Archive of Our Own

If Phoenix didn’t have a sparkly blue lunch box in a cute-but-impractical heart shape to pack, Larry Butz would be dead meat. He swipes his phone on his way to shuffle around for a square container that fits in a heart shaped hole. Holding it with his shoulder makes his neck hurt immediately. “Why are you awake?”

“Not gonna lie, I didn’t think you were gonna pick up,” Larry replies. “Why are you awake?”

“It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m a single father.” Phoenix finds a good Tupperware container and places a fresh PB&J sandwich inside. Trucy passes by with a braid that reeks of bedhead. He grabs the hair brush abandoned on the kitchen table and follows after her. “You still didn’t answer my question. I thought you usually slept until one.”

“Screw sleeping!” declares the guy who slept through homeroom at least two times a month when they were in middle school. “I made it to six months!”

Phoenix winces at the microphone clipping aggressively in his ear. Trucy sees him with the hair brush and scurries to the nearest chair. Most twelve year old girls probably don’t want their parents doing their hair at that age, least of all their dads. So he feels pretty lucky when she plops into her seat and hands him the hair tie. With all the magic shows and spirit mediums he’s been enlisted to do hair for, he would like to think he’s gotten pretty good at it.

“Six months of what?” Phoenix asks. He pauses weaving the strands of Trucy’s hair to pluck out a piece of fuzz from the carpet.

“Dating my awesome girlfriend! Duh! What else?”

It is true that Larry is incapable of having long term goals unless there’s a hot woman involved. They made a deal once: Larry can only introduce Phoenix to a girlfriend after he’s dated her for a whole six months. Any introductions before Phoenix put his foot down were tainted by the knowledge that the woman across from them would probably break up with Larry within the week. Phoenix would ask basic questions about their relationship and get nothing of substance. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything to Larry, which made him feel guilty, and it was a whole cycle of white lies and heartbreak.

Phoenix kind of made that deal under the impression that Larry would never date someone long enough for Phoenix to make good on it.

“Oh. Congrats!”

“You have to go on a double date with us right now.”

“No can do. Miles is in Paris until next month.” He ties up Trucy’s braid and pats her on the head. “He commissioned one of those French lawyer robes in burgundy. Can you believe him?”

“He should’ve taken you with him if he was going to the city of love, Daddy,” Trucy chimes in. “He needs to make that up to you.”

“You’re absolutely right. The law students he’s lecturing need to see an example of what not to do.” Phoenix hands Trucy her backpack and drops the lunch box inside with a water bottle. She turns around and tilts her head with a frown. Miles is a bad influence; now his own daughter is on his case. He gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you wanna go on a double date, Larry, text Miles. He’s the only one doing anything too important to reschedule.”

Larry hangs up on him immediately.

Phoenix sighs. It’s 6:42 in the morning. That means there’s a noon hour guest lecture reaching its conclusion across the Atlantic. “I better warn Miles.”

Trucy sends the apologetic text while he replaces the shoelaces on her favorite sneakers with blue ribbon. When she hands the phone back to him, the screen has a burst of color from all the emojis she used. Miles will know it was her in an instant. Hopefully that’ll soften the blow of getting ambushed by Larry during work hours.

He takes a picture before Trucy leaves. Between the shoes and the hair, she looks undeniably adorable. She strikes a pose for the camera, accepts a kiss on the cheek with a token complaint about Phoenix’s scratchy face, and bounces out the door.

It is only then that it hits Phoenix that all of the things Larry has told him about the girl of his dreams for the past half a year have been about the same person.

***

“Let’s swap information,” Miles suggests from the bedroom. “What have you heard about her?”

“The part that scares me most is the three years of jail time.” Phoenix runs his comb under the sink. “I forget the crime, but I know it wasn’t some petty misdemeanor.”

“Assisting a murder.”

“There it is.” A chill runs down his spine as the implications sink in. “I’m starting to miss the Instagram model of the week. Will you kill me if I wear the beanie?”

“Evidence is everything. Besides, no one at Charlie’s Surf Shack will care.”

“Cool.” Phoenix abandons his hair styling plans and takes his beloved hat.

The camera hidden inside catches a very unflattering angle of him while he makes sure it’s turned on. Seems like he left it on the whole day by accident. He’ll have to sit down and scrub through useless footage later. Maybe grab some clips of Miles, whose smile is so hard to catch in a photograph but steadily becomes more natural when he thinks no one is watching.

Is that an invasion of privacy? He should ask before he does that.

Phoenix adjusts the hat in the mirror. When he first started wearing it, it completely hid all his spikes. Made him look kind of like an unemployed egg. Now his hair is long enough that it sticks out a bit at the bottom. One rebellious strand that refuses to stay slicked back hangs in front of his eyes. With help from some unexpectedly positive feedback, he’s grown to like it a little.

“I know he’s been painting her,” Phoenix says. “I haven’t seen any of these paintings, but apparently there are dozens.” Besides the beanie, he tried to dress a little nicer than usual. He has a nice pastel turquoise button up— a gift from Miles, who was probably trying to find him date night clothes he could wear without seeing his failures reflected in the mirror— but he’s undone the top two buttons.

“She has short black hair and a fondness for chains,” Miles adds.

“She took her little sister to the zoo recently. That’s nice of her.”

“On the motorcycle Larry claims to have ridden on.”

There is silence after that. “That’s all we’ve got?” Phoenix asks.

“I don’t recall anything else. From that limited description, I think Larry wants to get stomped on.”

Phoenix laughs. He ducks under the sink to fish out a razor and shaving cream. Just when he’s about to squirt some into his hand, he sees the towel sticking out of his hamper. The one he used to clean up after last night. Last night when Miles’s fingers idly brushed through Phoenix’s chest hair and his cheeks were red from nuzzling Phoenix’s prickly jaw; both of them were thoroughly wiped after a passionate celebration of their reunion.

The razor gets banished and Phoenix undoes a third button. He tugs down the shirt to enhance the view.

With a final look at the fit of his jeans, Phoenix leans against the bathroom door frame. “Bathroom’s all yours if you need it.”

Miles looks up from his phone. The soft gasp almost makes Phoenix break character and melt into a puddle of grape juice.

He definitely needs a therapist, but until his budget gets a lot more wiggle room, getting his monthly dose of Miles has worked wonders for his shattered confidence. Miles doesn’t care about opinions. Subjectivity has no place in his world, only the truth.

When he says Phoenix is attractive, he means it as a fact that he has deduced. Pressed to present evidence, he will drag Phoenix to the nearest mirror. It would be easy to brush this off as him being nice, but one of the first things Phoenix learned about full grown adult Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is that he is not nice in the slightest. Sweet once you get to know him, but not nice.

If Phoenix wears a t-shirt that Miles hates, he will die before pretending to tolerate it. Yet when Phoenix is at his grungiest, Miles looks at him with rosy cheeks and wide eyes. If he’s feeling particularly bold, he will softly admit to really liking something that Phoenix was quietly worried he hated. Phoenix should know better by now; Miles doesn’t lie, he only ever omits truths until he’s ready to say them.

