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Miles is sure that randomly selected groups are for the best until one of his groupmates takes one look at the assignment and groans, “Great, we have to read?”
The other two students in the group look just as disgruntled as he feels, albeit slightly more confused. This is a third-year class, after all—none of them had gotten here without a respectable amount of cases and statutory interpretation, which all naturally involve a lot of reading. Law involves a lot of reading. Miles had been assuming it would be one of these two, bright-eyed undergrads of a distinctly early-20s flavour, who would cause him the most grief. Young people were so… young.
But no. His only mature-age counterpart is going hugghhhh face-first into his notebook and he doesn’t even look like he has a pen with him.
“Yes,” Miles says stiffly. “Well, I believe this assignment will pose no significant difficulty, so long as we all agree to pull our weight—”
“Hey, you’re Edgeworth, right?” the paper-groaner says, raising his head to fix Miles with a surprisingly piercing eye. “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you top intro to crim last semester?”
The two Youngsters look at him with renewed interest. Miles coughs. “Don’t assume that means you can rely on me,” he says. “I expect you all to work hard—”
“Sure,” says the guy. “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t intend to slack off. I came in second after you, and I don’t intend to do that again.”
Miles recoils. “What?”
The guy props himself up on one hand and extends the other. “Phoenix Wright,” he says, grinning. “Pleased to meet you. Let’s do this thing, yeah?”
This whole situation is—frankly—inconceivable. Phoenix Wright, he had noted correctly, did not have a pen, nor did he own the textbook. Nor had he done any of the required case readings for that week. Nor had he ever done any required case readings, ever, for the entirety of his degree. Apparently.
Miles, by contrast, owned not only the required textbook but three supplementary texts, did each reading twice for good measure and took careful colour-coded notes, and had beaten Phoenix by a measly four marks last semester. He had apparently started going a funny sort of beetroot colour when Phoenix relayed this information to him, because Phoenix had stopped mid-sentence, easy grin frozen in place, and frowned. “You alright?”
“Divine,” Miles said, a bit furiously.
The other two students in the group had lapsed into awed and slightly terrified quiet partway through this exchange, and Miles had to admit he couldn’t exactly remember their names. Both sounded Greek. Aphrodite? Hermes? Something like that. His attention was focused solely on this scruffy thirty-something about whom, until today, the most noteworthy thing was the fact that he insisted on turning up to class in exclusively clothing items of eye-searing royal blue. Phoenix Wright. The rival he hadn’t known he had, until now. And the rival he was now determined to crush beyond all recognition.
“Wanna meet up this weekend?” Phoenix offered the group. smiling a bit gormlessly and scratching his head. “Coffee’s on me.”
Miles’ favourite coffeehouse on campus sort of won by default, because it was the only one that served anything remotely palatable—or even consumable—by his lofty standards. This was all thanks to the single competent barista in its employ, a slight brunette girl with one earring and a jaunty blue neckerchief atop her apron. She had a bright, cheeky smile and an infectious laugh, and whenever he pushed the door open she’d wave cheerily at him until he had to smile back. He was growing rather fond of her.
She was a first year, she told him once, drawing birds in his coffee with an expert hand. This was her first job. She was majoring in—something. It seemed to change every week.
“I actually want to be a magician,” she confesses to him after her latest major swap (Furniture Construction). “I’m just here to keep Daddy company while he gets his degree.”
“Your father studies here too?”
“Yep!” she chirps. “He’s doing law, like you.”
Miles frowns. “I didn’t know there were so many other mature-age students studying law.”
“Oh, there aren’t. There’s just a few. Here’s your drink!” She’d drawn a hat in it this time.
“Thank you,” he says, nodding, and she grins at him.
Her grin looks familiar.
Something unpleasant clicks into place. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Trucy!” she says. “It’s on my nametag, you know—can’t you read?”
“Your last name,” he clarifies, the sinking feeling growing.
“Wright,” she says. “Trucy Wright, magician extraordinaire—at your service.”
“Wright,” he repeats. Of all the rotten luck. No wonder Phoenix had offered to get coffee.
Well, it’s too late to change coffeehouses now.
The first of their young groupmates is named Apollo, it transpires, Apollo Justice (which Miles thinks is just a little on the nose) and he turns out to be excellent at doing the grunt work Phoenix refuses to do. “I summarised all the relevant cases,” he says breathlessly, delivering them in a neat pile in front of Miles like he’s searching for his approval. “And I did a couple others that weren’t on the syllabus, just in case!”
“Well done,” says Miles, smiling at Apollo, who glows at the praise.
“Athena highlighted the most important bits!” he squeaks, because of course the other kid is named Athena.
“Thanks,” says Phoenix. “So what’s the task again?”
Unbelievable. “We’re to play prosecution in the upcoming mock trial. Have you familiarised yourself with the fact scenario?”
“Er,” says Phoenix. “Yes, but enlighten me again to be thorough?”
