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Miles Edgeworth had been doing his best not to fall asleep around other people since he was nine years old.
Nightmares were incriminating, or they were embarrassing, and in either case they begged questions Miles had no desire to answer. A perk of the von Karma estate, and later a high prosecutor’s paycheque, was that private accommodations were easy to come by. Long-haul flights were a marathon endured through willpower, judicious layovers and inadvisable amounts of caffeine.
Once upon a time, when Franziska was still young enough to fear monsters in the dark but wise enough to hide such weakness from her father, there were rare nights she’d barge into his room and climb into his bed. Miles would read to her until she fell asleep correcting his German, and then he’d keep reading until the first hint of dawn peeked through the curtains and he could send Franziska back to her own room.
Miles hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since.
And yet now, here he was, ensnared in a trap of his own making. Franziska would call him a fool, and she’d be right—he’d acted on rare impulse, his judgment impaired by selfishness as much as compassion, and he was paying the price.
Phoenix Wright was in Miles’ hotel room, sound asleep in Miles’ bed.
Frozen with indecision, Miles stood at the foot of the bed and considered his options. What about his clothes? The silk pajama set hanging neatly in the closet mocked him. Off the table. Wright would laugh them both to death. With a mournful sigh for all the ironing he’d need done, Miles shucked the jacket and the waistcoat. He tugged the cravat loose, undid the top button of his dress shirt and took hesitant steps toward the main dilemma of the evening.
Now what? It would be strange if Wright woke up the next morning to find Miles asleep in the chair or the bathtub like a teenager on a school trip. Could he pull off an all-nighter? No, Wright was too perceptive. He was bound to be suspicious. Worst of all, he might begin to fret.
Getting into bed with Wright was the only option. Getting into bed with Wright was unthinkable.
“You gonna lay down, or do prosecutors sleep standing up?” Wright’s voice cut through the darkness.
Miles recoiled in surprise, banging his elbow against the balcony door. “Nnngh. I thought you were asleep!”
“I was.” The gravelly sound of Wright’s voice corroborated his story, as did the groggy way he propped himself up on his elbow and scrubbed at his eyes. “But I can leave if you want. I feel better now.”
“No,” Miles heard himself say before he’d consciously formed the thought. “No need.”
Then his brain continued the evening’s quiet rebellion, and he found himself pulling back the sheets and crawling into bed with Phoenix Wright.
“...Okay,” said Wright, uncertainty bringing out his courtroom stupor. “If you say so.”
Miles settled onto his back quickly, folding his hands on his stomach. His eyes locked on the same ceiling water stain he’d stared at every sleepless night, whenever fatigue rendered his vision too fuzzy for his notes to be of any use.
Wright lowered himself back down to his pillow, eyes boring into the side of Miles’ head. Miles’ cheeks burned under the scrutiny. Evidently Wright had a knack for making a very large bed feel very small.
This was fine, Miles reminded himself. This had been his idea. As he’d told Wright earlier, it was a king-sized bed, after all. Plenty of room. Besides, Wright already knew the secrets lurking behind Miles’ sleepless nights. Wright was the one who’d helped exorcise the worst of those demons years ago, he’d understand, he was kind, he—
He was laughing right now. Wright was laughing.
“Exactly what is so funny?” Miles demanded, head snapping to the side so he could level Wright with a proper glare.
“Sorry,” said Wright, still chuckling, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I was just thinking—I haven’t seen your bare neck since we were kids.” His grin was visible even with his face half-sunken into the pillow. “I was starting to worry you were like that girl from the story.”
“What girl?” Miles’ hands crept higher up his chest as discreetly as they could, holding the open bit of his shirt closed. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, the girl with the ribbon.” When Miles said nothing—he certainly didn’t know, thank you very much—Wright continued, “She always wears a ribbon around her neck, until one day her husband unties it and her head falls off.”
Miles wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Wright’s grin turned sheepish. “It’s from a kid’s book.”
“Of course. Only the finest literature for you,” said Miles dryly. He turned back to face the ceiling, pointedly closing his eyes. “Go back to sleep, Wright.”
