Work Text:
-Point Loma, April 6, 2019-
Night.
Phoenix is sitting on the deck, a pair of loose dark jeans and a t-shirt thrown on - an old light blue shirt from college, with the words IVY LAW printed across the front, the silk screen ink faded to gray after being washed in with the darks one too many times.
Pess is resting next to him, muzzle tucked between his paws as he sprawls on his belly on the cool wood of the deck. Phoenix scratches behind his ear, his gaze not leaving the beach. The water. There are small sounds coming from the other villas, drowned out by the sound of the tide retreating for the night.
He was kicking himself over it. Stupid, impulsive... "I love you, Miles," and then nothing. A choke and silence.
Well... at least he hadn't told him to pack his bags and find a way back to LA. That had to count for something.
"...in short, I recommend that some consideration be given to the jurist system of France, which provides a balance between the traditional system of peers and the current state system whereby a judge alone can decide a verdict. A further study on this will comprise the bulk of my intended research for the forseeable future, subsequent to the completion of my present work on the canton system of administering the law in Switzerland."
A slight nod of satisfaction and Miles closes the laptop, the sudden dimness of the room almost a relief. Sitting back in the chair, he stretches cramped muscles and looks across at the open French windows, the light curtains stirring slightly in the breeze. It's a moment before his eyes adjust enough to register the darkness outside, then he glances at his watch, cursing under his breath as he pushes himself to his feet.
He takes a silent step out onto the deck, leaning against the door frame for a while, the wood cool under his bare feet and the air fresh with the scent of the ocean. The moonlight glitters on the water below and illuminates Phoenix, sitting silently in one of the basket chairs facing the sea. He smiles softly, content to watch; Pess's tail beating out a rhythm on the wood in response to his presence. Phoenix doesn't stir, and he wonders for a moment if the man has fallen asleep again, until a quiet sigh breaks the silence.
The smile fades at that, his mind returning to earlier that day; to Phoenix's words over breakfast and the lopsided grin that had accompanied them; to his own inability to respond and the strained silence that had followed until he had returned inside to lose himself in his work.
A brief hesitation, and then he steps fully out onto the deck, resting his hands on the back of the chair and stooping slightly to place a light kiss on the top of Phoenix's head.
“I'm sorry. I lost track of the time.”
“It's fine. ...I know that you have work to do.”
“That's hardly the point. I promised yesterday that I would take you out to dinner.”
There's an unsure smile, and Phoenix rests his head against the back of the chair, looking up at Miles. A moment passes and he reaches up, resting his own hands over his.
Miles tenses slightly at the contact but he resists the instinct to pull away. Even in the moonlight he can see the uncertainty in Phoenix's eyes, and there's a stab of guilt and fear. Guilt that he caused it, one way or another, either by his reaction to this morning's impulsive confession, or simply by putting Phoenix in this position in the first place. Fear that perhaps the regret had started already, that Phoenix had finally realised what he was doing, and with whom.
A soft shrug, and Phoenix’s hands slip away. He looks back out towards the beach.
“Besides, Pess was keeping me company.”
Miles’ gaze drops to his dog - stretched out on his side now, head pressed up against Phoenix's foot, tail still lazily wagging at the mention of his name although his eyes are closed. He smiles a little, despite himself.
“Yes, he's very good at that. Considerably better than his master, it seems.”
He moves away, standing at the edge of the deck and leaning on the rail to follow Phoenix's gaze out to the ocean; shivering slightly as the cooler air pierces the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Well, there's always tomorrow. Or maybe you can take me out when we get back to LA... it's a little late, now.”
Phoenix’s toes tap restlessly on the deck, and Pess shifts his head, settling back with an almost annoyed sigh.
“I could probably make something if you're hungry. I would have asked earlier, but I didn't want to bother you.”
Miles frowns, irritated with himself for being inconsiderate and at Phoenix for accepting it so easily.
"That doesn't usually stop you, Wright."
He's more than aware of his tendency to forget the time, to forget to eat - even to sleep when lost in his work. Usually it was a blessing - when he had no one else to concern himself with; when he could use it to stave off the dreams for as long as possible; when it enabled him to put the past aside for an hour and concentrate only on the case in hand.