Miles squints at him, but he does enjoy being thorough. “The defendant’s name is Klaus Charile. He’s been accused of murdering the victim, Molly “Moo” T. Kort. The altercation took place at 2:37AM at the grocery store where she worked. Kort was shot in the head. The gun held Charile’s fingerprints. His testimony is such that the gun went off on its own while he was robbing the store.”
“Wait,” says Phoenix. “If it’s an accident, then it’s not murder, right?”
Miles cut eyes at him. “I suggest you take a look at Justice’s case summaries. There are several precedents that allow for an argument of constructive murder. The firing of the gun may have been involuntary—according to Charile’s claims, at least, which we cannot prove are true—”
“But the presumption of innocence—”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Miles snaps. “The point is that the victim’s death occurred as a result of a series of voluntary criminal acts, which means we have a case for constructive murder, not manslaughter.”
Phoenix doesn’t look satisfied with this.
“But I don’t think Charile really wanted to kill Kort,” he says earnestly. “Why was he robbing the store?”
“I don’t know,” Miles says. “That wasn’t in the facts.”
“Well, that seems important—”
“Perhaps, but it wasn’t in the facts, so we cannot infer—”
“Did Charile plead guilty?”
“He didn’t plead at all,” says Miles, frustrated, “because that’s not the assignment. It’s a simple legal analysis problem, it’s just being presented as a mock trial for our experience.”
Phoenix frowns. “But I want to know why he was there,” he says. “What was the cause of death?”
“A gun to the head!” Miles explodes. “She was shot!”
“Is there an autopsy report?”
“She’s not real!” Miles says, sinking to the desk with his face in his elbows. “He shot her in the head. The other side will be arguing for involuntary manslaughter. We will be arguing constructive murder. It’s very simple. Justice, please compile the cases and begin structuring the argument I’ve been outlining.”
“Yes, sir,” Apollo squeaks. He and Athena had been looking between the two of them with increasing alarm the more this argument went on, and now he tugged at her arm and the two of them scuttled off to find more paperclips, or something.
“You okay?” Phoenix asks him.
Miles doesn’t dignify this with a response.
“Look, I’m just saying,” Phoenix says defensively. “I know Charile isn’t our client, but we owe it to him and Kort to look at this from every angle. Sometimes you have to turn your thinking around to make sure you’re not overlooking something. Even the most cut-and-dry looking cases can really do your head in.”
“It’s,” says Miles. “Not. Real.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But one day we’ll be dealing with real people, right? It’s better to get the practice in now.”
Here is the fact scenario, Miles pictures his professor saying. Miles Edgeworth clobbers Phoenix Wright over the head with the textbook that the latter did not purchase at any stage. Does Edgeworth have the defence of provocation available to him?
“I will remind you that we are the prosecution,” Miles says into his elbow.
Phoenix laughs, sounding sheepish. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I dunno. I just believe in Charile’s innocence.”
If it’s possible to sink lower into a desk, Miles manages it.
“It’s pretty funny watching you try to be nice but you really can just have at it,” Trucy suggests, plopping herself down at Miles’ table after standing beside it for a good three minutes while he struggled to find a polite way to rant.
“Aren’t you working?”
Trucy shrugs. “I’m the only one who can work the machine. They can’t fire me.”
Miles digests this with some despair about the state of the coffee world on this campus and takes another dejected sip.
“So what’s ailin’ you, trav’ler?” she says, adopting a strange and affected accent and miming wiping down the table with a napkin.
“I don’t want to be rude,” he says.
“So it’s Daddy,” she deadpans.
He sighs. “Your father is… eclectic,” he says.
“Yeah, he’s a nutcase,” she says fondly. “Let me guess, he’s humanising your homework.”
Miles groans.
“Daddy wants to be a defence attorney,” Trucy confides. “He’s not really good at anything else. But he’s really good at that, so you should get him on your team next time.”
“Unfortunately, we are the prosecution this time,” Miles says.
“Yeah,” says Trucy sadly. “So he’s probably useless. But he’ll still do his best, you know. Daddy wanted to be a lawyer to save people. Maybe he’d be more useful if there was someone to save.”
“But they’re not real,” Miles says, frustrated.
Trucy laughs. “I know that,” she says conspiratorially, “and you know that, but Daddy cries at gum commercials, so he’s probably a lost cause.”
“Trucy!” calls a raven-haired girl with a high ponytail from behind the counter. “You gonna come back and do your job or what?!”
“’Kay,” Trucy calls.
“Yeah?” the girl shoots back, grinning.
Trucy snickers.
“What’s so funny?” Miles asks her, smiling.
“Ah, nothing,” she says. “It’s a dumb joke. See you later, Mr. Edgeworth. Good luck with Daddy!”
“Thank you for your counsel, Trucy. Take care.”
She waves at him and then bounces off to man the machine again, where a straggly line of cups is starting to crowd the counter.