“You didn’t shave,” Miles says. Phoenix used to mistake that for a complaint, but now that he knows the truth he can see all the signs to the contrary. The way Miles’s eyes trace every line of him, mirroring the path of his hands the night before, lingering in places of interest. “How many days has it been?”

“Four I think.” Phoenix detaches himself from the doorframe and approaches the bed where Miles is seated. “I’ve lost track.”

“Mm.” Miles gets up to meet him in the middle. He cups Phoenix’s face, silent as he brushes his cheek with his thumb. Once Miles is satisfied with his findings, he kisses Phoenix and walks off to touch up his hair. “We’ll deal with you when we get home.”

Phoenix knows what that means. It definitely doesn’t involve a razor.

He takes Miles’s place at the foot of the bed and watches him through the open door. Aside from the lack of blazer, Miles looks no different than he does when he’s going to work. Well, when he’s going to work everywhere except France. The magenta robe in his suitcase has already been the source of a good bit of teasing, because of course he just couldn’t order a black one like everyone else.

Miles definitely knows that he will be the only man who has ever worn a waistcoat and cravat to Charlie’s Surf Shack. That’s why Phoenix’s ears are currently half-covered by soft cyan yarn. But there is the fact that Phoenix is wearing a button up, which means Miles has to be fancier than that. It's practically a law of nature.

As fond as Phoenix has become of his turtlenecks and cashmere sweaters, he’ll never complain about Miles wearing a garment perfectly fitted to emphasize the circumference of his waist. It tells Phoenix exactly where his hands should go.

This waistcoat is actually new. It looks identical, but this one is made for eating three square meals a day. Phoenix likes it much better than the old ones.

Besides, Phoenix knows the cravat is mostly there to hide his own handiwork crawling up Miles’s neck. Those ruffles aren’t the emblem of repression anymore, they are a symbol of Miles privately reclaiming his sense of self from everything working against him.

Miles makes a token attempt to flatten the rebellious sprig of hair on the back of his head. His cowlick just bounces back, unfazed. Phoenix likes playing it when he wants to wind up Miles. It’s not his fault that Miles’s hair is so flickable.

With his comb returned to his toiletries bag in defeat, Miles leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t look any different than he did before he went in there. Maybe his bangs are a millimeter taller, but that’s about it.

Phoenix is looking forward to messing them up to destress after this tense dinner.

Once they get in Miles’s car, it becomes clearer what he was actually doing in the bathroom mirror. “We need to coordinate a plan.”

Phoenix plugs the address for Charlie’s Surf Shack into Miles’s phone and connects it to the car. “Is this the in-case-of-murder plan or just the plan for surviving dinner?”

“The murder plan is for you to make sure you record the moment of the crime. Adjust your hat accordingly depending on our seating arrangements. It would be refreshing to prosecute a case with reliable video evidence for a change.” Miles winces at the volume of the navigation app. He turns it down with controls on the steering wheel. “As for dinner, we need to stick together.”

“It’d be kinda hard not to at a dinner table,” Phoenix points out.

“What I mean is that you need to drink in moderation. I don’t want to be left alone with Larry and his girlfriend while you’re using the restroom.”

“But Charlie’s Surf Shack is known for their tubular mojitos,” Phoenix protests. “Do you expect me not to order one?”

Miles narrows his eyes at the car ahead of him. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

There’s an undertone of worry in the accusation. Working in a bar didn’t pair well with the depression fermenting in Phoenix’s noggin when he first got the gig. Coming home to find that Trucy had fallen asleep waiting for him on a particularly bad night was a strong enough reminder to make him drop it entirely before it started affecting her. Maybe it already had— any knack he’s picked up for concealing his hand came from her— but that would be the extent of it.

Of course, he had to find another vice to flaunt at dinners with the devil. Drinking that much sugary grape juice doesn’t do him any favors with a dentist or nutritionist, but it gets a point across without hurting his daughter.

He fiddles with one of the lower buttons on his shirt. “They have a virgin option. I did my research. I wanna be tubular, not tipsy.” Besides him, Miles exhales softly. Phoenix checks his own phone for any indication that Larry’s on his way. He gets exactly what he expected: nothing. “You could conveniently have to use the bathroom at the same time I do.”

The leather of the steering wheel creaks. “I will not be using the public bathroom at Charlie’s Surf Shack.”

“Understood.” He should’ve gone before they got in the car. “I’ll do my best.”

The restaurant is just as kitschy as Phoenix would expect from Larry. It’s the bastard child of a Chili’s, Jimmy Buffet’s Margharitaville, and every tropical tourist trap under the sun, complete with a woefully misguided tacky color scheme. Some patrons are already seated outside at wooden tables that have clearly seen a few different coats of paint. Chips in a garish neon orange reveal a turquoise that might look nice if not for the mismatched blue of the building right next to it.

With the beach just a block over, a decent amount of the customers are barely wearing more than their bathing suits. Phoenix almost feels overdressed. He hasn’t been close to overdressing since a little magician replaced his spine with a glow stick. Undoing another button might make him blend in with the regulars a bit more.

Of course, blending in anywhere is impossible with Miles attached at his hip. When Miles tells the hostess his name, she’s shocked to find that he’s not at the wrong place. She leads them past a bar filled with beachgoers and places four menus on a table next to a giant gaudy tiki. As soon as she leaves to mix Phoenix’s first tubular mojito, he says, “This has gotta be offensive, right?”

Miles sighs. “Just like Larry,” he agrees.

They’re seated next to each other so Phoenix can keep his eyes on the crime and his hand on Miles’s thigh. Miles— who immediately started perusing the menu— gives him an irritated side eye, but makes no other fuss about inappropriate displays of affection.

A wooden surfer with a shoddy paint job dangles above their table. The string keeping it afloat is thin, only appearing when Phoenix looks at it through the fluorescent lights. “Should we have a signal for emergency chaos?”

Miles opens Phoenix’s menu and points at the entrees. “Please think about something else.”

“I was kidding!” Phoenix crumples the wrapper for his plastic straw into a ball small enough to fit inside of it. One of the patrons at the bar is having a birthday cake delivered with a crackling candle on top. Miles arches an eyebrow. “…Does squeezing your leg three times work?”

“Wright,” Miles warns.

“Four times? Two?”

“Try zero.” Miles reaches up to adjust Phoenix’s hat. “If we want to have deniability when all hell breaks loose, there cannot be footage of you intentionally causing havoc.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Phoenix grumbles. He could get himself out of it, footage or no footage. They wouldn’t let him defend himself this time, but if he just found some rookie to whisper all the answers to, he would be completely fine.

The thought crosses his mind that he has a friend who would take his defense for free as a “favor”. An act of kindness topped off with a needling remark about what a shame it is that Wright couldn’t have taken care of matters himself, since only one generous soul voted against his disbarment. Making nefarious plans is no longer fun.

