Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain fell over Los Angeles in a relentless, gray sheet, mimicking the mood of the man staring out of his 20th-floor office window. Miles Edgeworth sipped his Earl Grey, the warmth of the porcelain cup a small comfort against the dreary afternoon. His day had been meticulously planned: review the new evidence for the State vs. Rook case, draft his closing arguments, and be home by seven for a session with his new steel-cut oats recipe.

The plan shattered at 4:32 PM.

His phone vibrated on the polished mahogany desk. It was his building's superintendent.
"Mr. Edgeworth? Bad news, sir. There's been an incident. A pipe burst on the 21st floor... it's, well, it's affected your unit significantly."

Edgeworth’s grip on the phone tightened. "Define 'affected'."

"Waterfall in the living room, sir. Your leather couch is... let's just say it's not leather anymore. The hardwood is warped. We've shut the water off, but you won't be able to stay there for... a while. Weeks, at least, for repairs and drying."

A cold, heavy feeling settled in Edgeworth's stomach. His home. His sanctuary of order and calm. Violated by something as mundane as a faulty pipe. He ended the call with terse thanks, his mind already racing through the logistical nightmare. Hotels. The noise, the lack of a proper kitchen, the people.

He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a number saved under "Wright." It was a ridiculous thought. Completely unprofessional.

Yet, a memory surfaced, unbidden: Phoenix Wright, grinning in his chaotic little office, saying, "My door's always open, Edgeworth. Seriously. Even if it's just for a halfway decent cup of coffee."

He dismissed the thought. He would book the finest suite at the Gatewater. It was the logical choice.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

An hour later, standing in the middle of his water-logged, disaster-zone of an apartment, the logic of the Gatewater felt hollow. The smell of damp and ruin was overwhelming. His books, his art, his everything was threatened. A profound sense of displacement washed over him.

His phone rang. Speak of the devil.

"Edgeworth!" Phoenix's voice was as bright and irritatingly cheerful as always, a stark contrast to the gloom. "Just wanted to check if you'd looked over those evidence files I emailed this morning. The timestamp on the security footage is fishy, I tell you."

Edgeworth closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wright. Now is not a particularly opportune time."

"Whoa, what's wrong? You sound... off."

Against his better judgment, the story spilled out in clipped, frustrated sentences. The pipe, the waterfall, the ruined couch, the weeks of displacement.

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a soft, "Yikes."

"An understatement," Edgeworth muttered, eyeing a water stain spreading across his ceiling like a Rorschach test of his misery.

"Okay, so where are you going to stay?" Phoenix asked.

"The Gatewater. I was just about to—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Phoenix cut him off. "That place is stuffy, overpriced, and the room service eggs are always rubbery."

"And you have a better alternative?" Edgeworth asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah. My couch."

The world seemed to stop. "I... beg your pardon?"

"My couch," Phoenix repeated, as if offering a spare pen. "It's a pull-out. It's not... Well, it's not whatever fancy orthopedic masterpiece you probably own, but it's dry. And free. Maya and I have a guest room, but it's full of files and empty burger boxes so the couch would probably be easier."

"Wright, that is a profoundly unprofessional and unnecessary offer. I couldn't possibly impose."

"You're not imposing, I'm insisting. Look, Edgeworth, you're my friend. Friends help each other out. It's just for a few weeks. What's the alternative, you stewing in a hotel room by yourself and getting even more cynical?"

Edgeworth was speechless. The word "friend" echoed in the silent, damp space. It was an offer born of such genuine, simple kindness that it completely disarmed his usual defenses. It was also, from a practical standpoint, a nightmare scenario.

"Think about it," Phoenix said, his tone softening. "No pressure. But the offer stands. I've gotta go, Maya is ranting to me about the Steel Samurai. Again. Text me."

The line went dead.

Miles Edgeworth stood alone in the wreckage of his home, the phone still pressed to his ear. He looked at the ruined, once-perfect lines of his apartment. Then he looked down at his phone, at the name "Wright" on the screen.

It was madness. It was chaos waiting to happen. It was, he realized with a sinking feeling, his only viable option. Because the thought of facing this chaos alone was suddenly far more daunting than the thought of facing Phoenix Wright's pull-out couch.

With a sigh of utter defeat, he typed a single message.

I accept your offer. Please send your address.
…
Thank you.

He pressed send before he could change his mind, the message sealing his fate. The Demon Prosecutor was moving in with the defense attorney who had turned his entire life upside-down. Again.

Chapter Text

The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time Miles Edgeworth’s red sports car pulled up to the address Phoenix Wright had provided. It was a modest, slightly weathered two-story building, nestled between a laundromat and a small grocery store. A far cry from the sterile, silent luxury of his own high-rise.

He sat in the driver's seat for a full five minutes, engine off, wipers giving one last, weary squeak against the windshield. This was a mistake. A colossal error in judgment. He could still turn back. The Gatewater’s rubbery eggs were a small price to pay for his sanity and privacy.

His phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

Wright Saw a fancy red car pull up. You doing reconnaissance or are you coming in? Maya made "welcome brownies." Consider this your final warning.

Edgeworth’s lips thinned into a line. Too late for retreat. He had given his word. With the grim resolve of a man walking to the gallows, he grabbed his two meticulously packed suitcases (one for clothing, one for work and tea essentials) and exited the car.

The staircase to the second-floor apartment creaked under his polished leather shoes. He reached the door, marked with a slightly crooked "Wright & Co. Law Offices" sign, and before he could knock, it swung open.

"Edgeworth! You made it!" Phoenix beamed, dressed in a faded blue sweatshirt and jeans. He looked… comfortable. It was unnerving. Behind him, the apartment erupted in a burst of motion and sound.

"Hey, Edgeworth! Long time no see!" Maya Fey popped out from behind Phoenix, grinning widely. She was holding a plate of lumpy, dark brown squares that were presumably the welcome brownies. "Nick said your place got wrecked! Don't worry, our couch may look like a loser, but it's a secret winner! And I added extra channeling power to the brownies for strength!"

"Channeling power usually involves ectoplasm, Maya, and I don't think that's a food-safe ingredient," Phoenix said, gently steering her back. He gestured for Edgeworth to enter. "Come on in. Try to ignore the... everything."

Edgeworth crossed the threshold and stopped, his senses under immediate assault.

It wasn't dirty, per se. It was… lived-in. Profoundly so. Case files formed precarious towers on every available surface. A stack of Iron Infant manga sat on the coffee table next to a half-eaten bag of burgers. The scent of cheap coffee, chocolate, and faint traces of incense warred for dominance. A bright blue whoopee cushion sat proudly on an armchair, a clear trap he noted to avoid.

It was the absolute antithesis of his own minimalist haven. It was controlled chaos, and he felt his carefully ordered world begin to tilt on its axis.

"Your… couch," Edgeworth stated, his voice tighter than he intended.

"Oh, right! This way." Phoenix led him past the main living area to a slightly more secluded space that seemed to function as a combined TV room and library, if the library had been organized by a hurricane. Against the wall was a large, slightly sagging sofa with a garish floral pattern.

"This is it," Phoenix announced with a proud gesture. "The famous pull-out. I'll warn you, the bar in the middle has a personality, and it sometimes likes to make a break for freedom in the middle of the night. But it's clean!"

Edgeworth stared at the sofa as if it were a hostile witness. He set his suitcases down with precise, deliberate movements, aligning them perfectly parallel to the wall.

"Thank you, Wright. This will be… sufficient."

"Don't sound so excited," Phoenix chuckled. "Maya, can you get our guest a glass of water?"

"On it, Nick!" Maya skipped off to the kitchen.

Phoenix turned back to Edgeworth, his expression softening into something more genuine. "Seriously. I know it's not what you're used to. But make yourself at home. The bathroom's down the hall, towels are in the cupboard, and the Wi-Fi password is 'Objection123'."