But it had proved more difficult than he cared to admit to adjust his habits to accommodate someone else - to remember that someone else even existed outside of his work, either in his apartment or at the end of a telephone. Some days, he resented even having to remember. Until he reminded himself that this was what he had wanted - that this was his own doing, not Wright's, and then the guilt at his own selfishness would follow.
"Yeah well." Today was different, Phoenix thinks. But he doesn't say it.
He pushes out of the chair, the wicker creaking in his wake as he steps across the deck, looking down to the dog with a smile. He leans over the rail, looking up at Miles.
“I like your company better, anyway.”
“Hm. I hope that your unplanned dip in the water has had no ill effects?”
It's not what Miles wants to ask, and he knows it, but he simply doesn't have the words or the courage for anything more.
Phoenix shakes his head softly but when Miles steals a sideways glance, Wright's face is unreadable, for once, and he taps his fingers on the rail.
“Even so, I hardly think that spending the entire day existing on potato chips and soda is beneficial to your health. I don't believe that the groceries I requested included dried macaroni cheese, and I am still unsure if you are to be trusted with raw ingredients that bear a close resemblance to their natural state.”
Phoenix doesn't want to admit that he had stopped outside the closed door too many times to count, pausing for a few seconds to just listen to the muffled sounds of Miles typing, hesitating to knock.
In the end, he never had.
There's a shrug; a soft smile.
“Maybe you should try it sometime. It might do you good. ...And cereal for dinner. That's a good one. I just..."
Miles studies Phoenix's silhouette, waits for the rest of the sentence. But it doesn't come, Phoenix's attention apparently entirely captured by the movement of the ocean. The silence stretches on a little and he taps his fingers on the rail a little more, unsure whether to pursue the subject.
Before he can decide, the moment has passed and Phoenix is smiling again, although it's not quite reflected in his eyes.
"Hey, I can cook just fine. You might be surprised."
Miles takes the offered change of subject gratefully, an arch look across at Phoenix, his tone dry.
“The last time you surprised me with a culinary experience was a meal at the Tres Bien, Wright. It is not an experience I am in any great hurry to repeat. ... cereal would have been preferable, even of the sort you seem to favour.”
And he smiles more openly this time, shaking his head again at the memory of that particular evening. He knows perfectly well that it had been Gumshoe's idea - that Phoenix had first been unwise enough to ask him for a recommendation and then too kind not to follow through on his suggestion. And in truth, despite the food, it had been surprisingly enjoyable.
A pause, and Phoenix moves closer to the rail.
“Anyway, I'm fine. I was fine earlier, right?”
And then Miles registers a nudge, shifting his elbow with a sharp glance sideways until he meets Phoenix's eyes; notes the spark of mischief in the blue depths and a smile that is only slightly on the right side of decent. And he can't help the smile that quirks his lips in return, or the light breath of relief at the sudden release of tension, although he looks away with a slight shake of the head.
“...Wright, you're impossible.”
Phoenix honestly smiles when he sees Miles relax a bit, and he turns, facing away from the beach, resting lazily against the rail and leaning over a bit to look at him.
“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”
He would have said "love" ... but he can't be so sure.
Miles looks up when Phoenix turns to face him, the moonlight bathing his face in silver, turning the spiked black hair almost as grey as Miles' own and darkening his eyes to a deep midnight blue. And for a few moments he doesn't say anything, the words stilled in his throat.
There are a few moments of comfortable silence when to Phoenix, everything feels perfect; complete. Miles is nearly glowing, the moonlight reflecting off of him in a perfectly colorless way that seems to make the gray hair and steel eyes reflect an almost blue cast, his skin bleached a near white where the light reflects, his shirt a flat black. It's completely ethereal, and he has to wonder if it's not all some dream.
Then Miles leans across, closing the distance between them, his lips brushing Phoenix's, his eyes closing and a smile curving across them when they do.
“For my sins.”