The contradictory cadence of Larry Butz asking for a reservation for Miles Edgeworth draws Phoenix from his thoughts. That might be the first time he has ever heard Larry refer to Miles by his actual name. Up until now, he wasn’t entirely sure Larry knew that “Edgeworth” was his last name.

Phoenix nudges Miles. “They’re here.”

Miles holds his menu up to cover everything up to his eyes. Phoenix watches the careful way he pretends to be looking at appetizers and mimics it. The giant tiki obscures their view of the entrance, which now gives Phoenix two reasons he should take an ax and get rid of it.

Any person, in the right circumstances, could be driven to commit a crime. Phoenix has had tête-à-têtes with people who were vengeful, manipulative, frightened, or even driven by undying love for another. He can look no further than the difference between the people who killed the parents of two of the most important people in his life. Miles lost his father to the hateful pride of a vile man. Maya’s mother died because of the same traits in her aunt, but the man who skewered Misty Fey did so to protect the sister of the woman he loved.

Given the opportunity, Phoenix would clock Manfred von Karma in the face. He wouldn’t consider himself a violent person by any metric, especially as he nears his thirties, but the court record shows that he has pushed someone for doing far less to a partner of his. As for Armando, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad someone was keeping Maya safe. Under the law, their deeds are indistinguishable.

So Phoenix is trying to keep an open mind. Yes, everything Larry has said about this woman makes her sound vaguely terrifying, but not everyone who commits a crime is a bad person. She took her little sister to the zoo. That’s very nice of her. Terrible people can still have individually good relationships, but Phoenix is trying not to think about that one too much.

Larry rounds the corner with his girlfriend not far behind. Phoenix follows her floral sandals to the long pleated skirt to a terrible sense of deja vu that he already felt three years ago.

Miles squeezes his leg three times.

The incredulous shriek that tears itself from Phoenix’s throat rattles the salt and pepper shakers. “Iris?! You’re Larry’s girlfriend?”

Iris jumps. Phoenix has to beat into his stupid fucked up brain that he doesn’t need to question whether her emotions are real or not because Dahlia has been dead for years now. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No!”

“Wait.” There is nothing behind Larry’s eyes. “You two know each other?” Miles groans and buries his head in his hands.

“I’m really sorry,” Iris says, getting somewhat frantic. “Larry said he would talk to you about everything that happened so I thought we had your blessing. I would have reached out to you myself but…” She looks away. By short hair, Larry meant a nice bob that swishes when she moves her head. It frames her delicate features nicely.

“No, that’s…okay.” Phoenix trains his eye on Larry, who clearly still has no grasp of the situation he’s created. “Have a seat?”

Understandably, Iris sits across from Miles and not him. Were she anyone else, he would be very pleased by this turn of events because that’s where the camera on his beanie naturally sits. Now he just feels strange.

She’s looking at him. In all fairness, Phoenix is looking at her too. Her hair isn’t the only thing that’s different; she’s gone from no piercings to two in each ear. Her earrings are two crystal studs with a small silver chain connecting them. The first stud has more gems dangling from it, just barely shorter than her hair.

Her hair is too short to be woven into braids at the crown of her head now, but still long enough for two strands at the front to be pulled out of her face, drawn into a simple clip at the back. An orchid skirt billows behind her as she walks, far fuller than her nun robes or her sister’s lacy white dresses. The detailing on her white blouse suggests that Iris shares some elements of her sister’s style, but any memories burned into Phoenix’s mind are juxtaposed by a pink leather jacket resting on her shoulders. A leather jacket makes most people look more dangerous, but on her, shawls and cardigans would paint a more menacing picture.

If he took a poll of the restaurant and asked which of them just spent three years in prison, most people would pick Phoenix over her. Phoenix ruined his own life. Iris's life is finally hers to ruin.

“You look—” Iris purses her lips, the cordial well caught behind the shadow vowel preceding it, “—different.” Miles bristles, instinctual anger centralized in the crease of his brow and the edges of the menu warping under his fingers. Phoenix grimly notes that Miles has had a lot of experience stifling his anger on Phoenix’s behalf lately. When he drags the dirty details of dinners with Kristoph Gavin from Phoenix’s sealed lips, that same muzzled fury nips at his heels.

Phoenix nudges Miles with his foot under the table, not with the force of a cue to simmer down, but just an acknowledgement. I see you looking out for me, it says, nothing more. Honestly, Phoenix would rather Iris give him a neutral truth than feed him pretty lies. “You changed your hair.”

“So did you,” Iris observes with some disbelief. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“It is a very unusual shape,” Miles says. Under any other circumstances, “I haven’t the slightest clue how the hairdresser cuts it,” would be a dryly delivered joke, but here it is only a statement.

“They usually charge me extra for psychological damages.” No one questions Phoenix on the truth behind that. The length of the spikes at the nape of his neck says it all.

“You two are shitty friends,” Larry says.

Phoenix squints. “What.”

“You haven’t even asked how Iris and I got together!” Larry whines. “Don’t you wanna know the story of our love?!” Iris has the good sense to wince, but not the heart to tell her boyfriend that there were other things on everyone else’s minds, hers included.

“For once, there is little to be left to the imagination,” Miles points out. “Iris was in prison, so the only way you could see her would be with frequent visits to her cell. You bonded during these visits and eventually decided to start a romantic relationship upon her release.”

Larry scoffs. “I mean, maybe, but you left out all of the juicy stuff.”

“I honestly don’t want to know what you consider juicy.” Miles puts down his menu and stares straight forward. “Iris, I ask out of genuine curiosity: what do you see in this cretin?”

Phoenix thinks he already knows. In Larry he can see all the behavior he grew out of once Mia pulled him from his delusional breakup blues and injected some goddamn common sense into him. It wasn’t enough to keep him from flinging himself in harm’s way, but he at least looks both ways before he crosses the street.

“Well,” Iris begins, “for starters, he’s very dedicated—” Larry would eat a whole glass vase if it was for a woman— “he paints the loveliest portraits for me—” Phoenix had to restock scarlet shades in his colored pencils multiple times over the course of eight months— “and he’s sensitive.” The look she fixes Phoenix seems more like a reflex than a conscious decision.

“A sniveling buffoon,” Miles confirms with a sneer.

“I like men who aren’t afraid of their feelings.” This time her fleeting glance has more intent. As for what that intent is, Phoenix hasn’t the slightest idea. Scarier yet is the way her doe eyes bore into Miles’s skull. “It’s a sign of a good man.”

Did this surf shack turn into the Borscht Bowl Club, or did the room just get several degrees colder?

“Aww, babe!” Larry slings an arm around Iris’s shoulders, nearly pulling her off of her chair. “Isn’t she the sweetest?”

Phoenix laughs nervously. “Sure is!”

