Chapter Text
It was 4:37 in the evening and Miles had a now cooling cup of rose tea sitting on his desk. Wright failed to call him. Everyday, in a small period that was 4:10 to 4:25, Wright would call him on the way home from Belrose’s School of Arts and Sciences. He would make sure Trucy got her “hi, Uncle Miles!” in before taking the phone away from her and talking to Miles about nothing and everything. Miles took those few minutes to set his work aside and enjoy a cup of tea while he regaled Wright with the tales of his current cases. At 4:37 Wright would arrive home since the school was only twenty minutes away in the worst traffic, and so he was twelve minutes late to call him.
“Twelve minutes,” he said aloud, “twelve insufficient minutes. There are multiple reasons why Wright may have refrained from calling me.”
So he drank his cold tea and went back to work. He was not so weak a man that one day without a call from Wright would hurt him.
Unfortunately, one day turned into four. He had no idea what Wright was up to in those four days. He didn’t visit him in the office or see him for lunch, and he didn’t text him a video showcasing one of Trucy’s new tricks (apparently, she deemed Miles one of the few worthy of seeing them in their trial stages) or sheepishly asking for help for a 4th grader’s homework. It was nearing a week of zero contact with the man and he would be lying if he said his anxiety wasn’t creeping up on him. It was probably something mundane. It could also be something catastrophic. His tea ran cold all these days as he waited for the Steel Samurai theme to go off and finally hear Phoenix’s blessed voice.
It was seven days into this lapse of contact that he took matters into his own hands by calling Maya. Their acquaintanceship slowly developed into a genuine friendship as he entertained her as one of the few guests in his office and home. They had a surprising number of hobbies that overlapped: Steel Samurai was a given, which she came around on Saturdays to watch. Since they played lots of board games and chess at Kurain to pass time, Maya could give him a run for his money on the right days.
She also knew something about him that his own sister was still ignorant of. Three years ago he learned that the Fey clan hosted only the most enigmatic of people. That was why Maya Fey, Wright’s animated assistant, came into his office a mere five days after the Dusky Bridge incident and sheepishly asked if he would like to watch a Steel Samurai DVD with her.
The young woman was a puzzle, one he wasn’t sure even Wright could decode, but her presence in his home was strangely grounding and reminded him of Wright in many ways. She was obsessed with the luxury he appeared to live in (no doubt it was the most modern home she’d ever seen) and couldn’t keep herself from playing with every “smart” device she came across, whether it be the TV or his refrigerator. She begged him to order from a burger joint fourty miles away rather than his favorite steakhouse, and after a heated battle in the throes of hunger they agreed that pizza would suffice. Every time she saw Pess it was the first time; she gasped and hurried over to give her a scratch behind the ears.
He never understood why Wright kept her around. Having a fluctuating relationship with his own sibling, the bond they had looked strange from afar, but it only took one night with her to grasp why Wright fell off a bridge for Maya Fey. She was a beam of light that pierced the darkness. A strong-minded, capable, and ever-spirited young woman. Perhaps that was why he allowed her to coax him into bringing out a bottle of wine against his better judgement. Perhaps that was why he allowed her to ask about Wright.
The DVD she had was a series of special episodes that he never got to watch as a child. In them, the Evil Magistrate and Steel Samurai have a once-in-a-lifetime team up as they find out who captured the Evil Magistrate’s family, suggesting that there is a sinister power even greater than he. Maya laughed and commented that it reminded her of him and Wright. When he asked her to explain her reasoning, she just smiled and said, “well, what do you think you two are?”
“Friends,” he told her, taking a sip of his white wine.
“Do friends usually tell each other, ‘Phoenix Wright, don't ever show your face in front of me again!’”
He felt his face heat up, mortified. Why did she remember the exact words that he said? He coughed and nursed his glass again, willing the alcohol to erase his embarrassment. “Yes, our relationship was strained at first. I viewed him as an obstacle to my once unmarred record, and he viewed me as a case to solve,” he paused for a note, then added “he accomplished that in the resolution of the DL-6 trial. I still have dreams about him, you know.”
It took ten seconds for it to dawn on him that he just admitted to having dreams involving Phoenix Wright. Unfortunately, before he could dismiss it, Maya asked, “What does he do in your dreams?”
It was eighteen years since the DL-6 incident, which meant eighteen years of nightmares to endure. He relived the day he believed he killed his father over and over at least three times a month. They increased in frequency and severity when the snowmen were propped up and the season of merriment began. Three years ago they took on a new rhythm, instead focusing on his harrowing experience at the defendant’s stand and how close he was to the jaws of injustice.