"Charming," Edgeworth deadpanned.

Maya returned with a glass of water, which Edgeworth accepted with a polite, "Thank you, Ms. Fey."

She watched him, her head tilted. "You're a lot taller than our couch, Edgeworth. Are your feet gonna hang off the end?"

"Maya!" Phoenix hissed, looking mortified.

Edgeworth felt a strange, unexpected twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was not a smile, he assured himself. Merely a muscle spasm brought on by profound psychological distress. "I shall… manage, Ms. Fey. Thank you for your concern."

An awkward silence descended. Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck. "So… I guess I should let you get settled. We usually order takeout on nights like this. Any preferences? There's a good Thai place, a so-so Italian place, and a burger joint that Gumshoe swears by."

"Ooh! Burgers!" Maya chimed in immediately, her eyes sparkling. "Get extra fries! We have to show Edgeworth the proper way to live!"

The thought of trying to make a culinary decision in this maelstrom was overwhelming. "I have no preference. Whatever you choose is… acceptable."

"Right. Burgers it is." Phoenix pulled out his phone, already navigating a food delivery app.

Edgeworth stood rooted to the spot, his suitcases at his feet like islands of order in a sea of chaos. He was here. He was actually here, in Phoenix Wright's home, about to sleep on a floral-printed torture device and eat greasy burgers under the watchful eye of a spirit medium.

Maya, sensing his paralysis, picked up a brownie and offered it to him. "For bravery," she said with a grin. "And don't worry, I'm only like, 80% sure I mixed up the sugar and the salt."

Hesitantly, Miles Edgeworth took the brownie. It was slightly overcooked and lopsided. He took a small bite. It was, indeed, alarmingly salty.

But as he stood there, a displaced aristocrat in a defense attorney's cluttered living room, being watched by a mischievous spirit medium and her frustratingly kind childhood friend, he had to admit one thing to himself.

It was, against all odds and logic, not entirely unpleasant. In its own chaotic way, it was... familiar.

Chapter Text

The cardboard burger containers and fry trays had been cleared away, the last of the rain had ceased, and a quiet hush had fallen over the Wright & Co. Law Offices. Maya, after a valiant but failed attempt to stay awake through a Steel Samurai rerun, had succumbed to sleep on the actual, non-pull-out part of the couch, a blanket tucked haphazardly around her.

Phoenix and Edgeworth had retreated to the small kitchen table, a scarred wooden thing upon which Phoenix’s case files had been temporarily pushed aside to make room for two mugs. Phoenix nursed a cheap beer. Edgeworth, having politely but firmly declined the offer of one, had boiled water and was now steeping his own imported Earl Grey in a porcelain cup he’d unpacked from his suitcase. The contrast was almost comical.

“So,” Phoenix said, breaking the comfortable silence. “The Rook case. That timestamp. You saw it, right?”

Edgeworth took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. “Naturally. The security footage from the gallery’s west wing is clearly doctored. The pixelation around the time display is inconsistent with the rest of the image. A clumsy forgery.”

“I knew it!” Phoenix grinned, leaning forward and almost knocking over his beer. “I told you it was fishy. It’s the kind of thing only someone who looks at evidence under a microscope would notice.”

“Or anyone with a rudimentary understanding of digital imaging,” Edgeworth countered, though there was no bite to it. He set his cup down with a soft click. “You would have noticed it yourself eventually, Wright. You have a… peculiar talent for stumbling upon the truth.”

“Peculiar?” Phoenix raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Is that the Demon Prosecutor’s way of giving me a compliment?”

“It is an observation of fact. Nothing more.” Edgeworth kept his gaze fixed on his tea, but a faint flush touched his cheeks. “Your methods are chaotic and often defy legal convention, but they are, regrettably, effective.”

“Regrettably?” Phoenix’s smile widened. He rested his chin on his hand. “You regret that I’m effective?”

Edgeworth finally looked up, meeting Phoenix’s gaze. The dim kitchen light softened the sharp lines of his face. “I regret the sheer number of headaches you’ve caused me over the years. My hair would be significantly less gray without your… interventions.”

“Hey, I think the gray makes you look distinguished.” The words were out of Phoenix’s mouth before he could filter them, softer and more sincere than he’d intended.

The air in the small kitchen shifted. It was no longer just about the case.

Edgeworth didn’t look away. He seemed to be studying Phoenix, his silver eyes unreadable. “You say the most absurd things, Wright.”

“You stick your nose up at my absurdities, but you’re still here,” Phoenix countered, his voice low so as not to wake Maya. “You could be at the Gatewater with their sterile silence and their rubbery eggs. Yet, you’re here, drinking tea at my messy kitchen table.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and Maya’s soft, sleepy sigh from the other room.

“The tea at the Gatewater is abysmal,” Edgeworth said finally, his voice equally quiet. “They use pre-bagged Lipton.”

Phoenix chuckled softly. “A fate worse than death.” He swirled the last of his beer in the bottle. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you’re here. Even if it’s just for the lack of abysmal tea.”

Edgeworth’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. He looked from Phoenix’s face to the sleeping form of Maya, then back to the comforting, familiar chaos of the cluttered kitchen. It was all so terribly unprofessional. So utterly Phoenix.

“The company,” he said, the words measured and deliberate, “is marginally preferable to the silence.”

It was the closest he would come to admitting he was glad, too.

Phoenix’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “High praise, Edgeworth. Should I mark this on my calendar?”

“Don’t push your luck, Wright,” Edgeworth murmured, but the usual sharpness was gone, replaced by a weary fondness. He took a final sip of his tea. “We should retire. We both have a forgery to dismantle in court tomorrow.”

“Right.” Phoenix stood, stretching. “I’ll get you some extra pillows. That metal bar in the couch is a vengeful spirit.”

As Phoenix rummaged in a hallway closet, Edgeworth remained seated for a moment longer, looking at the empty space where Phoenix had been. The ghost of a smile, small and private, finally touched his lips. It was, he decided, a most objectionable, chaotic, and entirely unexpected turn of events. And for once, he didn't feel the need to object.

Chapter Text

The world was a study in shadows and silence. The distant hum of a refrigerator, the soft, rhythmic breathing of Maya from the other room—these were the only sounds in the Wright & Co. Law Offices. For Miles Edgeworth, curled uncomfortably on the pull-out couch with the vengeful metal bar pressing into his lower back, sleep had been a fleeting and elusive thing.

His mind, always racing, had been churning through the Rook case. The doctored timestamp, the gallery layout, the witness's contradictory testimony. It was a jigsaw puzzle with a piece forcibly jammed in the wrong spot.

And then, in the deep stillness of 3:17 AM, it clicked.

His eyes snapped open. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, the entire sequence of events realigning itself in his mind with perfect, crystalline clarity. It wasn't just the timestamp. It was the lighting. The gallery's west wing had no windows, relying solely on timed halogen spots. The forgery on the timestamp was a smokescreen for a much simpler, more elegant trick—one that shifted the entire timeline of the crime.

The realization was a physical jolt. He had to articulate it. He had to tell… someone. He had to tell Wright.

The thought was irrational. It was the middle of the night. The man was asleep. Yet, the compulsion was overwhelming. This was their dynamic, wasn't it? This back-and-forth, this sharpening of arguments against each other. He needed the sound of Wright’s voice, even if it was groggy with sleep, to test the strength of this new theory.

Moving with a predator's silence, Edgeworth extricated himself from the couch's floral clutches. He didn't bother with his suit jacket or cravat, padding barefoot across the cool wooden floor in just his silk pajama pants and a thin, button-down sleep shirt.

Phoenix’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. Edgeworth paused, his hand hovering near the frame. This was an intrusion. A profound one.