Miles doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a fine line. Kay calls that his bullfrog face; Phoenix liked it enough to steal the name for himself. The bullfrog face is a telltale sign of Miles’s poor brain working so hard to process his emotions that it gets stuck. That can mean any number of things, from trying to resist his latent mother hen instincts or struggling to express wants that he was admonished for in his adolescence.

As nebulous as the bullfrog face can be, Phoenix has a hunch that this one isn’t about any particular feelings he can’t express. It’s about all of them.

“When I asked her out, I promised I’d take my Iris somewhere as nice and classy as she is as soon as she was free,” Larry says with fire in his eyes. He tugs down on his orange and white floral sweater vest. Phoenix can’t tell if it’s chic or he looks like a disco creamsicle. There are a few flaws in the knit. “I actually saved up money!”

With Miles having fallen quiet, it’s Phoenix’s job to point out the obvious. “I don’t know, Larry. This seems more like my level of classy than Iris’s.” The tiki head laughs at him. “And I’d like to think I’ve got a little more tact.”

“Not this dinner, dude! I picked here ‘cause I know you’re cheap!” Larry clearly hasn’t looked at the price tags on the menu yet. Four dollar water. Disgusting.

“Gee. Thanks, Larry.”

“He actually took me to a really nice sushi place ,” Iris says with a fond smile. She fiddles with her earrings. “He gave me these too. They’re real diamonds.”

“Oh.” Phoenix has visions of a safety pin piercing skin. He sat in the corner with his eyes squeezed shut while his art school buddies found the true meaning of DIY. And a few weeks later, ear infections. “Did…you get your ears pierced in prison?”

Iris giggles. It evokes memories of butterflies hatching in his stomach. “No. I got both piercings the next day so I could actually wear the earrings.”

Despite himself, Phoenix barks out a laugh. “He got you expensive earrings you couldn’t even wear?! Classic!”

Larry gawks. “It’s not like I was studying her ears, Nick! That’s weird!”

“I had no piercings in his paintings,” Iris adds cheekily. That sends Phoenix into another peal of laughter. Even Miles curtains his mouth with a hand. When Phoenix opens his eyes, her sweet smile offers no lack of fascination. It’s a smile Phoenix tore and bloodied the inside of his mouth for. The thought disturbs him less than he thought it would. “When did you get yours done?”

Little gold hoops hug Phoenix’s earlobes. They’ve been healed for a good two years now, but he still hasn’t changed them out. “My daughter wanted hers done for her tenth birthday.”

Iris’s eyes widen. The glance at Miles is unmistakable. “Daughter?”

“She was scared, so I got mine done first to make her feel better.”

“Phoenix has a habit of attaching himself to every troubled youth he comes across.” That’s Miles’s voice, low and colored by the northward corner of his mouth. “He adopted her within mere days of meeting her. That story is one of many that speaks to his character as both a person and a father.”

There it is again, that incontrovertible truth of Miles’s world laid bare for all to see. More powerful yet is the subtext lurking within, because if anyone has witnessed the whole spectrum of fathers for troubled youth it is Miles Edgeworth. One might consider him an expert in the field, for better or worse.

It’s far from the first time Miles has said he’s a good dad. The first time— at least, what Phoenix would consider the first time— Miles had said as much without speaking a word. It was all in the look of wonder and love Phoenix kept catching on his face throughout his first extended stay in the states following Phoenix’s disbarment.

Phoenix wrote Trucy a note in her lunch, squeezed her into a massive bear hug, and set her loose with hair he styled for her. She came home upset about a bad test grade, so Phoenix told her about the time he almost flunked out of math and they played a board game that night. Trucy accused Phoenix of cheating during said board game, to which he came clean and congratulated her sleuthing skills by ruffling her hair.

Phoenix can’t help the heat rising to his cheeks. He rubs the back of his neck. “I do my best.”

Iris smiles. “I always thought you’d make a good parent—”

Whether by some horrible muscle memory or a saccharine nostalgia specific to the sight of Phoenix flushed from head to toe, any magic of the moment shatters to pieces.

“—Feenie.”

The hairs at the back of Phoenix’s neck stand on end. His tongue runs over a small scar on the roof of his mouth. Another on his lower lip, no bigger than a paper cut. Only Miles has ever noticed.

Iris gets up and excuses herself. Now she’s noticed too.

He didn’t even notice the waitress placing down his first tubular mojito. The face reflected in the glass is pale and tired and a few lazy days away from sporting some pretty bad patchy sideburns. The only pink he’s really worn in the past half a decade is the “Papa” woven into the yarn of his beanie.

The sound of the bathroom door swinging shut across the restaurant jolts Phoenix back to reality. He slams the table with his hands, just hard enough to spook Larry. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating my ex-girlfriend?”

Larry’s eyes flit to the corners of the room. “I’m gonna be honest, Nick.” His sheepish smile is far too genuine given what he says next. “I forgot.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You can’t blame me too much! I thought you were gay!” Larry’s gesture across the table nearly spills the fresh tubular mojito. “’Cause of Edgey!”

Phoenix groans. “I’m bi, Larry. I had the flag in my dorm and my office.”

Larry blinks. “You mean that purple one? I thought that was the country your folks are from or something.”

Miles’s voice is strained. “That is not what the Japanese flag looks like.”

None of this should be on film. Reliving it would be too much second-hand embarrassment for one fuck-up to deal with sitting in a dark room by himself. Phoenix releases his atrocious hat hair and turns off the camera. At Miles’s inquisitive look, he just says, “This hat has seen enough.”

“Indeed.” Miles freezes, his face white as a sheet. “Wright. Oh my god, Wright.”

“I don’t like that tone,” Phoenix says with a wince.

“You were wearing it last night.”

Last night. What did Phoenix do last night? He catches sight of the white silk wrapped around Miles’s neck and it hits him right away. How could he forget? Last night was awesome. He did Miles last night.

“Oh, shit.”

Larry looks between them. “Huh?”

“Burn the footage,” Miles grits out. “Destroy it.”

“We’ll do it as soon as we get home,” Phoenix agrees.

That reassurance does very little to restore the color to Miles’s face. “Oh my god,” he repeats.

“Secrets secrets are no fun unless you share with everyone!” Larry complains.

Phoenix’s off-kilter laugh toes the line between nervous and insane. “No, that’s really okay.”

“But c’mon!”

“Larry,” Miles says gravely. “Need I remind you that I can enact legal code PME7-3 at any time?”

Larry’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Phoenix lacks the qualifications to refute the validity of that threat, a fact that still burns a hole in his chest like a phantom pain sometimes, but he still knows that Miles is spouting bullshit.

Phoenix glances at him with a well-practiced poker face. Miles, despite being a generally bad liar, doesn’t falter. His steely glare stays steady, but Phoenix catches the sly quirk of his lips, then one that would emerge every time Phoenix unwittingly sprung one of his rhetorical traps in court. Phoenix must say, the Larry-management skills on display are pretty impressive.