It’s getting late and Athena’s long since conked out on Phoenix’s sofa, but Phoenix has given no indication that he’s done and Miles will be damned if he gives in first.
Apollo is starting to nod over his textbook, so Miles shakes him gently awake. Apollo startles and sits bolt upright. “I’m fine!” he yelps.
“You can go home,” Miles informs him, smiling. “You’ve done excellent work today. Take Athena with you.”
“But—!”
“Rest,” Miles insists. “Young people need their sleep.”
Apollo eyes him, but gives up when a massive yawn wracks him and nods in defeat. He gathers his things sleepily and goes to prod Athena awake.
Phoenix is still poring over his notes, brow creased, and he doesn’t even look up when Apollo and Athena wave their tired farewells. He’s barely recognisable without the goofy grin, but it’s been absent for a few hours now, and Miles can’t stop glancing up at him. The intent focus had at first seemed foreign and out of place on Phoenix’s face, but now it seemed to radiate from him so easily that Miles felt it was a natural part of him. In a strange way, it’s captivating.
Trucy isn’t home yet, but Phoenix doesn’t seem worried. When Miles had first arrived at their apartment, he’d looked around for signs that someone else lived there, and this hadn’t escaped Phoenix’s notice.
“It’s just me and Truce,” Phoenix had said, amused, watching Miles’ eyes drop in embarrassment. “Her dad was—well, let’s say an old family friend, and her mom was never really in the picture, so it’s only the two of us now.”
“I—I see,” Miles said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Nah, it’s fine, you didn’t. Want some juice?” And the conversation ended.
Miles looks at Phoenix now and sees things he’d missed before. His usual smile is so bright and all-encompassing that it must have made the tired lines on his face fade out, outshone the bags under his eyes. Goofy, naïve, happy-go-lucky Phoenix Wright and the hard work that goes unnoticed and uncredited but for a bafflingly good end-of-semester grade, despite the fact that he’s apparently never picked up a book in his life. The irritation has worn off; Miles is now hopelessly intrigued by the mystery this little family presents.
“You should take a break, you know,” he says.
Phoenix raises his head. “Huh?”
Miles shakes his head and tuts. “You’ve been at it for hours,” he says. “Surely it’s not as complicated as you’re making it—unless, of course, you’re teaching yourself to read for the first time.”
“Ha,” says Phoenix, “ha, ha, ha.”
Miles smirks.
Phoenix straightens his papers with a thunk against the desk. “Sorry,” he says, sounding a little embarrassed. “I’m overcomplicating, I just—it’s kind of weird being on this side of the courtroom. I know it’s not real, but it feels wrong sending someone off to jail with so little information, you know?”
“I… can’t relate, I suppose,” Miles admits. “I’ve never seen this as anything more than another job. Just a task to complete. There’s always a way to make a case. If my task is to ensure a conviction, I’ll build my argument around whatever facts I have.”
“I guess I can admire that,” Phoenix allows, but when he looks back down at the fact scenario he still wears a decidedly conflicted face.
Miles hesitates.
“Trucy told me you want to be a defence attorney,” he says.
Phoenix brightens at her name. “Yeah, she did mention you’d been chatting,” he says fondly. “Yeah. Pay it forward, you know? An old lawyer friend of mine saved me when I was younger and dumber—it’s possible,” he adds, grinning at Miles’ raised eyebrows. “It just seems like a good way to help people, that’s all.”
“That’s admirable, in turn,” Miles murmurs, and they lapse into a comfortable quiet for a few moments more.
Phoenix sighs and stretches. “You want some tea?” he asks.
“Please. Black, if that’s alright.”
“Sure.” Phoenix gets up to put the kettle on.
While he’s in the kitchen, Miles glances over at his notes. Looking at them, he understands why Phoenix has been frowning so hard. He’s actually made a lot of strong points for their case—but then he cancels himself out with scribbles in the margins raising points for the opposition. Many scribbles.
Miles falls back in his chair. It’s useful—necessary, in fact—to try and predict how the opposition will think, but some of these arguments are very unlikely to be raised in a court of law, or actually in any situation other than in Phoenix Wright’s living room at eleven o’clock at night. It seems more like Phoenix is simply fighting with himself, unable to stomach the concept of sending an innocent man to jail, no matter how imaginary.
Phoenix reappears in the doorway with two mugs of tea, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “I didn’t realise how late it was,” he mutters. “Sorry if I’ve been keeping you against your will—you can go anytime.”
“It’s alright,” says Miles. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” Nor anyone to welcome him home, besides his dog, who was angry with him at the moment anyway because she’d injured her leg and he’d made her wear a cone. “Shouldn’t Trucy be home by now?”
“She’s working tonight,” Phoenix says, sounding far more unconcerned than Miles was comfortable with. “She’s a magician, did she tell you? The Wonder Bar keeps her late.”
“She works at a bar?” Trucy couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and it was very dark. “I’ll go pick her up in my car.”
“She’s fine, she’s there almost every night.”
“It’s not safe!”
