Chapter Text
When he wakes up, it’s to the scent of freshly brewed coffee, to gray hairs tickling his nose and soft, snuffling breathing into his collarbone, to arms glued limpet-tight around his chest. It’s to the peace and serenity of an early morning without any horrible realisations to be made seconds from waking, old scars settled and too dull to ache as constantly as they once did. He wakes, cuddling his fiancé in the liminal space before their alarms blare to signal the day beginning, and presses a soft kiss to the temple already resting against his lips, not enough to stir Miles from his slumber, but plenty to reassure himself of the love thrumming through his chest, to leave his lips tingling ever-so-slightly.
Life is good. It’s been six months since he was handed his badge back; six months since he and Miles have been able to wear their rings on their fingers, as opposed to around their necks on chains that locked their love tight away, hidden from the world outside. It was enough, at the time, for it to be just the two of them in their bubble, shielded - Phoenix was a target, and so was anyone who came too close. Adopting Trucy had been a risk he shouldn’t have taken, but, well…
Would he be here, without her? Some deep, dark part of him whispers, no, you would never have made it, and he can’t argue with it. She’s so bright, always has been so emphatically brilliant, starlight illuminating all the dark corners of him and sweeping out the cobwebs. She took the husk of a man, broken by so many, over so long, and began to fill it back up with her very own brand of magic (the secret kind, the kind only he sees - the kind filled with so much love that it overflows). Seven years, a lifetime, an eternity - it’s all the same. He’d spend forever and a day protecting her, loving her, raising her; even if his job is all-too-quickly coming to an end. She’s sixteen now, with so much more ahead of her; all the lives she’ll touch, the loves she’ll share and the people she’ll come to lean on. If he thinks about it too hard, he’ll start crying - she’s so wonderful, and she’s growing up, and he’s so, so proud to call himself her father.
She’ll go off to college, pretty soon. Two years, and that’s all, and she’ll be living her own life, away from his; no more good mornings or goodnights, just crackling telephone lines and glitchy video calls, occasional visits always, always over much too quickly.
Some part of him wants to pause time, to keep her how she is, in the here and now, and hold so tight to her that she’ll never leave - but he’s raised a person, with her own wants and needs and passions, and it would break him to see her sacrifice them. He’ll miss her, agonizingly, but he is stable, now, and safe, and he won’t be alone. Never, never again.
Because there’s Miles. Miles, who promised to never run away again. Miles, who holds him so tightly in his sleep he leaves bruises, sometimes, under his shirt. Miles, whose breath is fanning through the collar of his ratty old t-shirt to warm his heart. Phoenix kisses his temple again, just a little more insistent, stroking one hand through the soft gray hair pressed into his cheek. It’s moments like these that remind him how much he nearly lost, so many times. The past seven years may have been Hell on Earth, but if this is the universe in which he’s allowed this moment, then he will never utter a word of complaint. If he truly needed to live through the pain to get here, then he’d live it forever just for another second.
Miles stirs, burying his face further into Phoenix’s chest and pressing a kiss against his sternum. Phoenix crooks a finger under his chin, pushing upward until he can claim that mouth for his own. It’s just a press, at first, smile against sleepy smile, until Miles seems to shake off the remnants of his slumber and hook himself up to straddle Phoenix’s hips, to slide his hands up his chest until they’re carefully tracing the planes of his face. He pulls away, and looks at Phoenix, soft, like he still can’t believe they’re here, sharing a bed at the end of the world; like Phoenix is a gift from God to be treasured, to be cared for and polished until it’s gleaming; like Phoenix is all he has ever wanted, all he has ever needed; like he’s memorising every moment they can steal - a soft smile spreads over Miles’ lips. It looks a little sad, but he dives back in, and Phoenix can’t think about it past the warmth, past Miles’ hands trembling against his jaw, his own working their way around to press against the hard planes of his back, puzzle pieces, magnets, whatever analogies a less love-addled mind could dream up - drawn to each other, the perfect match. Miles peppers kisses from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw, fingers tracing featherlight lines from his cheekbones to his shoulders as he turns his face to press his lips against Phoenix’s pulse, and Phoenix shudders, breathless under the study.
Soon, their alarms will sound. They’ll both cover themselves in their layers of armor, cloak themselves in professionalism and legal knowledge and unending, driven purpose - but not yet. Here, now, they are timeless and meaningless, just together, one against the other. All lazy kisses and sensitive spots, before they hide them away.
Phoenix turns his head, captures those lips again, flicks his tongue until they open up to him. There’s nothing else, just Miles’ hands traversing back down to press his shirt up, to palm the soft skin of his stomach, to play with the short dark hairs that trail down - no expectation, nothing concrete, just feeling, touching, tracing well-known paths over-and-over. He ducks his head, pulls his lips away to kiss Phoenix’s collarbone, wet and messy and imperfect, tongue laving over little nips and leaving a trail up to his shoulder. A promise, hidden under a shirt collar. Miles still struggles, sometimes, to let his love show, to tell the world, too used to hiding it away in a locked box and throwing the key to the sharks. But that’s okay, Phoenix thinks, if they can have this. If they can hold each other, wholly and unremarkably loving, comfort and familiarity in every sure touch. He runs his hands up Miles’ spine, relishes in the shiver he elicits, in the muscles going tense then relaxing, entire body piece-by-piece going slack and pliable under his fingertips.