“PM…that code is no joke, y’know,” Phoenix says.

Larry reaches across the table to clamp a hand on Phoenix’s shoulders, desperation in his vice grip. “Dude. I know.” Miles just hides a smile behind his glass of water. There’s no denying how hot that is.

The waitress comes by to ask for their meals. She probably decided it was a bad time when she placed down the tubular mojito and Phoenix appeared to be watching his youth slip away. Iris’s absence once again thwarts her attempt to do her job, and also means this dinner is going to be longer than it should. Phoenix takes that chance to order his second mojito. He downs the first one and tries to tame his hair in the reflection of the glass until Miles confiscates his hand.

Iris returns just in time for the waitress to make her third attempt at getting their food orders. Phoenix gets fried battered cod, which Miles told him was just fish and chips by another name, and he totally isn’t peeved about that. Iris gets the “Turnt Tiki Teriyaki with Shrimp”, which is a name even Phoenix would feel a little ashamed saying out loud.

Apparently, Iris shed her a lot of reservations like snakeskin during her trip to the bathroom. “So, Edgeworth, how did you two start dating?”

Miles startles a bit, but recovers fast. “PhoenIX and I—” he begins, almost making Phoenix snort his drink out of his nose, “—had quietly harbored feelings for one another for quite some time.” Iris already knows that much on Phoenix’s end; in hindsight she must have felt very strange about the folder he was compiling, filled with any information he could get on Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth while they dated.

“I always thought it wasn’t the right time,” Miles continues, and it’s a conversation they’ve had before. One of time lost and the futility of dwelling on what-ifs. Especially when each of those wrong times was marked by a recent suicide attempt, an immediate return to Europe, and an abrupt foray into fatherhood. “Until we were having a conversation and it became apparent to me that withholding that information was selfish. Phoenix, more than anyone, deserved to know.”

Once again, it is a fact. Phoenix not knowing was a wrong that needed to be rectified immediately. Even with his voice low and some mumbling here and there, Phoenix can see the quiet determination burning in Miles’s eyes. It stirs memories of the confession in question, a rare moment where Miles’s stare never wavered and the rising emotions never halted his warpath.

There Phoenix was, a year into the death of his career, draped over the couch like Icarus with his crumpled dress shirt buttoned wrong. That blunder had been the result of a frantic rush to make himself presentable for a parent-teacher conference, no time to iron out the creases or double check.

Trucy had been painted exactly as he would expect by her teacher: a bright girl whose creativity sometimes got her in trouble. Whether intentional or not, every bit of praise towards her had been colored with skepticism towards him. He couldn’t blame the teacher too much once he got home and saw himself; the worn remains of his daily uniform now reduced to a cheap costume that no one was buying. How could Trucy have come from this mess?

Miles found him in the aftermath, wreathed in bottles of pure sugar, waiting for the couch cushions to swallow him whole. Cruelly, Phoenix let curiosity overtake his better judgment, resisting the reflex to plaster on a lazy smile and spare his best friend such a sorry sight. How would Edgeworth approach dealing with him at such an obvious low point?

To Phoenix’s annoyance, Miles just started cleaning. Piles turned into condensed stacks. He gingerly picked up months of empty bottles and put them in recycling. The pillows returned to their proper places. At the time, Phoenix thought Miles just couldn’t stand looking at the mess. Now, Phoenix isn’t sure if he did that to give himself time to think or he was trying to remove an immediate stressor from Phoenix’s life.

By the time Miles did his last task— removing a long-empty bag of chips from Phoenix’s grasp— that infuriating stoicism was pissing Phoenix off. He snapped, Miles rightly called him out for pushing people away when all they want is to help, and the whole thing snowballed into the accusation that Miles only valued Phoenix if he had a shiny badge to show off.

Phoenix hadn’t seen Miles look so hurt since Phoenix said he should’ve stayed dead.

It wasn’t true. Deep down, he knew that. Of course it wasn’t. He’s certain now that when Miles took a deep breath and joined him on the couch, it was because he intimately recognized whatever cocktail of toxins was brewing in Phoenix’s cranium. And, well, thank god one of them was already getting therapy for it.

“I just want you to be happy,” Miles said. “If that means getting your badge back, I will help. If it means something else, then I may lack expertise, but I will offer my assistance all the same.”

Phoenix asked why. Miles Edgeworth opened his mouth and changed the course of Phoenix’s entire life for the second time.

Larry frowns. “Well that’s vague.”

“Miles is an unreliable narrator. He’s not telling the whole story,” Phoenix interjects. “I was—” he exchanges a meaningful look with his partner “—being really hard on myself. Hearing that he loved me was exactly what I needed.”

Miles flushes a bit. “I didn’t want to disclose the details of a private moment without your permission.”

“You aren’t telling the whole story either, Nick!”

Iris’s wide eyes don’t give anything away. Phoenix meets them briefly, looking for answers, or at least a reaction. She doesn’t give him any, but she’s not hiding anything either. It’s up to him to figure it out. He almost complains about everyone close to him being so cryptic, but he’s the guy who brought a camera strapped to his head.

That camera now contains an accidental first-person sex tape featuring an internationally renowned prosecutor in a lot of compromising situations. Being cryptic never saved him from being an idiot.

“Larry mentioned that you’re out of the country a lot,” Iris says. Her finger circles the rim of her glass. “How have you handled being long distance?”

She’s still focused on Miles. Phoenix and Iris were last on amicable terms, their story finished off with a visit to her cell following her trial. Phoenix asked if she still loved him. She said yes, but she understood if he couldn’t trust her again. She isn’t his Dollie, he’s not her Feenie. He’s definitely not her Feenie anymore, that much is clear from just one look.

So things between them are fine. She’s clearly not holding out a candle for him; a girl as gorgeous as she is wouldn’t settle for a goofball like Larry if she didn’t genuinely like him. But she’s not just curious about their relationship either. Her questions are too Miles-centric for that.

“Phoenix finally traded in his blasted phone so we could video call while I’m away,” Miles replies. The sheer magnitude of his exasperation makes Phoenix chuckle. “It only took four years of mockery from myself and Maya Fey.”

“The phone worked just fine!” Phoenix argues. “Why get rid of a perfectly good phone?”

Miles bulldozes through him. “Ignoring Phoenix’s insistence on living in the Stone Age, we make an effort to see each other in person at least once every two months, whether I am returning to Los Angeles or the Wrights are coming to Europe. The frequency of our visits is dependent on what our schedules look like—”

“What his schedule looks like,” Phoenix corrects.

“—and how Miss Trucy is doing with her schoolwork.”

Phoenix grins. “That’s my daughter.” He takes out the aforementioned phone to show her off. His wallpaper is a rotation of photos featuring him and Trucy, which she had to show him how to make. There’s a healthy mix of goofy selfies and actually nice photos that Miles took for them. “Isn’t she great?”