“I know how to take care of my kid,” Phoenix says, suddenly cooler than before.
Miles swallows.
“I apologise,” he says. “That—I overstepped.”
Phoenix sighs. “It’s fine. Thanks for worrying. If she were any other kid I’d be concerned, but I came home and found her throwing knives at my calendar last month. Hit every second day, dead on. She can handle herself.” He smirks. “Though her pay for the month went to repairing the holes in the wall.”
“Right,” says Miles, trying to reconcile the sweet girl from the coffeehouse with knives. “She’s a lovely girl.”
Phoenix beams at him. “She is, isn’t she? I’m lucky to have her. She keeps me in line.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Ha. Well, we’re a team. I’m her dad, she’s my guardian angel.” Phoenix plops the tea down on the counter and sinks back into his seat with a disgruntled exhale. “Back to it, I guess.”
Miles bites his lip.
“I had a look at your notes,” he says carefully.
“Oh, yeah?”
“You seem,” says Miles, “conflicted.”
Phoenix smiles bitterly. “You could say that.” He shoots Miles a sideways glance. “Sorry, I know you must think I’m an idiot. It’s just a dumb fact scenario.”
“No,” says Miles, a bit surprised to find himself truthful. “I really do think it’s admirable that you care so much.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I’m an idiot.” Phoenix sighs again. “When I went to court a few years ago, all the evidence was stacked against me. Mia was the only one who believed I didn’t do it. All she had was my word. She worked every angle to prove my innocence.”
“Mia… Mia Fey?”
“Yeah.” Phoenix looks surprised. “You knew her?”
Knew. “My father did,” says Miles. “Once upon a time. Is she…”
“She died,” Phoenix says, matter-of-factly. “A few years ago. Is your dad a lawyer?”
“He was,” says Miles, and the look Phoenix gave him said he understood the past tense didn’t refer to retirement. “A defence lawyer.”
“And you?”
“I used to want to be one too,” Miles admits. “But I’ve favoured prosecution in recent years.”
Phoenix nods. “Maybe we’ll stand opposite each other one day,” he jokes. “If I ever graduate.”
“Heh. You’ll be fine. If you can challenge me in the end-of-semester standings, the rest of the class has no chance.”
“Kind of an ass, aren’t you?”
They snicker for a minute, utterly exhausted.
“I had some ideas,” Miles says suddenly. The tea is cheap and lacks depth beyond bitterness, but he takes another sip anyway.
“Oh, yeah? Lemme have it.”
“Suppose we adjust the fact scenario,” Miles says. “Suppose we introduce a third party.”
Phoenix leans forward. “I’m listening.”
“Charile is the mastermind of the robbery,” says Miles, “but he had an accomplice. A mister...” He casts his mind out for a name. “L.M. Addison. The murder weapon—the gun, you remember?—contain Charile’s fingerprints, but they also hold the prints of a third party. Mr. Addison.”
Phoenix says nothing, but looks at him with bright, intent eyes.
“Addison is found unconscious at the scene,” Miles goes on. “Charile is long gone. Addison is arrested for Kort’s murder. He pleads not guilty and insists he’s been framed. But no one believes him.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Phoenix says, eyes glinting. “I’m intrigued. Can’t help but feel slightly patronised.”
“You shouldn’t,” Miles says. “In a real world scenario, what happens if Charile goes free? Maybe the case is dropped, and Kort never receives justice. Maybe someone else is arrested in Charile’s place. Someone is guilty of every crime, Phoenix. Will you help me catch them, for the sake of the innocents?”
Phoenix’s face is sharp in the moonlight.
“You could be a writer, you know,” he says.
Miles watches him and says nothing.
Phoenix leans back in his chair. “All right,” he says, grinning at Miles. “Let’s save Mr. Addison.”
Miles wakes up to the sounds of quiet conversation in the other room and a very rude, very insistent beam of moonlight shining directly into his face through the window. He squints at it and sits up. Then he realises where he is.
Phoenix pokes his head back in when he hears the chair hit the floor, looking alarmed, until he sees Miles standing at the table like a cat who’s just been caught pushing a casserole dish off the table. The chair is toppled behind him from where he’d stood up too fast and knocked it over.
“Relax,” says Phoenix. “I didn’t want to wake you up. You can stay the night if you want. Trucy’s back.”
Trucy pokes her head in under his. “Hey, Mr. Edgeworth!”
“Hello,” Miles mutters. He can feel his hair pressed against his cheek, no doubt flattened and unflattering. He winces. “I really should be going. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m truly sorry to overstay—”
“No worries,” says Phoenix. “I kept you here in the first place. Seriously, just crash in the guest room. It’s two in the morning and you shouldn’t drive when you’re this tired.”
“I couldn’t—”
“I’ll make coffee in the morning,” Trucy chirps, twinkling at him. “Okay, Mr. Edgeworth?”
Miles looks at the two of them. A pair of well-meaning, eagle-eyed Cheshire cats for whom the word ‘no’ was a bad taste in the mouth.