Phoenix closes his eyes at the kiss. His world reduces to the smell of the ocean, the feel of Miles' lips, and a small sound escapes him. He reaches up as their lips part and Miles speaks, grabbing Miles' shirt and tangling his hand in it, pulling him closer.
"You mean I don't get any points for trying?"
When their lips meet again he puts force behind the gesture, parting his lips just slightly to deepen the kiss.
Miles smiles again, makes only the slightest resistance when Phoenix tugs him back in. It's rougher, this time, and Phoenix's lips part under his, his left hand moving to rest along Phoenix's jaw, his right on Phoenix's hip, fingers sliding into the small of his back. He can feel the heat of the skin through the thin, soft cotton under his palm.
And Phoenix's own grip loosens in response to Miles' hands on him, pushing their bodies together. His right hand slips under Miles' shirt and slides across his back, feeling the muscles moving under his skin. His tongue brushes against his, lightly, and his left hand slips across his shoulder, holding him fast, fingers curling into the very bottom of his hair, his palm against the back of his neck.
To Miles, the taste of Phoenix is familiar, now, even tempered with the salt of the ocean and something else, something sweet. Rationally, he knows that it has only been a scant six weeks, but for a moment he can't remember when this wasn't a part of his life - when he didn't close his eyes and see Phoenix's smile, or wake from a dream and feel the warmth of him only an arm's length away.
And then. There's that voice at the back of his mind, as clear now as it had been almost daily for fifteen years; the grave expression that accompanied it and those piercing, pale blue eyes as fresh in his memory as the last time he had seen him three years ago.
"Remember who you are, Miles. Remember what they have to gain, and what you have to lose. It is your duty to honor your father's name and bring shame to neither his, nor mine. Whatever your personal inclinations, you will remember that at all times."
He closes his eyes tighter against it, but on its heels is a stronger memory - of how easily he had fallen under Manfred's control, allowed himself to be consumed in the pursuit of his approval - and he pulls back from the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, eyes refocusing as the sharp sea air pulls him back into reality.
Phoenix registers the gasp as Miles pulls away, Miles blinking for a moment, dazed. He can't read it, can't see anything until Miles smiles again and pulls him closer, pressing their bodies together for another moment... and then it's gone.
“For trying, Wright - or for being trying?”
Phoenix shrugs and looks away, smiling. But he doesn't move his hand from Miles' back, letting it rest there lightly beneath his shirt and enjoying the warmth of him.
“Like you're one to talk.”
He's aware of Phoenix's hand lingering on his skin, but for now it's a welcome gesture and he makes no attempt to move away, instead arching an eyebrow in Phoenix's direction.
“I'm not the one attempting to run across burning bridges and necessitating that my friends request favours from people they have barely spoken to in a decade.”
And Miles frowns a little at that, remembering the rushed telephone call and the cross-country drive on the autobahn to the airport completed at such a speed that even he reflects on it with some shame. Then the seemingly interminable flight to Los Angeles, almost twelve hours of constantly glancing at his watch, alternating between a conviction that Phoenix was dead or dying or that Larry was playing some kind of twisted practical joke. The truth, of course, had been somewhere in between.
“I am convinced that Dieter thinks I am completely insane. I only wish that I had been in a better frame of mind to enjoy the full benefits of his private jet.”
And then he looks back at Phoenix, the rush of affection that he had felt that morning on the beach echoed, just for a second, as he takes in the faded t-shirt that serves as a testament to everything Phoenix had given up for him.
He finally moves away from the touch, away from the rail, taking a seat at the table they had abandoned earlier after Phoenix's impulsive admission.
“Perhaps if you decide to try any more spectacularly foolish rescue bids, you might give me some advance warning. Should I have cause to travel in such style again, I would prefer to take full advantage of the situation.”
Phoenix lets his hand drop to his side when Miles moves, then shrugs.
“Hey, if I knew what was going to happen, I would have made sure Maya and Pearls were alright. ...At least, I would have tried. Maya was in trouble, and if I didn't at least try to help her…”
There's a sigh, Phoenix’s face a bit unsure for a moment. He scratches his scalp absently before he notices the nervous gesture and slowly lowers his hand. How many times had he done something like that? Choking down a necklace to save the girl he had loved, kicking down a temple door because Maya was on the other side, running off the bridge...