Today’s photo is the former; Trucy stole his phone when he fell asleep on the couch and took a few silly pictures. He taps the screen and it changes to them posing on a suspiciously non-Californian beach.

It’s a shame Miles isn’t in that photo. Phoenix loves seeing what he wears to the beach; his creative efforts to entirely cover himself look comically out of place more often than not. When all of this is over, Phoenix can mix in the photos of all three of them. For now, it’d be stupid to display his intimate connection to a renowned legal expert on something as accessible as the lock screen of his phone. Disgraced attorneys on a downward spiral don’t get flown out to canoodle with LA’s High Prosecutor.

Disgraced attorneys on a downward spiral might have a habit of omitting a few key details, that might give the impression that the trips are sponsored by a sugar daddy. All he had to do was not mention how much older than him the man he’s seeing is. Three months, thirty years, same difference!

Miles does not find this nearly as funny as Phoenix does for whatever reason.

“Dude, where’d you get those ugly swim trunks?” Larry asks. “I kinda want some.” Miles makes a face.

Phoenix shrugs. “Thrift store. I don’t know the brand. Sorry.”

Iris leans in to get a closer look. “Did Trucy build the sand castle?”

“I built it. She told me what to do and put seaweed on my head.”

“Ah, I should’ve guessed that.” She giggles. “Your sculptures have always been a little slanted to the right.”

“What?!” Phoenix looks at the photo again. He and Trucy frame the castle with bright smiles and jazz hands. “It is not.”

Miles coughs. “It. It is.”

“You would never notice. You were always so proud of your work though, so I never had the heart to tell you,” Iris admits.

“No way. Miles probably just held the camera crooked.”

“I would never. I always turn on the grid to make sure the composition of the photo is centered.”

“I actually think it’s slanted to the left,” Larry says. Iris holds his head and tilts it upright. “Oh. Yeah, you’re right.”

Phoenix groans. “Apparently I’m destined to always be Wright.” His suffering is mitigated by Miles’s sigh.

Their food arrives. The “Turnt Tiki Teriyaki with Shrimp” does not live up to its outrageous name in presentation, but it has the look of a classic bowel-movement disruptor. As does Larry’s monstrous burger. Like Taco Bell for beachgoers. The meals the waitstaff might warn you about before eating. The kind Phoenix orders from a delivery place because he’s sad, and dearly regrets it less than an hour later.

The battered cod or whatever looks fine, but Phoenix is far more excited about getting another drink. Something about the novelty fruity flavors really speaks to him. If they sold this in bottles, he might need to rebrand a little.

Iris offers Larry forkfuls of her food and feeds it to him. She’s always done that with desserts. When Phoenix was weeping over lost love at Mia’s desk, she told him that most of his tearful memories made her want to throw up or throttle him. Phoenix takes a chunk of Miles’s glazed salmon without asking. And another one two minutes later.

The inevitable complaint that if Phoenix wanted salmon then he should have just ordered it himself gets interrupted by a notification on Miles’s shiny new smart watch. Phoenix peers over because he’s nosy and obnoxious. His daughter’s name pops up.

“Oh no. What did she do.”

Miles nudges him away. “Excuse you. I’ll have you know, my conversations with Trucy mostly consist of images she thinks I will find humorous, not just trouble.” He taps the watch and it opens her text. “Oh, dear.”

Phoenix leans over again to read it, but Miles is quick to intercept him. “Calm yourself. She hasn’t done anything,” Miles insists. “She just needs me to sign a permission slip for a school trip.”

Trucy likes watching Miles write his fancy script with his pink quill and inkwell, so whenever he’s around, Phoenix is off the hook for official documents. “That’s not it. You said, oh, dear.”

“Your impression of me leaves much to be desired.” Miles tucks his watch back into his sleeve. “…Do you recall that film history museum we went to? Where Trucy—”

“—made a thousand dollar animatronic dinosaur disappear,” Phoenix finishes. He remembers sitting there, biting his fingernails into jagged blades while Trucy searched through her magic panties, Multiple members of security and the head curator served as her audience while she fished out endless items that were not the dinosaur. “I had to wash the sweat smell out of my hat.”

“And buy a new shirt at the gift shop,” Miles recalls. In comparison, he’d been weirdly calm about the whole debacle, merely asking how Trucy pulled it off. Watching over Kay has made him numb to sudden heists. “I think she was just excited to show me a very impressive trick.”

She was. Whenever Miles is coming, Trucy spends the week before preparing a brand new spectacle for him to analyze. She never tells him if his theories about her tricks are right. Phoenix knows that two of them have been, but not which ones. The only specific thing he knows is that those two were early on, and Trucy’s shows have only become more confounding with time. Being confounding runs in the family.

“Can Trucy get me a robo-dino?” Larry asks.

“No.” Phoenix puts his finger up when Larry opens his mouth again. “And don’t ask her, because she might say yes.”

“What if I pay you residuals when I make a hit attraction out of it?”

Phoenix ignores the allure of a measly 1% share of an already meager profit. “Are you gonna sign it?”

“On the condition that none of her tricks involve the exhibits,” Miles replies. “I will frame it as a challenge to think outside the proverbial box.”

“Without forbidding her from doing what makes her happy,” Phoenix realizes.

“Precisely.” Miles takes out his phone to pass along the message to Trucy. When he brings up a condition, she assumes it’s a ban on magic. His correction about the specifics of his condition is met with a big smiley face. “She says she intends to dazzle us.”

“Can…she do actual magic?” Iris asks.

Phoenix shrugs. “Sure seems like it. If she’s got Miles stumped, it has to be a little supernatural.”

Miles scoffs. “I don’t think your daughter is supernatural. Gifted, undoubtedly, but not in such a way that defies all logical reasoning.”

Iris, having met Miles because of a trial that involved the very real exorcism of her dead twin’s vengeful ghost, fixes Phoenix a questioning look, as if to say is he serious? All Phoenix can do in response is shrug. There’s no facial expression he can make to convey the conclusion Maya so generously came to a few years ago, which is that the concept of ghosts and magic ruptures Edgeworth’s entire sense of the world, so to acknowledge its existence would shatter his fragile mindscape into smithereens. Everyone agrees not to press him on how blatantly wrong he is, because no one wants to see him break.

“Wait,” Larry asks, “didn’t Maya, like, turn into your old boss that one time?”

Miles squints. “What?”

Phoenix makes a note to broach the subject of Miles’s poor vision at a time when the point of contention is not his late employer’s cup size. How Miles has run so many spectacular investigations when he didn’t notice “Maya” suddenly getting taller, Phoenix hasn’t the slightest idea. Stubbornness, probably.

“Magic or not, Trucy’s great,” Phoenix says. Then, at the risk of being too honest, he adds, “She’s kinda like my emotional assistance kiddo, y’know? Keeps me up and at ‘em.”

Iris smiles in polite agreement. “I feel somewhat similar about Pearl. As her sister though, not a parent.”

