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.