Whatever heat was building up around them quickly settles to just a wisp, back to the simple ebb and flow of love exchanged back and forth in hands pressed to skin and breath ghosting over bones. The urgency of their youth, of the first touches they traded, back before the disbarment and the strain of long distance, is long-gone - Phoenix knows, now, that Miles won’t slip through his fingers again. The fear that used to well up every time he let Phoenix in is gone, replaced entirely by the simplicity of reliability, and closeness, and love, love, love, with each of their twinned heartbeats. Miles buries his face in the juncture between Phoenix’s neck and shoulder, and just stays there, smiling against the skin.
Beeping starts up from Miles’ side of the bed, and the man himself sighs as he props himself above Phoenix proper, arms braced either side of his head. He dips down to steal one last chaste kiss, before rolling away and slumping off to the shower, leaving Phoenix to lay back against the pillows and just… absorb, process. All of it. Even just the routine - Miles always, always showers first, and then coaxes Phoenix out of bed to do the same (or forces him, depending on the day). He’ll dress and straighten up, brew tea and wrinkle his nose at Trucy’s offer of coffee, and he’ll have breakfast of some kind plated up by the time Phoenix has wrestled with his clothes until they’re mostly on his body. Miles will sigh, and redo Phoenix’s top buttons, and tie his tie for him, and then he’ll kiss him, and the world will be awake. They’ll scatter, off to their own destinations, but first he’ll make sure Phoenix eats, and will attempt to tuck away that one errant lock of hair, even as it springs back out every single morning.
It’s overwhelming. It’s home. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
He curls up under the covers, tries to steal that last few moments of warmth before his day gets kickstarted. If it were up to him, he’d probably stay here, but he knows Miles will pull him out, the unofficial-official banning of depression pits months in the making. He’s an adult, with responsibilities and employees and clients and bills, so he’s got to get up and shower and shave and wear a suit, even when it feels like the world is better off without him.
Every now and then, he just can’t - and Miles understands that, too. When it’s too crippling, when the weight is too much to bear and he feels too small and too large and too much himself to cope, Miles will let him hide, just for a while, in the safety of the self-made cell that can be their bed. But never, ever alone, and never for too long. And that’s love too, in its own way - the allowance for him to be broken, to be less than, but to never let him give in.
He hears the water turn off, and stretches his limbs like a cat in the sun, joints popping like an old man - he is thirty-four, so he’s not that far off. Everyone around him seems to be getting younger, actually - Maya had seemed like a kid way back when they first met, and she still does, but she’s older now than he was then; and then there’s Apollo and Athena, and Trucy, and all of Miles’ gang of prosecutor-children, and if he thinks about it too hard, his head hurts. So he won’t think about it - instead, he’ll let his mind go peacefully blank, and pretend to have fallen asleep so that Miles will have to wake him up with a kiss. Or by very suddenly pulling on his leg until he falls out of bed - really, it’s always a fifty-fifty chance.
Neither happen. Instead, it’s just a soft press of fingertips to his temple, swishing across to push his ever-unruly hair to the side, and then, in that deep, smooth voice, he says, “Phoenix, you need to get up,” and pulls the covers away. The chill that seeps into his bones is instantaneous, and he snaps open his eyes to attempt a glare - it’s wilting, in comparison to Miles’ trademark one, he knows, but it’s as close as he’s gonna get. And then strong fingers wrap around his wrist and pull, and he’s on his feet and moving before he can process the headrush.
Miles Edgeworth, the absolute ruination of his life, kisses his cheek before promptly slamming the bathroom door in his face, and Phoenix doesn’t have two awake and unimpeded brain cells to rub together to even stutter out a response, so he just sighs and goes about his usual morning routine. Step one: stand under the shower spray with his head pressed against the wall for approximately ten minutes; step two: brush teeth, try not to spit toothpaste on the mirror again, Phoenix, keep it in your mouth for goodness’ sake; step three: poke at hair until it mostly resembles something coherent, even if that one bit will never listen and spring out anyway. Step four: leave the bathroom and struggle into a suit that’s actually fitted, unlike the one he was so used to back in the day - Miles insisted, upon his reinstatement, and wouldn’t let Phoenix decline. Sweet, really. Apart from the fact he was so used to wearing loose, easy-wash fabric, and now he has to actually put it on like a normal person, not just pulling it over his head. He has to do more than two buttons now. It’s hell. Plus - he never learned how to tie a tie, so his (lovely, charming, wonderful) fiancé has to do it for him every single morning.
Honestly, he’d be absolutely lost without him, clearly.