In the blissful minutes of silence that followed, with his eyes shut tight and his hands clasped together, Miles could almost relax. If he laid very still, at least he might appear relaxed, thereby saving himself any further humiliation. He could spend the rest of the night like this. It was already very late; soon enough the sun would rise, and Wright would be on his way back to Maya, presumably grateful for Miles’ generosity and hopefully oblivious to Miles’ inner turmoil. Not perfect, but salvageable. Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, just as Wright so often—
“Okay, you’re obviously uncomfortable,” said Wright, shattering the mental case Miles had been building with characteristic ease. “I’m gonna go back to my room.”
Miles’ eyes snapped open as Wright sat up. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Please, you’re laying there like Dracula.” Wright swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “It’s okay. I should go back to Maya anyway.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
“I’m fine now, really. Thanks again, Edgeworth.”
A sudden sense of urgency compelled Miles to action. With all the grace of a sea lion he flopped across the bed to grab Wright by the wrist. “Stay.” He lowered his gaze to the sheets but kept hold of Wright’s wrist. “Please.”
Wright froze. Miles swallowed, feeling immensely foolish. He released Wright’s wrist and made space on the bed, focusing hard on the water stain once more.
“Edgeworth?” Wright prompted.
“You were right, earlier,” Miles admitted quietly. “I’ve been… worried.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Wright tuck his legs back up into bed. Miles clutched the duvet in his fist. “I’m not naive. I’ve worked on cases like this before. I know how they usually end.”
Miles had investigated plenty of crime scenes, seen more than his share of bodies. His subconscious had spent the last few weeks dredging up all of them.
The mattress jostled as Wright laid down next to him again. Miles closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Stupid of me,” he said, as lightly as he could. “I might have known if anyone could beat the odds, it would be you.”
Wright was quiet. For a moment, Miles entertained the fantasy that Wright had fallen back to sleep, sparing them both the humiliating agony of this entire conversation. Then the bed creaked again, and a warm hand pressed against Miles’ shoulder.
He opened his eyes. Wright had rolled to face him, expression oddly serious.
“I missed you too,” said Wright.
Miles’ shoulder burned beneath Wright’s palm. His face felt no better. He was abruptly, acutely, painfully aware of where they were—alone together, in his hotel room, in his bed, barely a foot apart. Did Wright notice it too? Could he feel Miles’ heart pounding?
Miles didn’t move. “Thought you were an amnesiac baker for most of it,” he countered.
Wright’s smile was faint in the dark. “Doesn’t matter,” said Wright. “I always miss you when you go.”
Miles’ eyebrows shot up. Despite the late hour, despite weeks of crushing work and sleepless nights, despite the exhaustion that had taken roost in his body—Miles suddenly felt wide awake.
Wright’s expression faltered, like a witness on the stand whose testimony revealed something they hadn’t meant to tell the court.
“Anyway, um, it’s getting really late,” said Wright, withdrawing his hand to run it through his hair. “You definitely need the sleep.” He rolled to his other side. “See you in the morning, Edgeworth.”
Sudden retreat stunned Miles as much as the sudden proximity had. He blinked at the empty space where Wright’s face had been, reeling. Guilt and warmth, awe and shame—leave it to Wright to spawn such a contradictory mess of emotion in Miles’ chest.
Miles rolled over, too, staring at Wright’s back through the dark. His arm stretched out, hand hovering halfway through the gap between them. It had been nice, earlier, to get to be the strong one for once. To feel helpful instead of needy. To…
Of course it hadn’t lasted. Somehow Wright spending the night had become a favour to Miles instead of the other way around. A personalized night light for a boy still scared of the dark.
How embarrassing.
Well, that figured, didn’t it. Wright never let Miles have the upper hand for very long.
Miles withdrew his hand, tucking it close beneath his own chin. “Goodnight, Wright,” he said softly. He let his eyes slip shut. “It’s good to have you back.”
Across the space between them, Wright hummed happy agreement into his pillow.