He gives in. “Thank you.”
Phoenix waves him off. “I’ll lend you some PJs. C’mon.”
Miles follows Phoenix into the hallway and hovers in the door, unwilling to intrude any more than he already has. Trucy tiptoes behind him, covered in glitter and with stray playing cards poking out of random creases in her glitzy uniform.
“How was your show?” he asks her.
She beams. “Oh, Daddy told you? It was great! I’m gonna get a gun for my next one.”
He blanches. “Not a real one!”
“Relax,” she scoffs, but pats his arm. “A prop. It’s fine.”
“I’ll have to come see one someday,” he tells her, smiling. “I’m sure your showmanship is unrivalled.”
“You would be right!” she informs him, producing a dove from the inside of her cape and sending it flapping out the window.
Phoenix reappears with a pile of folded clothes. “Here,” he says, handing it to Miles.
“Thank you.”
“No worries. We can get Apollo and Athena back tomorrow if you still wanna work on the trial, or you can just go home and do other stuff. Up to you.”
Miles goes to reply and then stops, startled by the sudden realisation that part of him sort of doesn’t want to leave. It’s cramped here at the Wright residence, much less impressive than his own opulent apartment building, but there’s a warmth to being in this crowded family home that he’d never quite been able to achieve at his own place no matter how many fuzzy jumpers and socks he bought for Pess.
Pess. “I should get home in the morning and feed my dog,” Miles realises.
“You have a dog?” Trucy squeals.
Miles speaks without thinking. “You’re welcome to come with me. I’m happy to play host for our next study session, especially after all the hospitality you’ve shown me tonight.”
He hasn’t had anyone over at his place since the last time Franziska visited, but he shelves the anxiety, because Trucy is sparking with excitement.
“Can we, Daddy?” she’s pleading, hanging off his arm.
“You’re not in our group!” he tells her, laughing, but looks up at Miles with an unspoken question.
Miles is a little offended that Phoenix feels like he has to ask. “Of course you’re welcome, Miss. Wright.”
Trucy whoops. Phoenix snatches her hat. “Go to bed,” he tells her, so she does, and not a moment too soon, because the warmth he directs at Miles in the next moment is unfairly disarming. “Thanks. We can’t get a pet, we’re already pushing it with all the temporary bunnies and birds, but she loves dogs.”
“Of course.” Miles averts his eyes. “I’ll, um. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night,” says Phoenix, smiling at him until he feels like he needs to hide under the blankets and have a minor crisis.
In case you needed a reminder, foolish little brother, it is foolish even by your standards to involve yourself with a colleague.
I’m not involved with anyone. DO stop jumping to conclusions.
He’s not a colleague, he’s a classmate.
All matters of the law must be treated with equal sanctity!
The location is of no consequence! A court is a court! A defendant is a defendant!
A fiction is a fiction.
This foolish attitude will get you nowhere in law, little brother.
Hm. You might get along with him.
You insult me!!!
Trucy, it transpires, is very good with directions, because she’s now turning up at his place every other morning on her bike despite him never having given her his formal address. “I memorised the route,” she said when he asked, produced a steaming flask of coffee for him, and then demanded some breakfast in payment, which he had hastily whipped up before giving her a lift to school.
Over the course of a week, this has become routine.
Phoenix had not known she was doing this until Miles mentions it offhand in a later meeting, at which point he blanches. “I’m sorry!” he says, looking mortified. “I thought she was just getting an early start to school!”
“It’s fine,” Miles says, amused. “I don’t have to buy coffee anymore. It’s a fair trade.”
“You’d think I don’t feed her,” Phoenix mutters, looking very wounded but pleased all the same. “I’m glad you two are getting along.”
“I’m glad you two are getting along,” says Athena, then immediately goes bright pink. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud!”
“Be quiet!” Apollo hisses, louder than Athena.
Miles just smiles. “We’ve made excellent progress. Shall we stop for lunch? My treat.”
“Dad of the year,” Phoenix says while Athena whoops and Apollo tries not to look pleased, and Miles coughs into his handkerchief, going a bit pink himself.
The mock trial is set for a week from now, and while Miles is glad to finally get it done, he’s also starting to feel a little anxious about the whole thing and he’s not sure why. Surely they’re not nerves for the trial itself.
On quite a separate, completely unrelated note, he wonders if Trucy will still come by every other morning when he’s no longer meeting Phoenix to work all the time. He wonders if he’ll see Phoenix as frequently as he does now, if at all. And he wonders why this matters to him, even as he catches Phoenix’s latest shy smile and the way it drops into a casual, easy grin when Phoenix sees him looking.
“Objection,” says Phoenix, for maybe the seventh time this sentence, and Miles stops again and manages not to sigh.
“Wright,” he begins.
“Sorry!” Phoenix says hastily, looking genuinely sheepish. “I just—okay, but what if the gun isn’t the murder weapon?”