He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

The room was even darker, smelling faintly of Phoenix—a mix of cheap shampoo, clean cotton, and that indefinable scent that was simply him. Phoenix was a tangled lump of blankets, one arm thrown over his head, his dark hair a wild mess against the pillow. He looked younger in his sleep, the lines of constant worry and bright-eyed optimism smoothed away.

Edgeworth stood there for a long moment, the words dying in his throat. This was a mistake. He should turn back.

"Wright," he whispered, the name barely audible.

Phoenix stirred, mumbling something incoherent into his pillow.

"Wright," Edgeworth said again, a little louder, stepping closer to the bedside.

This time, Phoenix’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, disoriented, his gaze swimming in the darkness before it focused on the tall, pale figure standing over him. He didn't jump or startle. He just… looked.

"Edgeworth…?" His voice was rough with sleep, a low, warm rumble. "Wah's wrong? Are you okay?"

"It's about the Rook case, the timestamp forgery." Edgeworth said, the words coming out in a rushed, quiet torrent. “Ive been thinking about it all night, and now—”

"Whoa, whoa," Phoenix murmured, cutting him off and pushing himself up on his elbows. He was smiling, a soft, sleepy thing that made Edgeworth's well-ordered sentence trail off. "Slow down. It's 3 in the morning."

Edgeworth blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings—the warmth of the room, the scent of Phoenix's shampoo, the fact that he was sitting on the man's bed in the middle of the night. He straightened his back, a flush creeping up his neck. "My apologies. I... I'll let you return to sleep."

He made to stand, but Phoenix’s hand shot out, not to grab him, but to rest lightly on his arm, just above the wrist. The touch was warm, grounding. "No, it's okay. I'm listening. The timestamp?"

Edgeworth looked down at Phoenix's hand, then back at his face. The legal argument, so blazingly clear moments before, had fragmented. All he could focus on was the contact, the trust in the gesture. Phoenix Wright, half-asleep, was ready to listen to his rival's midnight theory without a hint of skepticism.

"The timestamp forgery is a decoy. We've been focusing on the digital manipulation, but the key is the physical lighting. The halogens in the west wing are on a separate, programmable timer. If the culprit changed that schedule, even by ten minutes, it would completely alter the shadows visible in the authentic parts of the footage. The time on the tape wouldn't matter. The light would be lying for them."

He finished, his chest feeling tight. He was sitting in a man's bedroom in the middle of the night, talking about halogen lighting. He felt utterly foolish.

Phoenix was silent for a beat, his brain clearly struggling to boot up. Then, a slow, deep understanding dawned on his face. He pushed himself up on one elbow, the blankets pooling around his waist. He was shirtless, Edgeworth noted with a sudden, distracting intensity.

"That's…" Phoenix ran a hand through his messy hair. "Edgeworth, that's it. That's the missing link. The witness said the room felt 'dimmer' but couldn't explain why." A wide, awe-filled grin spread across his face. "You figured it out. In the middle of the night."

"You would have stumbled upon it eventually," Edgeworth murmured, suddenly unable to hold that bright, sleep-softened gaze. He looked away, towards the window. "My apologies for waking you. The thought was… pressing."

"Don't apologize," Phoenix said, his voice still husky. "This is… this is what we do. You sharpen the arguments. I find the heart of the matter. We meet in the middle."

The space between them, from the bed to where Edgeworth sat, seemed to crackle with a new, unspoken energy. The pretense of the case was fading, leaving only the raw, intimate truth of the situation: one man had come to the other's bedside in the dark, driven by a need to share a part of himself.

"Couldn't sleep?" Phoenix asked softly, his hand still resting on Edgeworth's arm.

"The couch is an instrument of torture, as advertised," Edgeworth replied, the complaint lacking its usual heat.

A sleepy chuckle. "Told you." Phoenix's thumb moved, a slow, absent-minded stroke against the fine fabric of Edgeworth's sleeve. "You can... you can stay. Talk. If you want."

It was a dangerous offer. A line, once crossed, that would be impossible to uncross. Edgeworth looked at Phoenix—his messy hair, his sleepy, open expression, the hand that was still holding onto him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He placed his own hand over Phoenix's, just for a second, a brief, shocking press of skin. "No," he said, his voice rough. "We have court in the morning. Go back to sleep, Wright."

He stood, and Phoenix's hand fell away. He walked to the door, pausing on the threshold.

"Edgeworth?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for telling me. First thing."

"Of course. Goodnight, Phoenix."

The name slipped out, unguarded and true.

He didn't wait for a response. He retreated to the floral-printed hellscape of the pull-out couch, his mind buzzing not with legal theories, but with the lingering warmth of a touch and the sound of his own name, spoken in the dark.

Chapter Text

The smell of scorched coffee grounds was Miles Edgeworth’s alarm clock. He had finally fallen into a fitful sleep just before dawn, and the rude awakening was a perfect match for the ache in his back. He emerged from the pull-out couch, feeling more disheveled than he had in years, his usually impeccable hair refusing to lie flat.

In the kitchen, a scene of pure chaos was unfolding. Maya was cheerfully pouring what looked like rainbow sprinkles onto a piece of toast, while Phoenix, his eyes still puffy with sleep, was staring blankly at a coffee maker that was hissing like an angry cat.

“It’s possessed, I’m telling you,” Phoenix mumbled, poking at the machine.

“Good morning, Uncle Miles!” Maya chirped. “Sleep well?”

Edgeworth, who had not been consulted about the “Uncle” moniker and found himself powerless to stop it, merely grunted. He moved past her with a singular focus: the electric kettle. He needed tea. Now.

“The coffee maker is revolting,” Phoenix said by way of a greeting, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. He was wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and he looked… soft. Approachable. His shirt looked a bit too small for him, and it hugged his abs in a way that made Edgeworth feel saddled with… unnecessary feelings. It was deeply unsettling.

“A common sentiment among those who encounter your legal strategies, Wright,” Edgeworth retorted, though the barb lacked its usual precision. He was too tired.

Phoenix shot him a half-hearted glare. “Says the man who looks like he just lost a fight with a bicycle.” He gestured vaguely at Edgeworth’s hair.

Before Edgeworth could form a cutting reply, the coffee maker gave a final, sputtering gasp and fell silent, producing a half-cup of thick, black sludge. Phoenix groaned, leaning his forehead against the cupboard. “I can’t do this without caffeine. I can’t face that witness and his stupid, smug, forgery-face without caffeine.”

Edgeworth finished preparing his tea, the serene ritual a bastion of calm. He took a slow, savoring sip of the fragrant Earl Grey. He watched Phoenix, who was now looking at the sludge in his mug with utter despair.

It happened without thinking. The words were out of his mouth before his sleep-deprived brain could engage its usual filters.

“If you require sustenance that badly,” Edgeworth said, his tone deliberately casual as he stared into his teacup, “you are welcome to share my tea. It’s far superior, and I… have enough for two.”

The silence that fell was profound. Maya stopped sprinkling, her eyes wide. Phoenix slowly lifted his head from the cupboard, his expression one of pure, unadulterated shock.

Edgeworth froze, his own words echoing in his ears. What did I just say? He never shared his personal blend. Ever. It was imported from a specific estate in Sri Lanka. Gumshoe had once reached for his tin and he’d nearly taken the man’s hand off.

Phoenix’s shock melted into a slow, dawning smile that was far too knowing for this hour of the morning. “Are you offering to share your precious, sacred tea, Miles Edgeworth? The same tea you guard like a dragon with its hoard?”

Edgeworth’s cheeks flushed a tell-tale pink. He straightened his spine, clutching the cup like a lifeline. “I was merely stating a logistical fact. I Withdraw the offer. Drink your tar.”

“No, no, I don’t think I will,” Phoenix said, his voice a low, playful rumble. He took a step closer, his sleep-softened demeanor suddenly sharp with amusement. “I think I’d like to try the tea that’s so good it makes the great Miles Edgeworth forget his own rules.”

