Work Text:
January 2018
Phoenix is naked in the shower with the man he loves (who he desires so deeply and fundamentally that it’s like part of his skin, always shedding and being replaced with some new, foundational way of loving him), and it is not sexy at all.
It isn’t that Miles is overly businesslike about it. He’s actually surprisingly gentle, pressing firmly but carefully as he covers everywhere but Phoenix's chest in good-smelling rich guy shower gel. It’s mostly that it’s kind of impossible to feel sexy when someone’s cleaning your armpits and your asscrack (though maybe that would be sexy in a different context, Miles cleaning him to prepare him for—). Phoenix appreciates the unflinching way that Miles scrubs every part of him and knows how disgusting he’d feel without this help.
He wouldn’t be able to shower at all without Miles. As it is, he still has to stand back, away from the spray, lest he get the dressings wet. He wishes desperately that he could do any of it on his own, but instead he’s stuck holding his drains and only moving to shift slightly and make Miles’ job easier.
He can’t lift his arms more than a couple inches above chest level, and even that is pushing it. Arguably that means he could wash his lower body, if it weren’t for the fucking drains. He can’t exactly wear the mastectomy shirts in the shower, much as he wants to. It was mildly dysphoric to buy things meant so explicitly for women, but holy shit is Phoenix glad that he did. The side pockets for his drains, with little straps to hold the attached tubes to the sides, make his life so much fucking easier.
But wearing one in the shower would defeat the entire purpose. So here he stands, naked and holding stupid rubber bulbs with his own blood and general wound drainage in them, extremely aware of how not turned on he is.
Miles fucking kneels in front of him and carefully washes his calves and thighs and, with no outward hesitation, between his legs. There’s a solid three seconds that Phoenix feels hot and bothered about it, before he shifts slightly and has to focus on not dropping the goddamn drains.
“Doing alright?” Miles asks, still kneeling on the shower floor. There are about a thousand thoughts running through Phoenix’s brain, and it’s hard for him to pick out which might be appropriate. Miles should be careful, or he’s going to hurt his knees. Miles’ mouth is almost perfectly level with Phoenix’s groin. Miles’ fingers are loosely curled around Phoenix’s calf, ready to hold him steady if he slips.
He did slip, the first time they did this. He nearly clocked his head against the nice tile wall. Miles yelled at him, first in that blustery concern of “oh my god I swear if you have to go back to the hospital just because you couldn’t stand in a shower” and then interspersed with quiet laughter, and Phoenix hadn’t minded at all that Miles was laughing at him because it meant that Miles was laughing and he got to be nearby.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Phoenix finally says, probably after way too long of a pause. Fuck.
But Miles is kinder than he thinks he is, and he lets Phoenix get away with it. “Glad to hear it.” He stands, bracing against the wall for support. Phoenix wants to offer him a hand (arm, heart, life, soul, fuck he’s not even taking the strong pain meds anymore why is his brain like this), but even if he wasn’t holding the drains, he knows Miles would just glare at him.
No lifting things. No strenuous activity. Keep your chest wrapped and strip your drains twice a day and mostly just lay there for two solid weeks and try not to go completely stir crazy. Doctor’s orders.
Also, do your best not to let your husband know you’re in love with him. Best of luck, Mr. Wright. Enjoy your joint insurance and $13 anesthesia. Hopefully you can keep your trainwreck of a brain from slipping up.
April 2014
The first time Phoenix Wright sees Miles Edgeworth in twelve years, he has glass stuck in his throat.
Or rather, Miss Fey thinks he might. He’s trying to tell her that his voice has been exactly this scratchy all day and he totally doesn’t need to go to a hospital, and she’s giving him a Look that says more than most of his essays for that literature course last semester did.
And then Miles Edgeworth turns the corner and enters the main lobby of the courthouse.
As if that’s totally fine. As if he’s allowed to just walk into rooms that Phoenix is also standing in, looking sharp and hard and also still a little soft at the jaw? And his hair is still in the same cut (not that Phoenix has room to talk, he knows, it’s not a criticism) and it looks kind of soft too, and Phoenix wants to run a hand through it?