“In the absence of a ballistics report,” says Miles, “we are to assume the facts we’ve been given are the facts.”
“Okay, but what if—”
“Wright,” Miles snaps. “I appreciate your dedication to justice, but the purpose of this exercise is to practice our case. You are welcome to make objections, but please only make them if the other team is likely to make them at trial.” He resists the urge to add, I have explained this several times.
Phoenix sinks into thoroughly unsatisfied silence.
“‘Therefore,’” Miles continues, glancing down at his notecards, “‘we may rely on the rule set by—”
“Wait,” Phoenix says meekly.
“What?!”
“Your coffee is spilling,” says Phoenix, pointing across the desk. “It’s getting on your suit.”
Miles looks down. The stain is spreading across his slacks.
“Let’s stop for today,” Apollo suggests wearily.
Athena fetches a roll of paper towels while Miles tries not to implode. He thanks Athena and dabs at the stain, which doesn’t budge. “I’ll have to get this dry cleaned,” he mutters. “What a hassle.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Phoenix says. “I’ve got this miracle stain remover at home, I’ll get that out in no time, no problems.”
“Wright, this is Italian—”
“Yeah, relax! I’ve used it on my suits tons of times, that shit could shift—well, shit.”
Looking at Phoenix’s suits, bright blue and suspiciously polyester-y, Miles finds little comfort in this statement. But somehow he finds himself saying, “All right. Thank you.”
“Perfect,” says Phoenix. “Hey, let’s get going then. Good job today, kids. Let’s practice again tomorrow before the trial.”
“Thanks!” chirps Athena, while Apollo says, “Kids?” and then Athena bundles him off to buy her chips and juice.
Phoenix looks at Miles. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” says Miles. “Thanks.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’ve been spending entirely too much time in your clothes,” says Miles, looking down at the XXL Signal Samurai t-shirt. “But yes, they fit. Thank you.”
“You can stop thanking me,” Phoenix laughs. “It’s just an old t-shirt. Hey, sorry to cut this short, but I actually have to get going. I’m late for work.”
“You—I didn’t know you had to—you shouldn’t have invited me back if you have somewhere to be,” says Miles, thoroughly embarrassed, but Phoenix waves him off.
“It’s fine. They can’t fire me, I’m the only player they’ve got.”
“Player?”
“Piano,” says Phoenix.
“I didn’t know you could play piano,” says Miles.
“Yeah, I can’t. Feel free to stick around. There’s frozen lasagne in the fridge… Trucy will be back soon.” Phoenix shrugs on a coat.
“I shouldn’t stay in your home if you’re not—”
“Eh, you’re basically a permanent fixture these days,” Phoenix jokes. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll actually miss this assignment when it’s done.”
“Yes,” says Miles, after a slightly-too-long pause. “Well, have fun at work.”
“Yeah,” says Phoenix.
The atmosphere feels awkward now. “I won’t keep you,” says Miles. “I’ll, ah… heat that lasagne for Trucy?”
“Thanks,” Phoenix agrees. “Not that my daughter isn’t a prodigy, but she does tend to experiment, and I don’t want to replace the oven again. See you tomorrow, Miles.”
“Won’t you be back later?”
“Not ‘til tomorrow morning. Class is always fun after a shift.” Phoenix laughs and lets himself out with a wave.
Miles stands in the middle of the living room in Phoenix’s old t-shirt and sweatpants, his stained suit folded neatly over a chair. He should really get it off to the dry cleaners as soon as possible, but… somehow his suit doesn’t seem that important right now.
He takes out the lasagne and turns the oven on to preheat. How domestic. He doesn’t cook much himself and certainly doesn’t eat much frozen food—it’s usually takeout or something simple, and portions much smaller than this. The lasagne is large. Family-sized, the label informs him.
He’s still standing at the counter staring at the lasagne when the front door opens again ten minutes later. Trucy tromps through, drops her bag on the floor, and then shrieks.
“Trucy?!” Miles asks, alarmed. “Are you alright?”
Trucy collapses against the sofa dramatically. “It’s you! I thought you were an intruder! I was about to take out a sword—what are you doing here?”
Miles stops himself from asking you have a sword? because of course she does, and says, “Your dad lent me some clothes after I suffered an unfortunate coffee spill. He’s at work.” He gestures at the lasagne. “I’m making lasagne.”
Trucy grins. “So you’re staying for dinner?”
“I—well, if that’s alright. Can you eat a four-person lasagne by yourself?”
Trucy snorts. “Don’t listen to serving sizes! If it says serves four then you probably need about six of them, that’s my policy—but definitely stay! It’ll be nice to have company.” She plops her hat on his head and then goes to change into lounge clothes.
“Does your father always work this late?” Miles asks later, when the lasagne is done and they’re spooning globs of it onto chipped plates.
“Sometimes,” says Trucy. “It’s pretty rough when he has class early, but gotta pay the bills, right? Although most of that comes from me.”