He was standing too close. Edgeworth could see the faint freckles across his nose, the lingering sleep in the corner of his eyes.

“It was a moment of weakness induced by sleep deprivation,” Edgeworth insisted, his voice tight. “Do not read into it.”

“Too late,” Phoenix whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. “I’m reading all the subtext. You want to take care of me.”

The flush on Edgeworth’s neck deepened. He was utterly cornered. “I want you to be coherent enough in court to not embarrass yourself. There is a distinction.”

“Is there?” Phoenix’s eyes were sparkling now. He reached out, not for the tea, but to gently pluck a stray thread from the lapel of Edgeworth’s dressing gown. The simple, domestic gesture sent a jolt through Edgeworth’s system. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds an awful lot like you were being sweet.”

From the table, Maya let out a dramatic gasp. “He’s right! You were being sweet, Uncle Miles!”

Edgeworth looked from Maya’s gleeful face to Phoenix’s unbearably smug one. He had no defense. The evidence was conclusive. With a sound of pure frustration, he thrust his own, half-full cup of tea into Phoenix’s hands.

“Here. Drink it. And do not speak to me until we are in the courtroom.”

He turned on his heel and marched stiffly toward the bathroom, the sound of Phoenix Wright’s laughter following him down the hall. It was going to be a very, very long day.

Chapter Text

“Objection!”

Phoenix Wright’s voice cut through the sterile air of the courtroom. He pointed, his signature gesture filled with a fire that both infuriated and captivated Miles Edgeworth.

“The prosecution’s entire theory rests on this timestamp!” Phoenix declared, turning to the jury. “But as we’ve just established, the software used to create this ‘inconsistency’ is the same software used by the police evidence division! The prosecution is asking you to trust evidence that could have been—and likely was—tampered with from the inside!”

Edgeworth’s jaw tightened. He had given Wright this. He had handed him the key to the case on a silver platter in the middle of the night, and now the defense attorney was wielding it like a cudgel against him. It was the correct move. It was what he, as a seeker of truth, should want. But the smug, confident look on Wright’s face, the way he played to the jury… it grated.

“The court is well aware of the defense’s baseless insinuations,” Edgeworth countered, his voice icy. “Unless Mr. Wright has concrete proof linking a specific officer to this act, he is merely speculating. And the court has no time for flights of fancy.”

“Is it a flight of fancy, Mr. Edgeworth?” Phoenix turned his gaze back to him, and his eyes held a challenge that went beyond the case. “Or is it inconvenient? You were so quick to focus on the how of the forgery, you completely overlooked the who. It took an outside perspective to see what was right in front of you.”

The words were a direct hit, a reminder of the intimacy of the night before, now weaponized in this public arena. It felt like a betrayal, though it was nothing of the sort. It was just Wright being Wright. But the combination of professional frustration and the raw, unprocessed intimacy from the last 18 hours was a volatile mix.

“The prosecution’s case is built on fact, not conjecture,” Edgeworth snapped, his control fraying. He could feel the judge and the jury watching him, sensing the shift. “The defense’s theatrics are a transparent attempt to distract from his client’s overwhelming motive!”

“The only thing overwhelming here is the prosecution’s willingness to ignore a glaring hole in his own evidence!” Phoenix shot back, his voice rising to match Edgeworth’s. “Or are you just embarrassed that you missed it?”

That was it.

The carefully constructed wall of Miles Edgeworth’s composure shattered.

“Your Honor!” Edgeworth’s voice was sharp, loud enough to echo in the suddenly silent courtroom. He didn’t even look at the judge, his silver eyes locked on a startled Phoenix. “I request a fifteen-minute recess!”

The judge, looking bewildered, banged his gavel. “Very well. Court is in recess for fifteen minutes.”

Before the gavel’s echo had faded, Edgeworth was moving. He strode around the prosecution’s bench, his heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. He didn’t break his stride as he passed the defense’s table.

He grabbed Phoenix Wright by the wrist.

Phoenix’s eyes widened in shock. “Edgeworth—what are you—?”

“Not a word,” Edgeworth hissed, his grip like iron. He pulled, and Phoenix, too stunned to resist, was dragged from his spot and propelled toward the side exit of the courtroom.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gallery. Maya’s jaw was on the floor. But Edgeworth saw none of it. He saw only the hallway, and his destination: the men’s restroom.

He shouldered the door open, the force of it slamming against the wall. He checked that the stalls were empty in a single, sweeping, furious glance. Satisfied, he released Wright’s wrist as if burned and rounded on him.

The heavy door swung shut, cutting off the sounds of the courthouse and plunging them into a sudden, tense silence, broken only by the drip of a faucet and their own ragged breathing.

Chapter Text

The heavy door swung shut, cutting off the sounds of the courthouse and plunging them into a sudden, tense silence, broken only by the drip of a faucet and their own ragged breathing.

Phoenix rubbed his wrist, though the grip hadn't been painful, just shockingly firm. "What the hell, Edgeworth? Are you out of your mind? People saw—"

"You are the one who is out of his mind!" Edgeworth’s voice was a low, furious whisper, all the more intense for its restraint. He stood rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. "What was that display out there?"

"It's called my job!" Phoenix shot back, his own temper flaring. "You handed me the argument! Was I just supposed to ignore it?"

“You pushed me, Wright,” Edgeworth bit out, the words sharp and dangerous. He took a step closer, invading Phoenix’s space. The air crackled between them. “You stood there and used my own words, a theory I shared with you in a moment of… of…”

“Of what?” Phoenix challenged, pushing off the wall to stand his ground. Their height difference was negligible, but Edgeworth’s presence was overwhelming. “Trust? Partnership? What do you call it, Edgeworth? Because from where I was standing, I was doing my job! The job you helped me do!”

“Do not pretend this is purely professional!” Edgeworth’s voice dropped to a seething whisper, laced with a vulnerability that was terrifyingly rare. “You looked at me with that… that insufferable smirk and threw last night in my face! In front of the entire court!”

“I was making a point about the evidence!”

“You were making a point about us!” The word exploded into the space between them, hanging there, undeniable and terrifying.

Phoenix froze. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a sudden, breathless understanding. This wasn’t about the case. Not really.

Edgeworth seemed to realize what he’d said a second later. He recoiled as if struck, his face paling. He turned away, running a trembling hand through his perfectly styled bangs, disheveling them. “I… That is not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” Phoenix asked softly. He took a tentative step forward. “You dragged me in here because I got under your skin. Not as a lawyer, but as… me.”

Edgeworth didn’t answer. His shoulders were rigid, a portrait of a man whose meticulously constructed walls were crumbling into dust.

“Miles,” Phoenix said, the name a gentle plea in the quiet room.

That got his attention. Edgeworth turned back to face him, his expression a battlefield of conflict. The anger was gone, replaced by a desperate, aching confusion. “You have no idea,” he whispered, “what you do to me. You have no idea how impossible you make everything.”

Phoenix’s answer was simple, inevitable. "I think I do have an idea. I make you—"

He was cut off as Edgeworth closed the final distance between them. It wasn't a violent move, but one of sheer, desperate surrender. His hands came up to frame Phoenix’s face, and he kissed him.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a collision—of frustration, of years of unspoken tension, of the intimacy of shared tea and midnight conversations. It was an answer and a question all at once. Phoenix froze for a single, stunned second before his hands came up to grip Edgeworth’s waist, pulling him closer, kissing him back with equal fervor. The world, the case, the reason they were there—it all melted away into the shocking, perfect heat of the moment.

The bathroom door swung open with a creak.

They sprang apart as if electrocuted.

A bailiff stood in the doorway, his face a mask of professional neutrality, though his eyes were wide. He cleared his throat.

