hanging around the office all the time?” Maya asks one day. “Not that I’m complaining, because at least someone will let me watch Steel Samurai reruns in the office…”
“He comes over for help with cases sometimes. Comparing notes, talking through contradictions, that sort of thing.”
“Ooohhh,” she says. “So you’re like his assistant.”
“What? No,” says Phoenix. “We’re like partners.”
“I don’t know how that’s any different from what I do,” Maya points out. “Also you don’t even talk about cases half the time. You just throw a bunch of piles of paper around and gossip about other stuff.”
“What? We don’t—It’s not gossip,” Phoenix insists, frowning. “It’s called ‘talking shop’, Maya.”
She snorts. “Maybe I’d believe that if you didn’t ‘talk shop’ about Larry for like, three hours yesterday.”
“Okay, I know for sure it wasn’t three hours because Edgeworth came over around 5:30 and we stopped for dinner at, uhhh…” He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a receipt. “7:48! So, take that!”
“Fine, two hours! Whatever.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks, suddenly concerned. He knows how he and Edgeworth can get sometimes, wrapped up in their discussions, and Maya’s only in town for a few more days before going back to her training. Perhaps he should make a better effort to include her.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve got some good blackmail on Larry now,” she says, and Phoenix decides that Edgeworth can handle himself for the next few days. It’s what’s best for everyone involved.
He treats Maya to dinner as compensation for his neglect, and also to buy her silence. She happily accepts, but only on the condition that he take her to the aquarium at some point over the weekend.
“They have Gourdy there now, did you know that?”
“They do not. That’s impossible, because Gourdy doesn’t exist.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun, Nick. Fine, they don’t have Gourdy, but they do have a new Steel Samurai versus Gourdy themed penguin show that we absolutely have to see.”
“Ahh, the truth comes out,” he says, grinning. “Why’s it always the Steel Samurai with you two?”
“Huh?” Maya says. “Us two?”
“Yeah. You and Edgeworth,” he clarifies, as if it were obvious.
She blinks. “Is Edgeworth coming to the aquarium too?”
“I mean, he could if you want him to. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to come.”
She chews her food slowly. “Not that I don’t like hanging out with you guys, but I don’t know if I...want that.”
“That’s fine,” Phoenix says. “I did promise that this would be your weekend, after all.”
Maya’s eyes glint mischievously as she launches into a long itinerary of weekend activities, most of which involve perusing the aquarium and trying out some new dessert shops that have opened up recently.
“Do you think they’d let me film that penguin show?” Phoenix asks, stuck on the idea of little penguins in tokusatsu costumes.
“I don’t know if they’d let you, but you could probably be sneaky about it. You really want to see penguin Steel Samurai and penguin Gourdy that much?”
“Not for me, Maya.” Phoenix rolls his eyes. “I want to show Edgeworth. Can you imagine the look on his face?” He’s imagining it now—a fascinating blend of delight under a veneer of disdain.
“Oh my god, Nick,” she says around a mouthful of steak. “You’re in love with him.”
“Wha— Love?” Phoenix laughs. “You’ve been hanging out too much with Pearls.”
“I’ve also been hanging out too much with you two, so I think I have enough evidence. He’s not even here and you’re still talking about him all the time!”
“It’s nothing like that,” he says, waving off her exclamations. “We’re just friends.”
“If you say so,” she shrugs, and Phoenix promptly forgets about this conversation for the rest of the weekend.
Except Maya’s allegation lurks in the back of his mind, inconveniently creeping to the forefront while Edgeworth sits on the couch across from him. His jacket is slung haphazardly over the arm; he’s staring intently at his notes, mouth pulled into a frown, and Phoenix has the sudden and irrepressible urge to smooth the divet in his brow.
"Wright," Edgeworth says, frown intensifying, and the moment passes. “What do you think of this testimony?”
Phoenix reads over the transcript. “Their description of how they discovered the body was pretty vague. I’d have to double check the evidence to see if there’s anything outright contradictory.”
“Hm.” Edgeworth drums his fingers against the cushions. “Could you look into that? I may need to ask for more details during their testimony tomorrow.”
He does so, gratefully. This is what hanging out with Edgeworth is supposed to feel like, just two guys talking about cases, not...whatever was happening earlier.
He’s so absorbed in reviewing evidence that he doesn’t notice the time until Edgeworth says, “Should we order in?”
His stomach rumbles loudly in response, as if finally given permission to complain. He checks the time—it’s already past nine somehow. “Shit, yeah. Is Chinese okay? I think Hometown’s probably the only place still open.”
“You know my order,” is all Edgeworth has to say on that matter, and even though Phoenix does (Peking ribs, green bean with minced pork, fried rice with chicken) it doesn’t do anything to help his case against Maya. He makes the call anyway, and ends up blacking out and adding an order of crab rangoon on top of everything.
“Good lord, how much do you think we’ll eat?” Edgeworth says as soon as their food arrives.
“Leftovers are a thing, you know,” Phoenix retorts. “You should try it sometime.”
