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Miles Edgeworth’s mother was a long haired Angora, his father a defense attorney. Do not inquire as to the physics of love and creation, therein lies madness. It is enough to know that Miles was the fruit born of their affection and for several years they were as happy as kittens together. Alas, there are many differences between humans and cats, and one such unhappiness is the disparity in their lifespan.
“It is enough to know that he will have your years,” Miles’ mother said quite sensibly before passing away at a ripe old age as a pampered, elderly cat when Miles was five. Gregory Edgeworth vowed never to marry again, devoting himself fully to the care of his only son. This was an important task, as Miles would need to be homeschooled until he learned the art of hiding his ears and tail until he was home and had taken his shoes off.
“Father, I have made friends,” Miles announced one day, several months into his public school debut.
“Is that so?” Gregory asked, distracted by the deposition he was reviewing at his desk. “More than one?”
“Two.” Miles peered over the side of the desk, his tail swishing from side to side.
“And how did you manage that?” Gregory lifted his paperwork out of the way just in time; Miles pounced on the desk, rolling over until he sat at the edge, preventing Gregory from continuing his work until due attention was paid. Gregory, also a sensible man, set his paperwork aside for now.
“Fighting tyranny.”
“Good work,” Gregory murmured, scratching Miles behind the ears affectionately. “I find that is the most effective way myself.”
Miles had meant to keep his cat-ness a secret, truly he did. It was nothing more serious than the common cold that undid him. Ill and spiking a fever, Miles stayed home from school one day. Gregory, after much assurance and coddling and warming of soups, was obliged to return to the courthouse. In his absence, Larry and Phoenix came by with Miles’ homework, well wishes, and a pack of Signal Samurai ice pops to share. After a brief round of rock paper scissors, Larry the Loser had to go and fetch napkins before Miles would let them open the popsicles in his bedroom. As soon as Larry stepped into the hall, Miles sneezed.
pop!
Weak from the fever and accustomed to having ears-out-and-shoes-off, Miles briefly lost control. Phoenix stared at his soft grey ears and nervously swishing tail, mouth half open. Miles felt his own eyes fill with unhappy tears. He had been something of a crybaby at that age, but then he had reason to cry. He had broken his promise, he had jeopardized his friendships, and he didn’t feel good to begin with. Everything, Miles thought, was most terrible.
A shuffling little step step step came from the hallway and just before Larry burst through the door, Phoenix pulled off his baseball cap and crammed it onto Miles’ head, quickly yanking the covers up over Miles to hide his tail. Then Phoenix leaned back in his seat as Larry clamored in, innocently rummaging through the box of ice pops for a blue raspberry.
“Your hair looks dumb,” Larry informed Phoenix solemnly. “What’s he got your hat for?”
“Stupid, don’t you know all your heat goes out of your head and feet? He needs to stay wrapped up and warm to get better,” Phoenix said, not looking up. “Here Miles, you want strawberry?”
They never did speak of it, right up until Gregory’s death and Miles’ move halfway across the world. Still, as Miles became as cool and catty a prosecutor as Von Karma could hope for, he never quite forgot. His mother had told him once that she had known very early that his father was the person for her. If Miles had ever deserved a person, he had hoped it might be someone like Phoenix: impulsively, instinctively kind. That time had passed, however. The letters he set aside unopened, as hidden and hurtful as his tucked in claws.
It was not difficult to hide his feline nature in his new captivity. There was no cause to purr. He learned to clutch his shoulder to keep from scratching the furniture. Catnip was a distraction and a weakness. Soon, even in solitude the physical markers of his true nature were suppressed. When he came to LA to escape Von Karma as surely as a cat escaping from a half open screen door, he even tried once in the shower to bring his ears and tail back. It was no use. They were gone.
Miles met Phoenix again over the dratted Fey case. Mia Fey was determined to cause trouble for him, even unto her death. She had always struck him as a dog person. He was busy for a time there, arguing his case and half heartedly trying to get Phoenix convicted. Wright, he had to remind himself. Not Phoenix, Wright, Wright, Wright. Wright could not be Phoenix any more than Miles could be a cat. He had thought all forgotten until he sneezed halfway through the Powers case at the terrible smell of the unwashed steak plates and Wright turned to stare at him with alarm. His hands reached out even across the courtroom, as though he could cover Miles from view through sheer will.
So he did remember.
Miles, of course, pretended to remember nothing - in the way a cat might pretend not to remember he is not permitted on the kitchen countertop. Phoenix, for it was Phoenix and always would be no matter how he pretended otherwise, gave Miles a shining chance after the Gant case. Miles could not bear to be domesticated. He fled.
Upon his return, Phoenix became surly and sour. Miles had scratched him clear across the heart. Even after the trial and Maya’s safe return, the spot was a sore one.
“Come to dinner,” Miles asked impulsively. “I’ll order in and we can talk.”
“Alright,” Phoenix agreed, though he looked a little regretful at the speed of his response afterward. “If you’re buying,” he added belatedly, attempting reluctance.
“I am,” Miles said.
They had a fine dinner of swordfish with herbed butter, creamed new vegetables and wine brewed delicately with the aroma of catmint. Miles did not even know himself the full nature of his affections until afterward, when he and Phoenix adjoined to the study for a second after-dinner drink and Miles realized how desperately he wanted to be kissed. Paralyzed by the desire to rub his face against his dinner guest and the certain knowledge that such an action would be improper in the extreme, Miles watched Phoenix slowly tour the room, glass in hand. Nestled behind the picture of his father on the mantle was a smaller frame, one precious in every way. It had been a remnant of his father’s agency, and not even Shields had known its significance when he had kept it. It was Miles’ greatest treasure. Phoenix drew it out at once, running as ever on pure instinct.
Phoenix looked at the photo of the lovely white cat sprawled across the garden bench, gazing up at the camera with an inscrutable expression.
“You have her eyes,” Phoenix said. Then he looked up - and startled.
Miles felt the tear slip down the side of his face. Unlike him these days, but then he had reason to cry.
“Miles,” Phoenix said, putting the portrait of Miles’ mother down. He gazed at Miles with unashamed longing. It was the look of a man who might fall in love with a cat.
Miles nodded a wordless answer to an unasked question, blinking away the tears even as his grey ears flattened against the top of his head, tail flickering back and forth with the agitation of his own great love. Phoenix sat on the reading couch with his legs outstretched, arms open. Miles joined him, the need to be petted and adored outweighing his self conscious cat pride. The quiet was only broken by Phoenix’s mouth pressing kisses against his skin and his own rusty rumble purr. Everything, Miles thought, was most wonderful.