"The, uh... the fifteen-minute recess is over, gentlemen. The judge is reconvening."

He quickly retreated, leaving the door ajar.

The spell was shattered. The real world rushed back in, cold and unforgiving. They stood there, breathing heavily, staring at each other in stunned, horrified silence. Phoenix’s lips were still tingling. Edgeworth’s face was a pale canvas of panic and regret.

Without a word, Edgeworth straightened his cravat with trembling fingers, his composure slamming back into place like a fortress gate. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, not looking back.

Phoenix was left alone, leaning against the cold sink, the taste of Earl Grey on his lips, and the impossible echo of an unfinished confession hanging in the air.

Chapter Text

The verdict was a resounding "Not Guilty."

It should have been a moment of triumph. The real forger, Detective Cline, had been exposed, his arrogant scheme unraveling under Phoenix’s relentless, if slightly shaky, cross-examination. The gallery had erupted, Maya was practically vibrating with excitement, and their client was weeping with relief.

But for Phoenix, the victory felt hollow, a backdrop to the silent, screaming tension that had filled the space between the defense and prosecution benches for the rest of the trial. Edgeworth had been flawless, pivoting with cold efficiency once the evidence turned, conceding points with a grace that felt more like a dismissal than an admission of defeat. He hadn’t looked at Phoenix once.

Now, the courtroom was emptying. Maya had already dashed off to call Pearl with the good news. The bailiffs were shuffling papers. And Miles Edgeworth was meticulously placing files into his briefcase, the click of the latches sounding like final, decisive statements.

Phoenix’s heart was back to pounding again. He couldn’t let this end here. He couldn’t go back to that apartment, to that terrible couch, and pretend.

He crossed the floor before he could lose his nerve. “Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth didn’t look up. “Adequate work today, Wright. You managed to capitalize on the discrepancy. Your client is free.” The praise was so clinical it was insulting.

“We need to talk,” Phoenix said, his voice low.

“About the case? I believe the matter is closed.”

“You know it’s not.” Phoenix’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “About the recess. About what happened in the bathroom.”

Finally, Edgeworth looked up. His silver eyes were like shards of ice. He looked… bored. “The recess was necessary. The atmosphere had become unproductive. I required a moment to recalibrate.”

Phoenix stared, disbelief washing over him. “Recalibrate? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Edgeworth said coolly, snapping his briefcase shut. He made to move past him.

Panic and anger flared in Phoenix’s chest. He stepped into his path. “You’re referring to the part where you kissed me? Or did you hit your head and get amnesia on the way back to court?”

The moment the words were out, he saw it—a flicker of pure, unadulterated panic in Edgeworth’s eyes. It was there and gone in a nanosecond, replaced by a mask of such profound disdain it took Phoenix’s breath away.

“That is a profoundly unprofessional and delusional thing to say, Wright,” Edgeworth said, his voice dangerously quiet. “If the stress of the trial has caused you to fabricate such… inappropriate fantasies, I suggest you seek rest.”

Fantasies. The word was a masterfully aimed dagger. It was designed to make Phoenix feel small, crazy, and ashamed. And for a terrifying second, it worked. Had he imagined it? No. The memory was too vivid, too physical. The taste, the feel, the sound of his breathing.

“You’re lying,” Phoenix whispered, his own voice shaking with hurt and fury. “Why are you lying to me?”

Edgeworth’s jaw was so tight it looked like it might crack. “There is nothing to lie about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to arrange for alternative lodging, as my apartment remains uninhabitable.”

The statement hung in the air. The logical part of Phoenix’s brain screamed at him to let the bastard go, to let him freeze in a hotel room alone. But the part of him that had seen the scared boy in the man, the part that had spent over half his life chasing him, couldn’t do it.

“The offer still stands,” Phoenix heard himself say, the words tasting like ash. “The couch is still there.”

Edgeworth looked as if he’d been offered a plate of live spiders. “That will not be necessary.”

“It is if you don’t want to explain to Gumshoe why you’re wasting department funds on a five-star hotel when you have a free place to stay,” Phoenix countered, crossing his arms. He was leveraging Edgeworth’s own sense of propriety against him, and he hated himself for it. But he couldn’t let him run away. Not like this.

The internal war on Edgeworth’s face was brief but violent. Pride, fear, and a desperate need for control battled it out. The need for a logical, fiscally responsible excuse won.

“Very well,” he bit out, the words clearly painful. “For the sake of convenience. And it will be strictly temporary.”

“Right. Temporary,” Phoenix echoed, the word feeling like a life sentence.

+++++++++++++

The car ride home was suffocating. Silence filled the space, thick and heavy. Edgeworth stared rigidly out the passenger window, his profile a marble sculpture of disapproval. Phoenix white-knuckled the steering wheel, every red light an eternity.

They arrived at the apartment. The familiar clutter, which usually felt like home, now felt like a chaotic trap. Maya was out for the evening at a friend’s, leaving them in a silence that was even more profound.

Edgeworth walked directly to the pull-out couch, placing his briefcase beside it with military precision. He began to unmake it, his movements sharp and efficient.

“So we’re just not going to talk about it?” Phoenix finally said, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. “You’re just going to pretend you didn’t have a… a moment?”

Edgeworth didn’t turn around, his shoulders stiffening. “There is nothing to discuss. You are misremembering a stressful situation. It is a common psychological phenomenon.”

“I’m not misremembering you shoving me against a sink!” Phoenix’s voice rose, frustration boiling over.

Edgeworth whirled around, and the raw, scared look was back in his eyes for a split second before it was smothered by anger. “Enough! Must you persist in this… this sordid fantasy? Is this some attempt at humor? Or are you truly so desperate for… for attention that you would invent such a thing?”

The words were meant to wound, to push him away so far he’d never come back. But Phoenix finally saw through them. He saw the terror behind the cruelty. This wasn’t the Demon Prosecutor. This was a terrified man, scrambling to bury a part of himself he’d been taught to despise.

“It’s okay, you know,” Phoenix said softly, his anger draining away, replaced by a deep, aching pity. “To be… to feel that way. It’s okay, Miles.”

The use of his first name seemed to be the final straw. Edgeworth flinched as if struck. His face went pale. “Don’t,” he whispered, the word strangled. “Don’t call me that. And don’t… don’t say things like that. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He turned back to the couch, his movements losing their precise edge, becoming almost jerky. “There is nothing to ‘be okay’ about, because nothing happened. I am going to sleep. We will not speak of this again.”

It wasn’t a statement. It was a command. A plea. A wall being erected brick by terrified brick.

Phoenix watched him, the proud, brilliant man looking suddenly small and lost in the middle of the floral-print couch. He wanted to push, to break down the walls and pull him out. But he knew, with a sinking certainty, that if he pushed any harder right now, Miles Edgeworth would shatter completely.

So he just nodded, his own heart aching. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, Edgeworth.”

He received no reply. He walked to his room, closing the door and leaning against it, listening to the oppressive silence from the living room. He had won the trial, but he felt like he’d just lost something infinitely more important. And he had no idea how, or if, he could ever get it back.

Chapter Text

Miles Edgeworth did not sleep.

He lay rigid on the pull-out couch from hell, the metal bar a dull, persistent ache in his back that was nothing compared to the turmoil in his mind. The floral pattern of the upholstery was seared onto the back of his eyelids, a mocking, garish reminder of where he was. Of what he had done.

“You kissed me.”

Wright’s voice, laced with hurt and confusion, echoed in the silent apartment, a relentless prosecution with no defense. He had denied it. Vehemently. Cruelly. He had called it a fantasy, a delusion. He had wielded his words like a blade, aiming to maim, to create enough distance to be safe.