They fall back into this easy routine—Edgeworth critiques his chopstick technique, at which Phoenix calls out his conventional tastes, and they swap gibes in this way until Phoenix can’t tell if his stomach aches from the food or from laughter.
Miles (Edgeworth, his mind frantically corrects — Edgeworth Edgeworth Edgeworth) passes him the testimony transcript again, and he takes the opportunity to launch back into work.
It’s quiet for a long while, with only a few brief interruptions to share a new finding or ask some clarifying question. The remnants of their takeout are congealing in the styrofoam boxes, and Phoenix finds himself slumping closer and closer to the desk. It’s late, he realizes, and as soon as he makes this realization he notices Edgeworth leaning against the armchair and rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry for keeping you,” he says, voice coming out a little raspy. “You should go home and sleep.”
Edgeworth blinks. He checks his own watch, then winces. “I’m the one keeping you, Wright. Apologies, I didn’t expect this to drag on for so long.”
“You’re so much more polite when you’re tired,” Phoenix says with a smirk. “Why can’t you be like this all the time?”
“And you’re so much more annoying,” Edgeworth snaps back. “Are you planning to go home as well or are you going to talk me to death?”
“Don’t be dramatic. I was probably going to, ah—” A yawn interrupts the rest of his sentence, and Edgeworth raises a brow.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning on staying here.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Phoenix replies childishly. “You’re not my dad.”
“Then you can’t tell me what to do, either,” Edgeworth says, crossing his arms. “I’m staying if you are.”
Phoenix stares at him—arms crossed, chin high, glare tempered somewhat by the crazed, sleep-deprived look in his eyes— and can’t help but laugh.
“Whoever gets through the deposition first wins?” he offers instead, and the flash of Edgeworth's grin in return gives him enough energy to focus on the page.
Phoenix wakes up on the couch without any recollection of ever falling asleep. He’s still in his dress shirt and pants, although his tie has been flung dangerously close to an open container of sweet and sour sauce.
Edgeworth is nowhere to be seen, and at first Phoenix wonders if he gave up halfway through the night and went back home after all. But he hears shuffling in the room over, and a glance through the doorway reveals Edgeworth standing up from an armchair.
“Ah,” he says, “good morning.” And in the span of those two insignificant words, the entire perspective of Phoenix’s world shifts.
Because Miles Edgeworth is caught in the rays of light filtering through the blinds, his hair rumpled and his dress shirt creased. Because Miles Edgeworth has spent the night (spent the night) and is scanning the counters of the office kitchenette as if this is something he does every morning.
Because against all odds, Miles Edgeworth is alive, and here, and Phoenix is hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him.
“Coffee? Or tea?” Miles asks, and Phoenix doesn’t have the words to describe how neither of them matters in the face of this life-altering realization.
“I’m fine,” he croaks. Except he isn’t, because his eyes can’t stop following Miles’ hands as he pulls cups from the cupboard; are glued to the cowlick at the back of his head that bobs in time as he moves.
“Coffee, then,” Miles mumbles, and Phoenix’s heart lurches. He seizes the opportunity to dash into the bathroom, hastily punching numbers into his phone.
“Maya, help,” he hisses when she finally picks up, “I think I’m in love with Edgeworth.”
“I told you so! ” she says, and it’s like she doesn’t even care that she’s the reason Phoenix is a mess at seven in the morning over a crush he never realized he had.
“What do I do?!”
“I dunno, figure it out!” she huffs, and then callously ends the call while Phoenix stares at the grout between the tiles on the bathroom floor.
He emerges a few minutes later, after what he assumes is the appropriate amount of time to pretend that he is not having an emotional crisis. He has splashed his face with water just before leaving, and the chill sensation of air on his skin makes him feel somewhat more put-together.
Miles sets a mug onto the table between them. Phoenix tries to remember how to breathe. “I think we’re getting too old for this,” Miles says, settling back onto the couch.
“For…?”
“All nighters.” Miles takes a sip of coffee, assessing him with an amused glance. “Not a morning person, are you?”
“Is anyone?” Phoenix says weakly. The coffee does help clear the addled fog of his mind a little, if only because it distracts him from the tousled look of Miles’ bangs.
Miles snorts into his mug. His face is pale and the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, but he seems relaxed despite the lack of sleep.
“I guess time really slipped away from us, huh?”
“So it seems,” Miles says. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” He ducks his head, smiling in that way as though his happiness is a secret between the two of them, and Phoenix wonders how he had ever missed this before.
“You can,” Phoenix says. “Make a habit of it. Anytime.”
Miles blinks, his face open with surprise, and Phoenix wants to see this face every morning for the rest of his life.
I love him, he thinks wonderingly. As lovers; as partners; as friends—it's hard to parse, but all he knows is that he could spend every day with Miles Edgeworth and never get enough. He's always wanted this, he realizes—to make Miles Edgeworth laugh, to complain about their days, to know the little things like his takeout order and how he likes his tea.
He takes a breath. He takes a leap. And he can’t worry about what comes after.