That is, until Wright shattered his entire worldview and saved him from certain demise at Von Karma’s hands. “He’s my…savior, of sorts. Protecting me from the big bad Von Karma,” he huffed, “I know it sounds silly, but I like them better than the dreams I had before.”
They were still nightmares, of course. He woke up in a cold sweat and had to convince himself that it was 2019, long since the subject of his horror. Maya regarded him with a small frown and set her cocktail down on the coffee table. “You should tell him,” she suggested.
Miles choked on his wine. “What?” Maya shrugged in response.
“Dreams have meaning, y’know.”
“Meaning? What do you—oh, you’re a spirit medium,” he groaned. He could admit that he was more inclined to believe in some parts of the supernatural after the events he witnessed a week ago in Iris’s trial, but he had no intentions of using that knowledge. The Feys were the only ones who interacted with the supernatural, and he was not involved with the Feys. Ergo, he need not concern himself with any manner of mystical occurrence.
His dreams did not mean anything.
“...Elaborate,” he told her.
She snickered, “it took you five seconds to crack.”
“Tell me, Miss Fey, since I believe you will insist regardless.” If she had an objection to that statement, she didn’t say. She picked up her cocktail again and swished the drink around, peering into the orange depths as she thought.
“Well, I’ll preface this by saying not all dreams have meaning. Sometimes they really are nonsense,” she clarified, “however, if you always had dreams about the DL-6 incident, and now Phoenix has been added to the story for three or so years…then something isn’t finished.”
Miles canted his head, silently inviting her to continue. She cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink. “You want something from him.”
Miles furrowed his brows. “My relationship with Wright is one I am most content with. He is a dear friend, one I will cherish for as long as I can—”
“Your relationship,” she blurted, standing up straight, “you want more out of your relationship with him!”
The color drained from his face. He practically slammed his wine glass on the tea table, averting his gaze from her. It was true; he wanted more from Wright. While their relationship had taken a turn for the better ever since that damned trial, there was something he missed about being defended by Wright.
The intimacy. That was what he missed. For a few days, Miles Edgeworth was special to Phoenix Wright. Even if that compassion was extended to others after him, all he could think about was how he was on the forefront of Wright’s mind, the sole receiver of his attention. How he was wanted by the man of his affections. It was, in a morbid sense, the most emotionally connected he ever felt to the man.
She pressed on. “I’m right, aren’t I?” When he didn’t reply, she snapped, “You’re in love with Nick.”
He’d been in love ever since Wright stood before him in the detention center, demanding to represent him. He managed to send him away, but he knew he would return with renewed vigor. In only two cases he’d shown he would go to the moon and back for his client. When his client was also a childhood friend? There was no way in the world he could keep Wright away from his case. Inwardly, he was aware he was on the precipice of falling in love. If he allowed Wright to represent him, he would dive into it headfirst.
And dive into he did, chartering a private jet when he heard the sensational news that Wright could be on his deathbed.
“...Yes,” he admitted with a sigh, palming his face. He could hardly blame her for coming to that conclusion if he was that easy to read. “I suppose this is my fault. I asked for your input.”
“And my input you received. You should tell him about your feelings. Or the dreams, at least.”
Miles couldn’t help the snark in his tone when he said, “the dreams? ‘Wright, I have something to confess to you. Ever since you defended me you have been the shining knight of my dreams, swooping in to save the day.’”
“Yeah,” Maya said, and her tone was shockingly genuine, “just, tell him. You don’t have to make it romantic at all.”
“But why?” He sounded far more whiny than he meant to be. “Why would I let this be known? What harm is there in keeping my fantasies to myself?”
Maya’s face turned red. “Well, if you say they’re ‘fantasies,’ then maybe not.”
That night was the single most embarrassing moment of his life. At the same time, knowing that someone else held this knowledge made it less difficult to bear. He could always tell Maya to tell Wright and deal with the rejection later rather upfront. Recalling how Kurain had a phone booth, it didn’t surprise him that Pearl was the one who answered him at 4:45 that Friday afternoon, and she made short work of getting Maya on the other end instead.
“Mystic Maya,” he ground out. Maya squeaked.
“Oh, God, is that the equivalent of my government name? What did Nick do this time?” What did Nick do this time, indeed. While calling Maya herself was rare for him, when he reached out it was to make plans, and by now he managed to calm down his “stuffiness,” as Maya called it, and simply referred to her by her first name. This situation called for some of that conventional behavior, however.
“I haven’t heard from him in a few days. We usually talk every evening while he walks Trucy from school. It hasn’t been raining, so she doesn’t need to take the bus, and…are you—are you laughing?” There was no doubt about it, Maya Fey was tickled to tears by his distress. He wasn’t sure whether to feel more hurt or insulted by the transgression.