“Is it…” Miles pauses, unable to think of a way to phrase the question. “Do you… like it? How things are?”
“Sure,” says Trucy around a mouthful of lasagne. “I love Daddy. The only thing is…” There’s something theatrical in the way she pauses. “I think he’s lonely,” she says, sliding her gaze up at him. “Like, he should have someone. You know?”
“I,” says Miles, “see.”
He does not see. What is she hinting at? It can’t be—
“I mean,” says Trucy. “Someone he likes. Who he likes spending time with. It’s been ages since he was comfortable enough with someone to let them come to our place and stuff. You know?” she says again, looking at him.
“Yes,” says Miles.
Trucy returns to her plate. “This is good lasagne,” she says.
It’s average. “Yes, it is.” His water tastes like metal in his mouth.
“It’s hard to find men who can cook,” Trucy continues. “Daddy needs to, though, since he can’t.”
Miles drops his fork.
“That was a compliment,” Trucy informs him.
“I can’t cook,” he hears himself telling her.
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” she says cheerfully. “Luckily, Daddy is very forgiving.”
Miles can’t feel his hands.
“Oh, I’m just teasing,” she says, grinning up at him. “Sorry, Mr. Edgeworth. Thanks for coming over so much. It’s nice having you around, it really is.”
“Ah,” says Miles. “Well. I have to say this group project has been more enjoyable than I had anticipated.”
“You’ll still keep coming over after it’s done, right?” Trucy presses anxiously. “We’ll miss you if you don’t.”
“I—sure. Yes, if you’ll have me.” The lasagne is dense and goopy, but Miles feels lighter than he has in days. “If you’re sure.”
She beams at him. “Good! You’re pretty much family at this point, anyway. Hey, let’s watch TV.”
They watch the Steel Samurai for a bit, Miles teetering for several hours on the edge of saying, “I should really get going,” and of being unwilling to leave Trucy alone for the rest of the night—that was the reason he didn’t want to leave, and not the drowsy comfort settling over him like a warm blanket that he didn’t even find at home. The closest he had was Pess clambering over him and stepping on his abdomen and winding him when he was partway to falling asleep.
It’s around four in the morning when he comes to his senses, not having realised he’d fallen asleep at all. He looks around blearily to see Phoenix tiptoeing into the living room.
Trucy is curled snoring against his arm.
“Sorry,” Phoenix hisses, startled, realising that Miles is awake and watching him. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
Only half-awake, Miles nods without thinking and drops his head against the couch again, asleep within minutes.
Pess is furious at him for leaving her alone all night, but more importantly, Miles is starting to think he might be going mad. This is not standard group assignment activity, and if he hadn’t come to this conclusion himself then Franziska’s barrage of angry text messages upon hearing of the whole snafu would have informed him quite promptly. Yes, he finds himself telling Franziska, I’m quite aware this is unprofessional, but as he is not my professional colleague I’m sure you will find the consequences far less dire, if existent.
It is a matter of principle, foolish brother.
And you know, of course, that I am a principled man. As such, you have nothing with which to concern yourself.
If I have nothing more than your word of your principles to go on, Miles Edgeworth, I should be very concerned indeed.
Pess sends her love.
Do inform her from me that she is far more the light of my life than my foolish little brother.
“My field of study is law and psychology,” Athena informs him the day before the mock trial. She’s lagging behind, Apollo and Phoenix having already packed up and left for the day. “I specialise in analytical psychology.”
“Interdisciplinary? Quite a challenge you’ve set yourself, Miss. Cykes.”
“It’s fun!” Athena bounces on her toes, beaming at him. “I considered clinical practice before I settled on law. I’m very intuitive, you know. It’s like I can… hear people’s feelings, almost.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm.” Something in her voice makes Miles turn around to look at her—there’s a mischievous glint in her eye. “For instance, I think there’s something you’re not telling Mr. Wright—is that right?”
Miles drops his book with a thunk.
Athena giggles.
“Trial’s tomorrow, Mr. Edgeworth,” she reminds him, grinning. “Better not miss your chance!”
She skips off in the direction Apollo had gone. Miles stares after her, pulse skittering.
Young people. They would kill him, one of these days.
Then again, sometimes, they made points.
The night before the trial, Miles does not sleep.
Good luck tomorrow! Trucy texts him at 4 in the morning, and he replies Thank you before he realises what he’s doing, and she comes back at him with Go to sleep!! You’re as bad as Daddy!
You are also awake, Miss. Wright.
I’m the exception!!
I don’t need sleep I run on magic
Is your father also awake, then?
Oh ya he’s a nervous wreck!
What else is new!
But you’ll be fine! You have each other to lean on so it’s A-OK ;)
That’s right. Let him know we’ll win the day for certain.
Don’t think that’s what he’s worried about!
?
Good night!
“Do stop that,” Miles snaps, and Phoenix stops shuffling his notes against the desk for approximately four point two seconds before starting it up again. “Phoenix!”