...Even that trial, facing down Manfred Von Karma in an attempt to free Miles. Staring down those electric blue eyes that mocked his every word. He still had burns from the stun gun the day before. His hand drifted to brush for a moment against his stomach just above his left hip. They were small scars, waved off as a birthmark when Miles had asked about them.
Miles watches Phoenix while he talks and his lips curve into a wry smile, the nervous gesture familiar to him now after facing the man in court and observing him from the gallery so many times. And the response is familiar too - that urge to help; to draw out the information or the evidence in question and examine it, dissect it, remove the uncertainty and uncover the truth with clinical precision.
In court, with the evidence in front of him, it's only a matter of logic and deduction to establish what Wright is troubled by and find a way to resolve it. But it's increasingly apparent to him that out of court he simply lacks the skills, and that sense of being out of his depth washes over him again.
Smiling, Phoenix pushes away from the rail and moves over to the table.
“ I did what I had to.... but I'll let you know next time I plan on doing something like that. Anyway, it turned out okay.”
There's a light breath that is almost a sigh when Miles replies.
“I know that, Phoenix. It was the right thing to do, and you did it. You always do. Even if that thing is dangerous, ridiculous, or... misguided.”
And then he looks away, remembering that morning over breakfast - the embarrassed grin, the unmistakeable flush of pink on Phoenix's neck as he uttered those three words- and his voice is a little distant when he speaks again.
“It's something that I admire you for.”
He looks around as Phoenix resumes his seat from earlier, and returns the smile.
“You always land on your feet, Phoenix. Always.”
Phoenix shrugs a little, rubbing his neck a bit and feeling the heat creep into it; thankful that the moonlight is dim and colorless.
He stops after a moment, leaning forward and sliding his hand across the table.
“You do alright for yourself. ...Besides, I wouldn't be where I am now without everybody. You, Larry, Maya... even Pearls and Gumshoe. I've got good friends. It's not all me.”
Miles manages a half-smile as he looks across at Phoenix; he doesn't need to see the flush of embarrassment - the unconscious rubbing at his neck providing all the information Miles needs. He watches the movement of Phoenix's hand across the wooden slats of the table absently, his brow furrowed a little in thought. And he looks down at his own hands, folded in front of him, a fleeting memory of cold metal against his palm, the smell of gunpowder and sweat. Seventeen years and two lifetimes ago and he can barely remember the person he was then, not any more - just the fear, and the numbness, and what he had become under Von Karma's tutelage.
“Perhaps events may not have happened in quite the same way, but you would still be the same Phoenix Wright, regardless.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Phoenix waits for a few seconds before he pulls his hand back, a bit embarrassed that the gesture was missed... or perhaps he had ignored it. Still, watching him... he was probably thinking, for a change.
“Anyway... you're still Edgeworth. I've learned a lot from you.”
The slight hesitation in Phoenix's voice catches his attention and he looks up to find those blue eyes on him; another almost-smile that Miles can't read, and the unease returns.
There's a searching look at Phoenix that lingers for a few moments before his expression hardens a little and he glances away to the side. Edgeworth. He knew now why Manfred had insisted that he keep the name and use it daily. His father's name, that he had shamed and dishonoured with lies and deceit for fifteen years.
And yet. "You're still Edgeworth". It was Phoenix's answer to everything - to why he had insisted on defending him when the evidence indicated his guilt; to why he believed Miles could never have killed his father, even when he himself believed it to be true. Why he'd forgiven him enough for that note to hear out his reasons and take him at his word during the Engarde trial. Why Phoenix had trusted him and no one else to stand up in court for Iris, even though he was a prosecutor with no defence experience.
He shakes his head a little, still avoiding Phoenix's eyes.
“It's just a name, Phoenix. That's all.”
He tries to meet Miles' eyes but even when he can't, a small smile creeps onto Phoenix’s face.
“Just a name?”
In one fluid movement he pushes back from the table, dropping to one knee on the deck and brandishing his left hand at Miles, palm upwards.