But the evidence was incontrovertible. The tactile memory was a brand. The softness of Wright’s—Phoenix’s—lips. The faint stubble against his own clean-shaven skin. The way Phoenix had frozen for a heart-stopping second before melting into the kiss, his hands coming up to grip his waist, pulling him closer as if he were something precious, something wanted.

A shudder wracked his frame. Wanted. The word was an abyss. For years, he had structured his entire existence around being respected, feared, impeccable, and untouchable. Desire was a variable he could not control. It was messy. It was vulnerable. And it was, according to the ghost of his father’s legacy and the sneering voice of Manfred von Karma, a catastrophic weakness. For a man, to want another man… it was a deviation from the perfect path. A flaw to be excised.

He had spent a lifetime excising his flaws.

But this… this felt less like a flaw and more like a fundamental truth he had been at war with for decades, and the battle had just been lost in a courthouse bathroom.

The soft chime of the grandfather clock in the hall marked 3:00 AM. He heard the faint, sleepy mumble of Maya Fey from her room, followed by the sound of her door clicking shut after a late-night trip to the bathroom. The apartment settled back into a deep silence.

That was his cue. The irrational, compulsive need that had been building in him all night finally overrode a lifetime of rigid self-control. He had to see. He had to know if it had been real, or if the stress had truly spawned a psychosis.

He slid off the couch, his movements silent. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He didn't bother with his dressing gown. Dressed only in his silk pajama pants and a thin, button-down top, he felt terrifyingly exposed. He padded to Phoenix’s door, his heart hammering a frantic, traitorous rhythm against his ribs.

The door was, as before, slightly ajar. He pushed it open just enough to slip inside.

The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the window. It was even more chaotic than the living room, with case files stacked on a chair and a bright blue beanie draped over a lamp. And in the center of it all, in a tangle of sheets, was Phoenix Wright.

He was asleep on his stomach, one arm curled under his pillow, his face turned toward the door. The usual animated, often frustratingly earnest expression was smoothed into one of profound peace. His dark hair was a wild mess against the white pillowcase. In the quiet dark, he looked younger. Unburdened.

Edgeworth stood frozen just inside the door, simply watching him breathe. The rise and fall of his shoulders was a rhythm that somehow soothed the screaming chaos in his own mind. This was real. This man was real. The kiss had been real. The denial felt like a sacrilege.

He didn't know how long he stood there, a statue of conflicted yearning, before a soft groan came from the bed.

Phoenix stirred, his brow furrowing. He shifted, his eyes fluttering open. They were unfocused, bleary with sleep, and they landed directly on the figure standing in the shadows by his door.

He jolted, scrambling back with a gasp, his hand fumbling for the lamp. "Wha—? Who's—?"

The light clicked on, casting a warm, yellow glow over the room.

The two men stared at each other, one shocked and confused in his bed, the other pale and frozen like a deer in headlights, caught in the act.

"Edgeworth?" Phoenix's voice was rough with sleep. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. "What... what are you doing in here? Is everything okay?"

Edgeworth couldn't speak. His carefully constructed denials, his walls of ice, had melted in the face of being discovered. He was laid bare, his secret, terrified longing exposed by the simple act of being caught staring. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just stood there, trembling slightly, his silver eyes wide with a panic he could no longer conceal.

Phoenix’s initial shock began to fade, replaced by a dawning, cautious understanding. He saw the dark circles under Edgeworth’s eyes, the tremble in his hands, the absolute lack of any composure. This wasn't the Demon Prosecutor. This was Miles, raw and terrified.

"Hey," Phoenix said softly, his voice gentle. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"It... happened," Edgeworth whispered, the words torn from him. It was a confession of defeat.

A long, slow breath left Phoenix. "Yeah," he said, his voice incredibly soft. "It did."

The confirmation seemed to shatter the last of Edgeworth’s resistance. His shoulders slumped. "I... I could not... I could not stop thinking about it." The admission was agonized, as if he were confessing to a crime.

"I know," Phoenix said. "I couldn't either."

He shifted over on the bed, making space. It was a silent, profound invitation.

Edgeworth stared at the empty space as if it were a chasm. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to lock this away again, to never speak of it. But he was so tired. Tired of the war inside himself. The memory of the kiss, the warmth of Phoenix’s body, was a siren's call he no longer had the strength to resist.

He took one step, then another. His legs felt like lead. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, his back ramrod straight, as far from Phoenix as the space would allow.

"You called it a fantasy," Phoenix murmured, not as an accusation, but as a question.

"It was safer," Edgeworth replied, his gaze fixed on a knot in the wooden floorboards. "It is... unacceptable."

"Unacceptable to who?" Phoenix asked gently. "To von Karma? He's dead, Miles. He can't hurt you anymore."

"You don't understand," Edgeworth’s voice was strained. "It is a deviation. A failure of control. It is... wrong."

The word hung in the air, heavy and toxic.

Phoenix’s heart ached for him. He slowly, giving Edgeworth every opportunity to pull away, reached out and covered his clenched fist with his own hand. "It didn't feel wrong. It felt... like the most right thing that's happened in years."

Edgeworth flinched at the contact, but he didn't pull away. He turned his head, his eyes searching Phoenix’s face, looking for a lie, for mockery, and finding only a gentle, unwavering certainty.

"I don't know how to do this," Edgeworth admitted, his voice cracking. "I have never... I have spent my entire life ensuring I would never be in a position of such... vulnerability."

"Maybe that's the point," Phoenix said, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles over Edgeworth’s knuckles. "Maybe you don't have to be in control all the time. Not with me."

The simple permission was like a key turning in a long-locked door. Edgeworth’s breath hitched. He looked from Phoenix’s eyes to his lips, the same terrifying, magnetic pull from the bathroom drawing him in again.

This time, it was Phoenix who closed the distance.

He leaned in slowly, giving Miles every chance to retreat. But he didn't. He stayed perfectly still, his wide, fearful eyes locked on Phoenix’s until the last possible second before their lips met.

This kiss was nothing like the first. That had been a collision of frustration and years of pent-up tension. This was soft. Tentative. A question and an answer all at once. It was a slow, deliberate exploration, a silent conversation of everything they had never been able to say. Phoenix’s hand came up to cup his jaw, his thumb stroking his cheek, and Edgeworth felt a shuddering sigh escape him, his entire body relaxing into the touch as a lifetime of tension began to leach away.

When they finally parted, they were both breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together.

"See?" Phoenix whispered, his voice husky. "Not wrong."

Edgeworth could only manage a shaky, silent nod. The terror was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now tangled with a warmth, a rightness, that was utterly foreign and completely overwhelming.

Emboldened by the surrender in Edgeworth’s posture, by the raw need in his eyes, Phoenix leaned in again, kissing him with more confidence this time. He traced the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing over the pulse point in his neck, feeling the frantic, rabbit-quick beat. He shifted, gently pressing Miles back against the mattress, following him down without breaking the kiss.

The movement jolted Edgeworth. The warmth was suddenly eclipsed by a fresh wave of panic. The feeling of being pinned, of the control being taken away, was too much, too fast.

He tore his mouth away, turning his head to the side. "Phoenix... wait."

Phoenix froze immediately, pulling back to look at his face. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his voice soft and reassuring. "We don't have to do anything. We can just... stop."

Edgeworth shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "It's not... I want..." He struggled for the words, the conflict a physical pain on his face. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"You don't have to know," Phoenix said, rolling onto his side but keeping a hand resting gently on Edgeworth’s chest, over his pounding heart. "We can just... be here. Like this. That's enough."

The permission to stop, the lack of pressure, did more to calm Edgeworth than any words could have. He slowly turned his head back, opening his eyes to look at Phoenix. The fear was still there, but it was now mingled with a wondering awe.

"Stay?" Phoenix asked softly.

It was the simplest, most dangerous question he had ever been asked. Miles Edgeworth looked at the man beside him, at the warm, trusting eyes, at the hand resting over his heart, keeping the broken pieces together. He thought of the empty couch in the other room, the cold, orderly silence of his own life.