“Nick hasn’t spoken to you in a few days and you’re freaking out? C’mon, Miles, you’re supposed to be more composed than…oh, shit.” Her voice dropped down an octave. What did Nick do this time?
“Maya?” He probed. He could hear her breathing but she failed to reply. “Tell me now or Larry will have to be the messenger.”
Background noise, breathing. A hitch in her voice. “He’s, uh, staying at Larry’s, actually.”
Miles forced himself not to snort at that answer, instead opting for a clipped “it’s a bit early to be telling jokes, Maya.”
“No jokes, sorry. Money is short,” she explained.
What an euphemism, “money is short.” It was enough for him to understand that Wright could no longer pay the bills by himself, but didn’t come close to revealing the gravity of the situation. Miles had offered him respite time and time again, but he dug his heels into the ground and swore he was an independent man. He didn’t care how good of a poker player that fool thought he was, it was no job to depend on with a little girl to take care of.
“...please don’t yell at him,” Maya pleaded. He released the vice grip he had on his desk, one he wasn’t even aware was there, and took in a deep breath.
“I will not yell at him,” he told her. It was the truth. As much as he may have wanted to, he was more likely to alienate Wright than help him with brutal honesty in this instance, so he would remain calm. Assertive without resorting to biting. He would bark, if only to coax Wright onto the desired path.
After all, he did have two guest rooms complete with their own individual bathrooms, an office, a small gym, and a patio and pool. “I will talk to him later. Good evening, Maya.”
“Right. Good luck,” she said, and he wondered if a spirit medium’s blessing was worth something.
Maya once made a note that spirits have a tendency to wander around people they were close to while alive (or their descendants, and if without those, wherever in the world life was the best). She mentioned this to say that Gregory was probably watching over him, and when he asked she smiled and said yes, he was proud of the man he had become.
His father was aware of his inclination toward men—he made it very clear even as a child, refuting all the silly goads from family members about having a “girlfriend” and openly ogling at shirtless men. He seemed fine with it, albeit he did discourage the staring. What would he think of Miles now, inviting his closest friend and companion not for just an over-the-weekend sleepover, but to stay indefinitely?
You’ve waited long enough, is probably what he would say, and Miles agreed. If Wright didn’t agree to this, then he would weasel his way into Trucy’s schedule and offer it to the girl herself. “A pool?” she would gasp, imagining all of the aqua-related tricks she could pull. “A patio?” she would squeal, now able to bring her equipment out of the hallway and give them real room to breathe in. And then she would go home to Wright and tell him about this amazing offer she heard from Uncle Miles and oh, he loved that girl, she had Wright wrapped around her mystical little fingers. They would be moved in by Monday.
That was if he had to go to Trucy, however. Disbarment has had the dual effect of making Wright both more stubborn and more mellow. With his schedule freed up, he has no day job as an excuse to keep Miles from dragging him to the prosecutor’s office to discuss a case with him. At the same time, he would huff and puff when Miles dared to put his card on the check.
He had his ways of contacting Trucy in any case. He decided to call Wright while he gave Pess her evening walk since he would be in a better mood. As Maya requested, he would try not to yell at the man. God knows that Wright could break down his sensibilities when he put his mind to it, though.
Wright picked up twenty-three seconds into the phone ringing. “Phoenix Wright,” he greeted, and Miles could practically hear the grin over the phone.
“Miles Edgeworth,” he replied, well aware that the greeting made fun of one of his many formal habits. He sat down on a bench and coaxed Pess into his lap, knowing that he might need her comfort for this conversation. “You’ve been staying at Larry’s?”
“Uh…” Just like that, the grin was gone, most likely replaced with some expression of shock, then anger, and finally fear. The man was surprisingly expressive in his rapid breathing. “Yeah, for a week now.”
As much as Miles wanted the details, pursuing them over a phone call was futile. “I have two guest rooms complete with their own individual bathrooms, an office, a small gym, and a patio and pool. You can be moved in by Monday. I would help with the move.”
“Wow.” If he didn’t know any better, he would have said there was a note of wonder in Wright’s tone. “You aren’t…screaming at me for losing my job—” Losing his job? “—you’re just getting right to the case? Wow, Edgeworth, did Maya put something in your coffee this morning?”
While Wright was talented at the art of deflection, he steeled himself to the insult, allowing the warm lump of fur beneath him soothe him onto the right track. “Are you moving in or not, Wright? I’ll have to childproof my home for Trucy.”
“She’s not that young,” he protested, still not answering the question.
Miles sighed, “Phoenix.”
“Miles.”
“Goodnight. I’ll come by to pick you up Monday evening at approximately 6:30. Be packed by then.” With those parting words, he hung up.