Except that he really doesn’t, because his girlfriend just admitted to trying to poison him, right after he ate glass. And also metal. There was metal in the necklace, too. And in the chain, obviously. Fuck. Miles is looking down at a document in his hand, but it’s not long before he raises his eyes and sees Phoenix.
The instant their eyes meet, Miles stops walking.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Phoenix has no idea what he’s thinking about. Everything is too fast and too slow at the same time, maybe because of his cold, maybe because of the shock, and maybe because the entire world is going haywire due to the presence of literal actual Miles fucking Edgeworth.
“It was you?” Miles sounds…surprised? Scandalized? Something like annoyed, dismayed, concerned, unsure? “You…Phoenix Wright, tell me you were not on trial for the murder of Doug Swallow today. Tell me you are here for literally any other reason.”
“Uh.” Lying doesn’t feel like a good way to restart a friendship. “Hi there, Miles. Nice to see you again.”
Maybe it’s grim acceptance on his face. Or exasperation. “Of course it was you. Who else would do something so stupid?”
Okay, ouch. “Hey, I didn’t kill him!”
“Obviously you didn’t kill him.” Miles rolls his eyes and steps closer like it doesn’t knock the breath out of him. “You couldn’t be a murderer. I’m referring to the choice to enter a relationship with Dahlia Hawthorne and, more recently, to destroy decisive evidence on a whim.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it a whim, exactly…” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck, feeling both chastized and near euphoric. “You know how it is when you’re in love. Or when you, uh, think you are.” He glances to the side and catches Miss Fey’s gaze. She seems surprised that he’s casually chatting with Demon Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, which is fair, but she’s keeping it subtle. At his glance, she smiles a little wryly.
She was kind of mean about it back in the courtroom, but part of Phoenix knew she was right. Why would Dahlia date someone like him? And, also important: why would he be so sure about love at first sight? That’s not how things work, or so they tell him.
He looks back at Miles and feels a mix of shame and rebellion. Is this the worst day to see him again or the best?
“Not really, no.” Miles looks away, clutching at his elbow.
Maybe the worst. He needs to salvage this somehow, but he doesn’t know what to do. He’s been preparing to meet Miles on the right stage, and now they’re here, and everything is completely wrong. He was going to be a defense attorney, a mirror and a memory and an unflinching force to save Miles from himself.
Instead, he’s a too sappy crybaby in a pink sweater with a hoarse throat and a gut full of glass and poison and metal.
He coughs, at first just to clear his throat, but it quickly devolves into something closer to wheezing. Shit, he never did take that Coldkiller X, did he? He tries to breathe long enough to apologize to Miles for—well, everything, but especially for being a mess with a cold and a murder charge instead of something better after a dozen years.
“You should go to the hospital. Why aren’t you there yet?” Miles is even closer now, which startles Phoenix, and he stares in surprise. Miles shoots Miss Fey something like a glare, which even Phoenix knows isn’t going to work.
He manages a sort of sheepish cough-laugh. “She tried to get me to go, but I’m— cough —I’m fine, Miles.” Up next is a sneezing fit, lasting almost thirty solid seconds. Wow. Yikes, Wright. Nice job. “Also, I don’t have insurance.”
Miles sighs so deeply that it must have come out of the pits of his soul. “Come with me, Phoenix.”
Phoenix follows him without hesitation. It occurs to him briefly that it’s rude to leave Miss Fey there without even saying goodbye, but when he glances back at her and waves, she’s smiling. What was it she was saying before? Something about if he can get his head in the right place, instead of just his heart, he should call her…that would be nice. He likes the sort of lawyer she is.
Miles leads him to the parking garage, right up to an incredibly red and flashy sports car. On another day, Phoenix would be taking notes to tease him about this. As it is, his head’s starting to feel full of cotton, so he just gets in the passenger side. They don’t speak until Miles has pulled out onto the road, and Phoenix realizes that he has no idea what’s actually happening right now.
“Uh, Miles? Where are we going?”
Miles glances at him briefly, the side of his mouth twitching, though Phoenix isn’t sure if it’s up or down. “The hospital.”
“But I can’t afford—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Wright.” Miles grips the wheel tightly, then relaxes his fingers one by one. “Phoenix. Just rest for now. I don’t feel like dragging a corpse into the reception area.”