The sister is Pearl. Phoenix had pretty much forgotten that detail about Larry’s mysterious ex-convict beaux until now. He should’ve pieced it together— or Miles should have— but the shock of seeing Larry waltz in with his ex is a decent excuse for that little slip-up.

Pearl has family looking after her. That’s good. He trusts Maya, of course, but she fits the mold of a companion far better than a guardian. Maybe Phoenix does too, but Trucy doesn’t seem to see the difference.

“Our…time together was my only real exposure to the world beyond the Temple until now,” Iris explains. “Taking Pearl to new places is as good for me as it is for her.”

Trucy, in all her adorable craftiness, has been discreetly doing the same thing to Phoenix. And Miles, when her requests for enrichment inevitably push beyond his prissy little comfort zone of museums and libraries. If she wants to do something, then Phoenix has to crawl out of his depression cave to chaperone, and if Miles is in town, then the father-daughter tag team haggles him until he concedes.

“If you need any suggestions on how to entertain a twelve year old, I’m something of a master,” Phoenix offers. “Especially if you’re looking for something cheap. Pearls looks innocent, but she’s the original student of the Maya Fey financial extortion academy.”

“Actually, I have been looking for more things to do with her. I wasn’t the most normal twelve year old,” Iris admits, “so I don’t have a great frame of reference.”

“Neither is Pearl.”

Larry chimes in, “I know some good bars.”

Miles glares at him. “She’s twelve.”

Iris just giggles softly. “You’re so funny, Larry.”

“Really?” Larry asks. “What did I say that was funny?”

Her mirth skids to an abrupt halt. Phoenix has to wonder how they’ve made it to six months without her witnessing this kind of behavior. The thought of there being a slightly less stupid, potentially suave Larry Butz that emerges when Phoenix isn’t looking strikes him as disturbing.

“That might be too dirty,” Iris says gently. “Pearl likes clean spaces. She didn’t care for the petting zoo much.”

“I don’t go to dirty bars,” Larry protests.

“Yes,” Miles grits out with the irritation of firsthand experience, “you do.”

“Well you’re a snob, so your standards are too high to count,” Larry says. In many cases, Phoenix would agree, but Miles and Pearl aren’t entirely dissimilar in that sense. And Larry is decidedly a step too far for Phoenix sometimes in terms of chaos. “And don’t pretend you’re too high and mighty to get on my level. We both know that’s bs.”

Miles isn’t too hard to fluster if you either know him well or are trying to get in his magenta pants (Phoenix is the sole person alive with the distinct honor of being both), but the visceral flinch at Phoenix’s side is a surprise. In no way is Miles obligated to tell Phoenix every detail of his life, but a Larry horror story feels like an obvious pick for something to vent to Phoenix about.

With some hesitance, Phoenix prods slightly. “Miles?”

Larry’s resistance to the death glare is almost impressive, but mostly a sign of his immense hubris. “C’mon, Edgey, I gotta loosen you up a bit! Say, while you’re back in town, wanna do—” the face he makes sends a shiver down Phoenix’s spine— “another round?”

“That was a one time thing,” Miles snaps, “and I’ve been ordered by a licensed mental health professional to never do it again.”

Iris glances at Phoenix. “Have they…?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix says. There are few things Phoenix is more certain of than the fact that he took Miles’s virginity. “He would sooner die.”

“True,” Miles agrees. “Larry’s idea is somehow even worse than having sex with him.” He remembers who he’s talking to, and has the good sense to at least look a touch apologetic. “…No offense intended, of course.”

Phoenix asks, “What the hell were you two doing?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

Larry loudly disagrees with that assessment. “Me and Edgey—”

Miles corrects, “Edgeworth and I.”

Larry plows past him. “Edgey and me did this thing where I got in his car, and we asked each other stuff. He asked me about math and I asked him about his traumatizing childhood.”

Iris winces. “That sounds…”

“Awful,” Phoenix finishes. Beside him, Miles is torn between sinking into his chair and killing Larry with his eyes. “Miles, why the hell did you agree to that?”

Larry doesn’t give Miles a chance to defend himself. That might be for the best; Phoenix imagines it’s not a reason he particularly wants to hear. “I haven’t even gotten to the best part. Whenever I couldn’t answer a question, I took a drink. Whenever Edgey couldn’t answer a question, he cut someone off on the highway.”

Well, that reckless behavior narrows down a timeframe at least. And that timeframe gives Phoenix his answer, which he promptly drowns in his tubular mojito. Miles is fine and doing much better and not going on thrill rides with Larry because he’s paying for Phoenix’s tab.

“The more Larry drank,” Miles grumbles, “the more invasive his questions were.”

“And I got worse at math!” Larry adds. Neither part of that is difficult to imagine by any stretch of the imagination. Phoenix silently thanks Detective Gumshoe for always checking in on Miles when Phoenix couldn’t reach him, and Kay Faraday for making him more danger-averse. “Oh, Nick, did you know that he—”

“PWE3-7,” Miles says plainly. That isn’t even the same code he said before. He takes a careful sip of his iced tea. “Remember the contract you signed before I let you into my car, Larry.”

Of course Miles made him sign an NDA, even when he clearly wasn’t of entirely sound mind. Contracts and paperwork put Phoenix to sleep when he was the one rifling through them, but the concept of Miles drafting a contract for a personal conversation (ignoring the horrifying context) stirs something within him. A bit of arousal, sure, because nothing is hotter than a man who enjoys doing his paperwork for him, but mostly fondness. It’s dorky. No amount of snobbery, prestige, or engrained perfectionism will stop Miles Edgeworth from being a dork.

Larry falls silent. If not for the wafting scent of fried food and the tikis surrounding them on all sides, the atmosphere might have been refreshing in the absence of Larry’s voice. Remarkable, given the complicated web of history seated at this table.

Even when Larry is speaking though, it certainly beats Phoenix’s usual company when he dines out.

Iris’s place in all of this still eludes Phoenix. He’s certain that she wouldn’t have tolerated six months of Larry just for the chance of a double date with him. Those feelings must be true, just as hers for Phoenix were in the eight months they shared before he became a liability for her sister.

“So,” Phoenix starts, all too eager to move the conversation away from Miles and Larry, “besides hanging out with Pearls, what have you been up to, Iris?”

Iris looks relieved to have a normal topic of conversation. “I’ve been looking for jobs. It’s a bit difficult with no education on record, but I have an interview for a social worker position next week.”

“That’s great,” Phoenix says, and he means it. “Job hunting is no joke. Even if you do have a degree.” Miles— whose immediate acceptance into an extremely successful and lucrative career was the result of maliciously arranged nepotism— quietly picks at his salmon.

Larry drops his fork on the floor mid-bite. “Wait. Nick, do you think they’d overturn me being innocent from when you defended me?”