“Thou art thyself, though not an Edgeworth. What's Edgeworth? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name!”
There's a long moment when Miles just stares blankly back at him, before it entirely sinks in. Then he glances round, half embarrassed, as if anyone might be watching or listening. But there is only Pess, who stands up and shakes, as if he can't quite believe his eyes either. A moment more, when he's entirely at a loss how to respond, looking down at Phoenix while irritation and amusement chase through his mind.
Phoenix chuckles, resting his outstretched arm on his left knee and watching the emotions flicker across Miles' face .
“Very funny, Wright - I'm sure you were an unforgettable Juliet.”
And then Phoenix smiles - that smile, with those dancing eyes, and Miles looks away for a moment, knowing that he's being made fun of and knowing too that he probably deserves it. When he looks back he shakes his head, muttering under his breath.
“Idiot.”
But he knows that the force of it is lost in a smile of his own that he can't disguise and he covers his face with a hand as the laughter follows. Damn the man.
“Unforgettable? Yeah, I'm sure you could call it that. ...But the dress was nice. It brought out my eyes.”
Phoenix stands up, laughing when Miles does. These were his favorite moments, honestly, just to be together and to see him happy.
“Nah, actually, I got to play Romeo. Between that and English Lit., I know pretty much the whole damn play.”
Pess pads across the deck, claws clicking against the wood and tail waving at the laughter; pausing briefly to nudge Phoenix's leg before settling next to Miles, chin on his lap and brown eyes watching him curiously.
And Miles laughs a little more, scratching Pess's ears and looking up at Phoenix, an eyebrow arched at the information. He rests his own chin on his hand - everything forgotten for a moment except for Phoenix, and Pess, and the moonlight, and the sound of the ocean in his ears and the smell of it on the breeze.
And for that moment he can almost remember what it was like - what he was like. Nine years old, laughing and breathless in the tree at Phoenix's house. Larry, perched in the V where a branch meets the trunk just above, feet dangling in Miles' face as he calls out instructions. And Phoenix below, the anxious look dissolving into one of eager anticipation as he waits his turn.
And then it's gone - but the echo of it remains, and he looks directly at Phoenix, a strange mixture of nostalgia and loss rushing in to fill the void.
“I'm sorry that I was never able to see you on stage.”
Phoenix reaches down for a moment, ruffling the fur on Pess's head and flopping his ears about in a rough gesture.
He smiles for a moment, genuinely happy, and shrugs, scratching at his scalp a bit.
“Hey, you might. You never know.”
His expression softens for a moment, and he meets Miles' eyes.
“I don't really miss it, though. I'm just glad that things turned out the way they did.”
Even Miles can sense Phoenix's happiness - read it in his eyes - and there's an inescapable feeling of contentment that washes over him in response. Not for the first time, he wonders at Phoenix's ability to find such apparent pleasure in his company, but that does not diminish his gladness for it, and for now, the last remnants of tension from the morning ebb away.
He returns the smile, gaze not leaving Phoenix, not wanting to miss a moment of the happiness that shines through in his eyes. Then his eyes drop to the t-shirt again, to the faded wording etched across the front before he meets Phoenix's eyes again and there's a slight frown, just for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.
“You honestly prefer the law?”
Phoenix looks directly at him when he says it, smiling halfway.
“No... I prefer you." The words are said as soon as he thinks of them, and there's a wide smile after he does. “I've helped my friends more now than if I had gone into acting. It's better this way. ...Besides, I can't say it's been boring.”
There's a lurch in Miles’s stomach at the smile and at the words and he immediately looks away, back down at Pess, cursing inwardly at himself for the reaction and almost despising himself for the sentimentality of it. The morning's events are suddenly fresh in his mind again; that combination of misgiving and inadequacy that had stolen away any response and driven him to his work. He shakes his head, as much to clear it as to deny the words, and he doesn't look up.
“Better for us, certainly,” Miles finally manages.
He remembers his own childhood ambitions - that keen desire to follow in his father's footsteps as a defence attorney that he had put aside for someone else, only to live to regret it fifteen years later. And there's another shake of the head as he looks up, finally, a half-smile to accompany his words.