“I’m nervous,” Phoenix whispers back. “Do you ever start to do a presentation and then suddenly remember you don’t even know how to read?”
“No, I can’t say I do.”
“Well, we’re not all as perfect as you!”
“I—” Miles stops himself before he can either snap or stammer back. “Just remember our strategy. Look at Mr. Justice, he’s perfectly calm.”
“He is not,” says Athena, at the same time as Apollo croaks, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Phoenix sticks his tongue out at Miles and goes back to rearranging his notes as loudly as possible. Miles rolls his eyes and coolly slides a paperclip over a small sheaf of papers.
He is not calm. Not even slightly, but it has next to nothing to do with the trial itself. He knows his strategy perfectly well, including the weak spots of each of his teammates in case he needs to stand up and cover for them, which he's sure he will at least once. Phoenix has an unfortunate predilection for improvisation, which requires Miles to be particularly adept at smoothing things over. The trial, he’s fairly certain, they have in the bag—it’s what comes after that makes him nervous.
He’s pretty sure he likes Phoenix.
This time, he had not come to this conclusion alone. Franziska had actually called him last night and yelled at him about it for about two hours before he’d put the phone down on his bedspread and let her yell herself hoarse at the silk.
Horrifically embarrassing, the whole thing, but Miles is an emotionally stable individual (this pronouncement had paralysed Franziska with shock and indignation for a full minute, allowing both of them to catch their breath in the midst of her tirade) and he is in full possession of his mental faculties, including the ability to not panic and the ability to be completely reasonable, which he is very good at. So in addition to his trial strategy, Miles had also spent the previous night constructing a different plan: a completely foolproof argument for presentation to Phoenix Wright as to why he should consider coming to dinner with him, Miles Edgeworth, complete with evidence and prepared rebuttal.
Are you sure this is how romance works, he’d texted Franziska, and when she’d replied with a particularly imperious series of name-calling and assurances, he’d begun to regret that she was his only confidant in the matter.
His plan followed thus: Upon conclusion of this trial, he would ask Phoenix Wright for a moment. At this point he would present his case. Then he would wait for Phoenix’s judgment. Then he would go home and hug his dog no matter what the outcome was, probably for a good hour or so. He is a grown-up.
Miles stacks his papers, and makes a point to do it quietly.
Trucy is in the gallery today. She catches Miles’ eye and waves enthusiastically at him. He waves back. She points emphatically at Phoenix.
Miles jabs Phoenix in the arm.
“Ow! What—”
“Your daughter wants to communicate something,” Miles says.
Phoenix looks up. Trucy begins a very complicated series of arm movements and wriggling which Miles cannot even begin to comprehend but which apparently makes perfect sense to Phoenix because he nods once and turns around and says, “Hey, Miles. Wanna get dinner after this?”
Nonplussed, Miles says, “What?”
“Dinner,” says Phoenix. “Want? Go?”
“What?”
Now Phoenix looks concerned. “Eat… food… night…” he says, then looks helplessly up at Trucy, who can’t hear what they’re saying and so just gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Um, do you want to?”
“Why?” asks Miles.
This stumps Phoenix. “Do you not eat dinner?”
“No, I do,” says Miles. “I’ve eaten dinner with you. I just want to know why you want me to… eat dinner with you.”
“Um,” says Phoenix. “Because I like you?”
Beside them, Athena and Apollo have gone uncharacteristically quiet, although Miles suspects it’s because Athena has slapped a hand over Apollo’s mouth.
“Ah,” says Miles.
“And… I thought you might like me?” Phoenix tries. “So I’m asking you? On a date? It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
This wasn’t in his prepared notes. “Recess,” he says faintly.
“What?”
Miles takes out his phone.
He asked me first. What do I do
I cannot believe you are asking me this question, Miles Edgeworth.
I cannot believe you allowed him to beat you.
You are a shame upon our family name.
We don’t have the same family name
You are a pox upon my pristine record.
Should I say yes
I don’t care, Miles Edgeworth, you are beyond my help.
Miles pockets his phone and the last of his brain cells with it.
“I would like to go to dinner with you,” he says, hallucinating a distinct sort of screaming from his pocket.
“Oh,” says Phoenix, who had been watching him type with a good deal of trepidation. “Oh! Hey, really? That’s great.”
“I,” says Miles, “was going to ask. At the conclusion of the trial.”
“Whoa, for real?”
“You disrupted my plans,” Miles informs him.
Phoenix starts to laugh.
Miles frowns.
“You can thank Trucy,” Phoenix manages. “She bullied me into it. Hey, she’s coming. Is that cool?”
Miles catches Trucy’s eye across the gallery. She grins at him, conjures Mr. Hat, and makes him wink, which makes the people next to her in the gallery fall off their seats, then mouths, Nice going!
“Of course,” says Miles, missing the cue to stand for the mock trial Judge because he’s too busy beaming at Phoenix. “I would insist on it.”