He gave another slow, hesitant nod.

A beautiful, radiant smile spread across Phoenix’s face, the one that had haunted Miles’s dreams for fifteen years. He shifted, pulling the blanket over them both, and settled in, his head resting in the crook of Edgeworth’s neck, his arm draped carefully over his waist.

For a long time, they just lay there in the quiet dark, wrapped up in each other. The fear didn't vanish, but it was slowly, steadily, being replaced by something else. Something that felt an awful lot like the truth Miles Edgeworth had been running from his entire life. And for the first time, he wasn't running. He was, against all odds, finally home.

Chapter Text

Fifteen months.

The thought drifted through Miles Edgeworth’s mind as he stood in the kitchen of their—theirs—apartment, waiting for the electric kettle to boil. Fifteen months since the night the world had rearranged itself in a quiet bedroom, shifting from a solitary orbit into a binary star system.

The apartment itself was a testament to that time. It was no longer just "Phoenix Wright's chaotic home." It was a negotiated space. The garish floral pull-out couch had been donated to a very confused Gumshoe and replaced with a sleek, dark grey sofa. Miles’s minimalist desk stood in one corner, a bastion of order next to Phoenix’s perpetually messy one. A single, tasteful lacquered box sat on the coffee table, containing exactly three of Trucy’s most "active" magic props, a compromise to contain the chaos.

The biggest change was the light. The afternoon sun streamed in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was quiet. Peaceful. Trucy was spending the week in Kurain Village with Maya, and her vibrant, wonderful energy was temporarily missed, but the silence was a rare and cherished commodity.

The kettle clicked off. As Miles poured the boiling water over the leaves in his porcelain pot, he heard the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the rustle of grocery bags.

"I'm home!" Phoenix’s voice called out, warm and familiar.

"In the kitchen," Miles replied, not turning around. He listened to the sounds of Phoenix kicking off his shoes (a habit Miles had, after months of gentle nagging, finally instilled) and padding across the floor.

Arms slipped around his waist from behind, and a chin came to rest on his shoulder. "Mmm. Earl Grey. My favorite smell."

"It is objectively the superior scent to the 'eau de damp evidence bag' you sometimes bring home," Miles said dryly, though he leaned back slightly into the embrace.

Phoenix chuckled, his breath warm against Miles's neck. He squeezed once before letting go to start unpacking the groceries. "You won't believe the line at the store. It was a nightmare. I think I aged a year."

"Yet you persevered. Your fortitude is noted." Miles finished steeping his tea and poured two cups. He slid one across the counter to Phoenix, who accepted it with a grateful smile. It had become a ritual. Phoenix no longer drank the tar-like sludge from his old coffee maker, not when Miles’s perfectly prepared tea was on offer.

"Okay, so," Phoenix said, pulling items from the bag. "I got the rice, the chicken, those weird green beans you like that cost more than my entire shoe collection..."

"Haricots verts are not 'weird,' they are simply superior in texture and flavor to their common counterparts."

"Right, right. The fancy beans. And... I remembered the morel mushrooms." He held up the small, expensive container with a triumphant grin. "For the risotto tomorrow."

Miles felt a small, private warmth bloom in his chest. He had mentioned the morels exactly once, a week ago, in passing. That Phoenix had not only remembered but sought them out... it was these small, unspoken acts of devotion that still, after all this time, caught him off guard with their sweetness.

"Thank you," he said, his voice softer than he intended.

"No problem." Phoenix’s smile was easy, but his eyes held a understanding of the weight of that simple gratitude. He finished unpacking and leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. "So, the water bill came. It's on the desk."

Miles nodded. "I saw it. I'll take care of it tonight. The electric is due next week, correct?"

"Yep. And before you ask, yes, I unplugged the toaster this time. And the lamp in the living room."

"A minor miracle," Miles murmured, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Hey, I'm learning!" Phoenix protested, but he was smiling too. He looked around the sunlit kitchen, at their mingled lives—Miles's tea canister next to Phoenix's box of instant ramen "for emergencies," a legal brief held down by a magician's trick deck. "It's quiet without Trucy, isn't it?"

"A different kind of quiet," Miles agreed. "A pleasant one, for a time." He paused, then added, almost shyly, "Though I find I miss the sound of her practicing her sleight of hand in the living room."

Phoenix’s expression softened. "She'll be back Sunday. Probably with five new rabbits and a story about channeling a ghost who was really good at card tricks." He set his empty cup in the sink. "What do you want to do for dinner? I was thinking I could just pan-sear that chicken with some herbs."

"That sounds... perfectly adequate," Miles said. It was his highest form of culinary praise for a weeknight meal.

Phoenix laughed, a warm, full sound that filled the apartment. "High praise indeed, Mr. Edgeworth." He moved to the fridge to get the chicken, his movements relaxed and sure in their shared space.

Miles watched him, this man who had fought for him, believed in him, and had patiently, stubbornly, carved out a space for himself in the most fortified parts of Miles’s heart. The terror of that first night was a distant memory, a ghost that no longer held power. In its place was this: the quiet hum of domesticity, the shared responsibility of bills and groceries, the simple, profound comfort of knowing someone was coming home.

He picked up his teacup and walked over to the window, looking out at their view of the city. It was the same view Phoenix had always had, but it felt different now. It felt like theirs.

Fifteen months. It felt like a lifetime, and it felt like no time at all. It felt, Miles Edgeworth thought with a sense of profound, quiet wonder, like the beginning of everything.

Chapter Text

The soft, yellow glow of Miles’s bedside lamp cast a warm pool of light over the duvet. The rest of the bedroom was shrouded in comfortable darkness, the city lights a distant, silent glitter through the window. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of a turning page and the distant, muffled rush of the shower from the en-suite bathroom.

Miles was propped against a stack of pillows, reading glasses perched on his nose as he meticulously annotated the margins of a dense legal text. It was a scene of perfect, scholarly peace. Or it was, until the shower cut off.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam that carried the familiar, simple scent of Phoenix’s soap. Miles didn’t look up, his focus a deliberate performance of nonchalance.

“You’ll never believe the precedent set in the State vs. Asman case,” he said, his voice even. “The judge’s interpretation of circumstantial evidence is nothing short of judicial malpractice.”

He received no legal rebuttal. Instead, he heard a soft, damp footfall on the hardwood floor, then another.

Miles’s eyes, of their own volition, flickered up from the page.

And stuck.

Phoenix stood there, bathed in the lamplight, a white towel slung low around his hips. His skin was flushed pink from the heat of the water, droplets still clinging to his shoulders and the defined lines of his chest. His dark hair, freed from its usual spiky prison, lay soft and damp against his forehead, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He looked… younger. Softer. Utterly, devastatingly real.

Miles’s breath caught in his throat. The carefully constructed sentence about judicial malpractice evaporated from his mind, leaving behind a blank, staticky hum. He could feel a tell-tale heat creeping up his neck, warming the tips of his ears.

Phoenix, noticing the abrupt silence, grinned. He ran a hand through his wet hair, making the curls spring back into place. “That bad, huh?”

Miles swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He carefully closed his book, setting it and his glasses on the nightstand with a precision that belied his sudden lack of coordination. “I… what?”

“The case. You said it was judicial malpractice,” Phoenix clarified, his voice a low, playful rumble as he took a few steps closer. The towel rode a little lower. Miles’s gaze helplessly followed the movement.

“Ah. Yes. It was.” His own voice sounded strained. He forced his eyes back up to Phoenix’s face, which was now adorned with a deeply, infuriatingly smug smile.

“You’re staring, Miles,” Phoenix murmured, stopping beside the bed. “See something you like?”