Phoenix startles a bit. Partially because he’s surprised that Larry knows what overturning a verdict is, but mostly because no one has given voice to that fear before. It has just lived in his head, goading him when it sets its sights on Larry. Or Maya. Or Miles. His three dearest friends, all shielded from death by a badge he no longer brandishes. Their protector, dismantled and rendered useless by his own naivety.

“What makes you think that?” Phoenix asks, with all the level precision he learned in his years away from the courtroom.

“I dunno. ‘Cause you faked that evidence or whatever.”

Miles sets his utensils down with force. “He did no such thing,” he snaps, the simmering severity of it far more threatening than if he raised his voice. “He was framed. You know nothing of what happened, and you will not dare insinuate such a thing in my presence ever again.”

Phoenix’s heart thunders in his chest. He’s known that Miles would vehemently defend him. Rather, Miles asserted that he would, and Phoenix nodded along to please him, regardless of whether he truly believed it.

Miles Edgeworth has been described as cold and cruel many times. He gets frustrated as all people do, whether it be with others or himself. Annoyance has quite literally etched lines into his face, and scolding is something of a default for him.

Anger is unusual. Anger on someone else’s behalf is unheard of. So to see Miles, hands balled into fists, visibly shaking with rage at just the offhand suggestion that Phoenix forged evidence?

Phoenix can’t help but wonder if he conned the courtroom in some other way, because there is no other explanation for how he winded up with this incredible person. How he became the one who the Demon Prosecutor continues to break his steely facade for, bit by bit every day.

Larry never knows when to quit. He and Phoenix are somewhat alike in that sense, with the key difference being motive. Phoenix will not relent if he believes in the cause. Whether it be a client or a friend, he will quite literally kick down doors if he must. Larry has no motive whatsoever, except for perhaps hearing himself talk or satisfying his own curiosity.

So Phoenix thinks one of those mojitos must’ve had alcohol when he hears Larry apologize. Or perhaps Miles being actually mad is as alarming to him as it is to Phoenix. “Sorry, Edgey.” And then, when the gathering storm in Miles’s eyes refuses to clear: “Sorry, Nick.”

“It’s…an understandable mistake,” Phoenix says sheepishly. He takes Miles’s hand under the table and squeezes. “I mean, that’s what all the papers were saying happened.”

Miles squeezes him back. “It’s a travesty of justice.”

“An ironic one,” Phoenix muses. “Guy known for defending people who got framed for crimes they didn’t do gets framed for a crime he didn’t do.”

“I think it points out exactly why the courts need someone like you,” Miles says matter-of-factly. Phoenix takes the extra-tight squeeze as his cue to cut the unbothered act before Miles gets upset with him instead of for him. Miles and his love of the truth and all that. It’s strangely sexy until it interferes with Phoenix’s shifty con-man shtick, and even then it is still one of Phoenix’s favorite things about him.

Iris says, “I agree.”

Her expression catches Phoenix off guard. She’s beaming at him, entirely immune to the tension stirred by his downfall. It takes the rest of the evening for him to figure out why.

What remains of the dinner is, all things considered, perfectly normal. They talk about jobs and food and a whole lot of Trucy, because Phoenix will take any opportunity to talk about his sweet girl. Iris’s questions are for the pair of them, not just Miles, and she giggles along with the stories of their adventures.

Phoenix tells her about Miles’s first attempts at cooking for him. About the time Miles’s own sister didn’t recognize him because he was wearing Phoenix’s sweats, and Franziska’s resulting outrage. About their beach trip and Phoenix’s bad tan lines. About a play they saw where Trucy made someone’s loud chip bag disappear in the middle of the performance.

With those come the memories Phoenix keeps to himself, like kissing a stray bit of frosting off of Miles’s nose when he was trying to make a cake for Trucy. Miles taking Phoenix’s sweatshirt that December in Germany because he finds its grilled cheese smell grounding. The huge shower at the airbnb they stayed in by the beach, where they got undressed in front of each other for the first time. The Steel Samurai stage show that Miles talked his ear off about for forty minutes afterwards once he fought through his embarrassment.

Objectively, Phoenix’s life fell apart. He went from having a stable, well paying job to moving into his old office and playing crappy piano for pocket change. Yet somehow, he is so happy with this little family he’s found.

Miles takes the check, as the only person with a consistently well-paying job in the room. It turns out that Iris does have a motorcycle, which she explains by saying it’s more similar to a snowmobile than a car. She and Larry have matching pink helmets.

Just when they’re about to part ways, Iris leans over and whispers in his ear.

“You picked well.”

Phoenix watches her motorcycle speed off into the distance through the windshield of Miles’s car. Miles loosens his cravat and places it aside, revealing the incriminating trails Phoenix left on his neck last night. The marks aren’t as bright as they were this morning, but that doesn’t make them stand out any less against his pale skin.

“I think your ex-girlfriend hates me,” Miles says, “and I do not say that with judgment for her. I understand that I do not have the most palatable personality.”

“She doesn’t hate you.” Phoenix gazes out at the stars. It’s not always easy to see them in L.A., but when he can, he sometimes thinks they’re winking at him. He’d like to think that’s Mia. “She feels guilty about the whole Dahlia thing. I think she wanted to make it up to me in a way, by testing if she thought you were good for me.”

Miles shudders. “I can’t imagine that went particularly well.”

Phoenix has learned not to give too much oxygen to Miles’s token self-deprecation. “You passed with flying colors, Miles. You parented my daughter and defended my honor. Somehow, you managed to find a way to get a good grade in being my boyfriend.”

“Hm.” Miles shifts the car into reverse. Phoenix lets him be while he navigates them out of the parking lot, where there are undoubtedly patrons far less sober than they are. Once they hit the road, Miles says, “If it’ll keep me in her good graces, I’ll be sure to let her know when I hit Gavin with my car.”

Not ‘if’, ‘when’. The arbiter of truth and justice would never actually do that, but the idea of the lavender splat on the pavement is enough to make Phoenix laugh. No, when he and Miles take Kristoph down, it will be perfectly legal, and that will make the revenge even sweeter.

Then again, given how angry he was with Larry, Phoenix wouldn’t be too surprised if Miles just decked Kristoph in the face.

“Hey, Miles?”

“Hm?”

“I gotta pee.”

Miles sighs. “Wright, are you serious?”

“I didn’t abandon you at dinner, did I?” Phoenix points out. “All those mojitos have to go somewhere eventually.”

“Can it wait for twenty minutes?”

“Maybe five.”

Miles’s grimace scrunches up his nose. Were he not at the wheel, Phoenix would lean over and kiss him right there. “There’s a stop up ahead. Hang on.”

A relationship is not about one person showering the other in gifts and praise, taking the scraps he gets in return without a single complaint. A relationship is about one person keeping his bladder under control so the other doesn’t have to endure an awkward conversation, and the other person sliding through five lanes of Los Angeles traffic to make the exit for a rest stop. It is an exchange.

Holding onto the door handle for dear life, Phoenix is certain that he found the right maniac to trade with.