“I am at least reassured by the knowledge that I have provided you with a source of entertainment. I should hate to think that you weren't happy in your work.”
“If I wasn't happy, I wouldn't be doing it. Sure, it's tough sometimes, but that's just the way it is.”
Phoenix steps back, grinning as he flops down into the chair he'd abandoned a few moments before.
“...And yeah, you've been a laugh a minute, Miles.”
Pess gets to his feet when Phoenix sits; another shake that breaks the silence with the jingle of his tags against his collar. Then he shifts under the table, resuming his sitting position, but transferring his attention to Phoenix.
Miles laughs, pushing himself up and out of the chair. His face is expressionless for a moment, watching Phoenix as he talks - those blue eyes dark in the half-light but still like a barometer to Miles, a window into Phoenix's thoughts that he's well aware he relies far too heavily on. And then it dissolves into a withering glance.
“Very funny, Wright. If it's any consolation, I can't say that I found your company particularly enthralling to begin with, either.”
And he moves around the table, crossing the deck back towards the open French windows, hesitating and then pausing beside Phoenix for a moment. He puts out a hand, resting it briefly on his shoulder; the soft, worn material of the t-shirt between his fingers as he glances down at the words across it again.
And there's a smile that curves his lips as his eyes seek Phoenix's, that memory of the morning's breakfast fading again in favour of others, confused and yet more vivid.
"Wir umarmen uns. Ich fasse reichen stoff, du fassest armen."**
Phoenix turns at the hand on his shoulder, looking up for a moment and meeting the gaze before closing his eyes briefly when Miles speaks.
“I will never forget what you did for me, Phoenix.”
And he would have said more, but he can't find the words and he shrugs, turning back slowly towards the door.
Phoenix takes a breath as he opens his eyes. There's just something about the way he speaks, the words flowing in an almost surprising way, far from the guttural muttering he'd expected German to be. He catches Miles' wrist and pulls him back lightly, amused.
“That's nice... but what the fuck does it mean?”
For a moment Miles tenses at the fingers tightening on his wrist; his own hand reflexively closing into a fist in response; the instinct to pull away manifesting itself as a sensation of hot needles pricking his skin. But the logical part of him knows that Wright is being deliberately gentle; that the tug is considerably less rough, less insistent than it could have been, and the resultant response is as much driven by desire as by aversion. There's a moment of concentration, a light breath as he turns back, his face calm, just the shadow of a smirk lurking in his eyes.
“You really should make the effort to learn another language, Wright. You need to expand your horizons.”
And he chuckles, then, disengaging himself with a quick movement of his wrist, twisting it out of Phoenix's grasp almost with a flourish.
“Besides, I thought you were the student of literature?”
And there's a quick smirk as he moves away, his bare feet silent on the deck; the light curtains billowing out as he pushes them to one side and steps indoors.
“Yeah, English lit. Are you going to teach me?”
Miles pauses just inside the doorway for a moment, his hand resting on the glossy wood of the frame as he thinks it over. There's a small shrug, and he doesn't look back at Phoenix when he shakes his head, half-smiling as he wonders what the hell he's letting himself in for.
“...Vielleicht - wenn du lernst möchten.”
Then he laughs again with a sideways smirk in Phoenix's direction as he disappears inside the villa.
More German, and it's halfway infuriating to Phoenix that he can't understand it. Halfway. There's that odd glint in Miles' eyes that had been intimidating once. Now, Phoenix only smiles, raising his eyebrows and grinning at the look.
He gets to his feet and follows across the deck, Pess managing to trot through the door past him. Phoenix finally parts the curtain and stops, casting a quick glance in Miles' direction and pointing towards the living room.
“Pess. Bed.”
The dog obediently follows the gesture, tag jingling as he circles his bed a few times before laying down.
His hand still on the door handle, there's a smirk to Miles before Phoenix steps forward into the villa, pulling the door shut behind him and cutting off the beach and steady drone of the surf.
** "We embrace. Rich cloth under my fingers, while yours touch poor fabric." (Bertholt Brecht - 'Parting')