The directness, the sheer, bold confidence of it, should have made Miles retreat behind a wall of sarcasm or a haughty sniff. But the sight of Phoenix, fresh from the shower and glowing in their bedroom, short-circuited all his defensive programming. The truth tumbled out, quiet and utterly sincere.

“You look… very good without the gel.”

The smugness on Phoenix’s face melted into something warmer, more tender, though the playful glint remained. “Yeah?” He let the towel drop.

Miles’s brain short-circuited completely. Phoenix stood there for a breathtaking moment, gloriously naked in the lamplight, before he calmly rummaged in a drawer and pulled on a pair of soft, grey boxer-briefs. The simple act of it, the domestic intimacy, was somehow more potent than any grand gesture.

Then, with the air of a man who knew he had already won, Phoenix lifted the duvet and slid into bed beside him. The warmth of his body, still radiating heat from the shower, was an immediate, magnetic presence. He settled on his side, facing Miles, his head propped on his hand.

“So,” Phoenix said, his voice a whisper now, his bare foot brushing against Miles’s pajama-clad calf. “What were you saying about that case?”

Miles knew he was being toyed with, and he found he didn’t mind in the slightest. The scent of clean skin and soap was intoxicating. “I’ve… forgotten.”

“A first for the great Miles Edgeworth,” Phoenix teased, shifting closer. His hand came up to rest on Miles’s chest, over his cotton pajama top. He could feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath his palm. “Something distracting you?”

“You are a terrible influence, Phoenix Wright,” Miles breathed, his resolve crumbling.

“I know.” Phoenix’s smile was brilliant. He leaned in, closing the final inch between them, and kissed him.

It was not a gentle, tentative kiss like their second. It was full of the confidence of shared months, of knowing exactly what the other liked. Phoenix’s mouth was warm and insistent, his tongue sweeping past Miles’s lips with a practiced ease that made him moan softly into the kiss.

Emboldened, Phoenix shifted his weight, rolling until he was half on top of Miles, pressing him back into the pillows. The legal text was forgotten on the nightstand. The world narrowed to the warm weight of Phoenix’s body, the slide of his skin under Miles’s hands, which had come up to grip his bare hips, and the sweet, demanding pressure of his mouth.

Phoenix broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his dark eyes blown wide with desire. He looked down at Miles, whose composure was utterly shattered, his silver hair fanning out against the pillow, his lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“See?” Phoenix whispered, lowering his head to nip gently at Miles’s jaw. “Much better than reading about judicial malpractice.”

“An indisputable fact,” Miles managed, his hands sliding up Phoenix’s back, pulling him down for another searing kiss, all thoughts of precedent and procedure lost to the far more compelling geometry of the man in his arms.

The world had narrowed to the space of their bed, to the warm cave of light under the lamplight and the weight of the duvet.

Miles’s hands, once hesitant, now moved over Phoenix’s back with a growing certainty, mapping the familiar terrain of muscle and spine through the thin cotton of his pajama top. The feel of Phoenix’s bare skin against his clothed body was a delicious friction, but it was no longer enough.

Phoenix seemed to read his mind, as he so often did. He broke their kiss, his breath coming in warm puffs against Miles’s cheek. “Too many clothes,” he murmured, his voice husky. His fingers went to the buttons of Miles’s pajama top, fumbling slightly in his haste.

Miles, usually one for order and deliberation, found himself arching his back to help, desperate to feel skin against skin. The cool air hit his chest for a moment before Phoenix was covering him again, the heat of his torso searing, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped Miles’s lips.

“Okay?” Phoenix whispered, pausing, his eyes searching Miles’s face.

“More than okay,” Miles breathed, his hands coming up to frame Phoenix’s face, pulling him down for another deep, claiming kiss.

The last of his inhibitions were burning away in the furnace of this intimacy, replaced by a raw, aching need that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He let his hands wander down, slipping beneath the waistband of Phoenix’s boxer-briefs to cup the firm curves of his backside, pulling him flush. The resulting groan from Phoenix, a low, vibrating sound of pure pleasure, went straight to Miles’s core. He could feel the hard line of Phoenix’s erection against his own through their remaining layers, a promise that made his head spin.

With a shared, unspoken urgency, they worked together to shed the final barriers. The rustle of fabric, the soft thud of discarded clothing on the floor, and then—nothing but skin. The full, breathtaking contact was a revelation. Every nerve ending felt alight.

Miles’s hands roamed freely now, over the powerful slope of Phoenix’s shoulders, the dip of his waist, the solid strength of his thighs. He was real, and he was his. Phoenix lowered his head, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down Miles’s neck, over his collarbone, pausing to swirl his tongue around a peaked nipple.

Miles cried out, his back arching off the bed, his fingers tangling in Phoenix’s damp, dark hair. “Phoenix…” It was a plea, a prayer, the name a sacred thing in the dark.

“I’ve got you,” Phoenix murmured against his skin, his voice a ragged promise.

His hand slid between them, his fingers wrapping around Miles’s length, and the touch was so electric, so perfect, that Miles saw stars behind his eyelids. “Please…” The word was torn from him, stripped of all pride, all pretense. He was just a man, laid bare and wanting.

Phoenix understood. He shifted, his body a warm, welcome weight as he settled between Miles’s legs. There was a moment of fumbling—the click of a cap, the slick, cool sensation—and then a pressure, slow and deliberate, that stole the air from Miles’s lungs. His eyes flew open, locking with Phoenix’s. In the dark depths, he saw not just desire, but a profound, unwavering tenderness that undid him completely.

He reached up, his hand cupping Phoenix’s cheek, his thumb stroking his jaw. It was a silent surrender, a granting of permission, an expression of a trust so absolute it dwarfed the physical act. And then Phoenix was moving, and the world fractured. It was a slow, building rhythm that was both an invasion and a homecoming.

Each thrust was a punctuation mark in a sentence they had been writing for fifteen years. It was the final, devastating noise that shattered every defense. It was the quiet “I’m here” in the darkest night. It was the shared tea, the paid bills, the warmth of a body on the other side of the bed. Miles’s breaths came in ragged waves, his legs wrapping tightly around Phoenix’s waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase every inch of space between them.

He chanted Phoenix’s name like a mantra, each syllable a tether to reality as pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, in the pit of his stomach. Phoenix’s rhythm became more frantic, his own control fraying. He leaned down, capturing Miles’s mouth in a searing, desperate kiss, swallowing his cries. Their bodies were slick with sweat, moving in a perfect, primal syncopation. The coil snapped.

White-hot pleasure erupted through Miles, wave after wave of it, so intense it was almost a form of agony. He arched off the bed with a broken cry, his entire body convulsing. The sensation seemed to trigger Phoenix’s own release; he buried his face in Miles’s neck with a guttural moan, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, panting breaths mingling in the air. The world slowly pieced itself back together, but it was a new world, irrevocably changed. Phoenix, boneless and spent, collapsed onto him, his weight a comforting anchor. Miles’s arms came up, holding him there, his hands stroking slow, soothing circles on his sweaty back. He could feel the frantic, slowing beat of Phoenix’s heart against his own.

After a few minutes, Phoenix shifted slightly, just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to Miles’s shoulder before rolling onto his side, taking Miles with him so they lay tangled together, face to face. They didn’t speak. No words were adequate. The lamplight caught the sheen of sweat on Phoenix’s skin, the utterly sated, peaceful expression on his face.

Miles reached out, gently brushing a damp curl from his forehead. Phoenix caught his hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing them to his lips for a kiss. His eyes, dark and full of a love so deep it was terrifying, held Miles’s gaze.

“Okay?” Phoenix whispered, echoing his earlier question, but the meaning was infinitely deeper now.

Miles Edgeworth, the man who built walls for a living, whose vocabulary was vast and precise, could only manage one word. It was the truest thing he had ever said. “Yes.”