He lets a broad, gleaming smile spread across his face as he leaves the bedroom. He won’t be without him anymore. It’s a brilliantly warm feeling, like fire burning him up from the inside out, setting his hair aflame and glittering in the sun, and he suddenly feels ready and raring for the day, if only so he can come home and feel the same smothering comfort again at the end of it.
Miles is standing over the stove, wearing an apron - the one Phoenix bought him, the one that proudly states, “I’m grilling the witness,” in big block letters - and Phoenix slides one hand around his waist, kissing his cheek as he passes to the coffee machine. Pancakes, then - and Miles knows him well, will cook them just right, and will watch him from the corner of his eye until he’s downed at least a couple of bites. Routine, comfort, familiarity.
Trucy’s already eating at an alarming pace, shoving forkful after forkful in her mouth as she scrolls through the laptop in front of her, no doubt searching for the homework that she knows she did, but can’t find. When he sits down, she looks up for a second and says, “Morning, Daddy!” in a bright, sunny voice, through a mouthful of pancake. He spots Miles, out of the corner of his eye, wrinkle his nose and fondly shake his head, but say nothing, and he lets his own smile grow even brighter.
“Mornin’, Truce,” he says, and ruffles her hair even as she scrunches her face up and ducks away. “You got any plans today?”
“Gonna-” she swallows her mouthful, and then smiles a little secretively down at her laptop as she continues to scroll-click-scroll-click, “I was gonna go hang out with Pearly. Y’know, grab dinner or… something.”
Phoenix’s heart leaps in his chest before settling, because God, when did she grow up enough to have a proper crush - but it’s Pearl Fey, not a strange boy or anyone he’d have to threaten with a shovel, so the worry fades and he forces a smile that only comes out slightly strained. “Mmhmm. Home by nine, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy!” she says, and grins up at him, and it’s like he was never concerned at all.
Miles slides a pancake onto the top of the stack in the centre of the table, and then pushes two onto Phoenix’s plate before sitting down, murmuring, “Your homework is on top of the TV cabinet,” conspiratorially to Trucy behind his teacup, the corners of a fond smile just peeking out the sides.
At that, she’s whirlwinding her way out, kissing Miles and then Phoenix on the cheek, slamming her laptop shut and into her rucksack, running to the living room to grab her homework, and out the door shouting, “Love you!” as it slams behind her.
They’re alone again, together, companionable silence stretching between them, just the clinking of forks on plates and Miles’ teacup in its saucer whenever he sets it down. They’ve both been so busy recently, with the trial system overhauls and the entire legal world being reshuffled to weed out corruption from its ranks - Miles moreso, the title of Chief Prosecutor incredibly well-earned but weighing on him all the same. They haven’t had many days off since Phoenix’s reinstatement, nor much uninterrupted time together, and as much as it’s worth it to see the passion that both of them share become something more worthwhile than ever, he’s missed this. Just the peaceful, calm moments, together, just sharing the space and living.
Miles reaches across the table and takes his hand briefly, giving him a soft smile - and there’s that glint of sadness again that Phoenix can’t identify - and then he turns away, taking the dishes to the sink. There isn’t time to dissect it, really, nor does he want to, so he just stands up, sidles up behind Miles and wraps his arms around his waist, trying to infuse the touch with all the love he could possibly show. It’s seven a.m. on a Friday morning, they are thirty-four years old and in love, Miles’ ring glints under the water as he rinses a plate free of suds, and they are home, as they always are in each other’s arms, in their shared apartment, in this city that raised them both and tore them down and fought them as they clambered back up.
He presses a kiss to the fabric of Miles’ suit jacket, feels him still, and then bend slightly to dry his hands on the towel beneath the sink, not leaving the circle of his arms as he turns to take Phoenix’s face in both of his hands. He says, “We need to be leaving, Phoenix,” but his eyes flick down to his lips anyway.
“C’mon, Miles. Just five minutes,” he retorts, and they’re getting closer. “No one’s gonna sue us.”
Miles lets go a shaky sigh, but he leans in - as kisses go, it’s not heated, or passionate, or urgent; just easily, persistently soft, as if Miles is trying to commit every second to memory. Long, careful fingers ghost across the barely-there freckles on Phoenix’s cheekbones, across the tiny scar under his eye from the bridge, across every little imperfection that Miles tells Phoenix he loves . It feels like forgiveness. It feels like grief. It’s heartbreaking and heartmending and warm, and as Miles pulls away to rest their foreheads together, eyes still closed, Phoenix nearly misses him say, “I’m so proud of you, Phoenix.”
His head spins, dizzy and giddy, and he grins. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. More than you know,” Miles says, breathing just a little unsteady if he listens close enough, even as he begins to pull away and those fingers redirect to tie Phoenix’s tie. When it’s done, he pats the knot, once, and then leans in to press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, to murmur in his ear, “I love you.”
So, yeah. Life is good. And Phoenix Wright goes to work, a fully-licensed lawyer, riding high on that rush of warmth.