Phoenix wants to push back, wants to insist that he’ll be fine, that he can take care of himself, but it’s enough of a fight just to keep his eyes open. He makes as firm a sound of protest as he can manage, though he knows it’s probably made less effective by how he snuggles into the soft leather of the seat. “Hmph. I’ll pay you back.”
“Whatever you say.” Miles hums, sounding…strangely at peace. It makes Phoenix smile underneath his mask. He’s been waiting for Miles to sound like that. Maybe he’ll get lucky and when he wakes up he’ll get to see it, too.
January 2018
After Miles has carefully rinsed him off and they’re out of the shower and dry, it’s time for the pain in the ass process of re-wrapping his chest. Hold the gauze pads to his chest, then put the stupid triangles of foam overtop, into the rough rectangle shape that the binder will keep in place. It’s obnoxious to try and stuff the foam in and then hook the binder together, but it’s better with two people. Miles let him try to do it on his own once, just standing there with his arms crossed, waiting for Phoenix to give up and let Miles help. It didn’t take that long. Phoenix Wright is an incredibly stubborn person, but when you can’t move your arms very much, the tipping point comes quicker than you’d expect.
“It’s still so strange that it’s a hook-and-eye binder.” Miles muses as he finishes the last clasp.
“I know.” Phoenix chuckles and takes a deep breath. Despite the continuous feeling of compression, he feels no restriction on his lungs. “All those years of warnings about improper binding keep making me think I’m doing something wrong. But it's for a different purpose, and it’ll be gone in about a month anyway.”
“Indeed.” Miles straightens out the bottom of the binder. “Comfortable?”
Phoenix nods and allows Miles to help guide his arms through the sleeves of the mastectomy shirt. “Yeah, thanks.” He slides the drains into the inner pockets and clasps the tubes into the straps. “God, I hate having to hold these. I can’t wait until I get rid of them.”
“The fluid levels have been going down consistently. There's no reason to think they won't be removed at your post-op.” Miles finishes toweling off his own hair and slips on his cushy bathrobe. “Though I know that’s of little comfort for the moment.”
“I’ll live.” They head into the living room, which still seems so big and impossibly nice to Phoenix. It was a fight to get Phoenix to agree to stay with Miles in his fancy apartment for the post-op recovery, and honestly, it’s a fight he’s glad he lost. He settles onto the couch, where the pillows are already positioned to keep him at the right angle. Not totally upright, but not horizontal. Someday he’ll get to lay down completely again. Someday he’ll get to sleep on his side again. Oh, what beautiful dreams.
Miles brings him a cup of water with a straw, then sits down and brings Phoenix’s feet onto his lap, hand resting casually on an ankle. Objectively, it’s a good thing. Better to have his feet elevated while he lays down. But Phoenix Wright doesn’t run on objectivity, and something about that hand on his ankle makes him burn hotter than standing naked in a shower together.
“Thank you for letting me take care of you.” Miles traces circles absently on Phoenix’s skin, leaving imprints that Phoenix knows he will feel for days afterwards. “I know it isn’t easy for you to allow yourself to be helped, and likely you would not allow it at all if you weren’t forced to by this surgery.”
Phoenix can’t argue that point, and they both know it. He stays quiet, hoping to hear more from this strangely open version of Miles Edgeworth.
“It is…nice, to do something tangibly helpful and good after everything.” Miles murmurs, sounding both far away and painfully close. “Do not imagine I am being selfless. Helping you during this, it makes me feel more…in control, I suppose.”
“That makes sense,” Phoenix says softly, wanting badly to hold Miles, card a hand through his hair, stroke his cheek, but knowing it’s better for both of them if he stays where he is. “I don’t mind that you get something out of this. It makes it a lot easier for me, honestly.”
Miles chuckles, finally glancing his way. “I suppose it would.”
Years ago, under entirely different circumstances, a doctor told Phoenix to go to the emergency room if he experienced “exquisite pain”. It’s a phrase that’s been irrevocably stuck in his brain ever since, and in moments like these, it’s the best way he can describe how it feels to be in love with Miles Edgeworth.
“Let’s watch something.” Phoenix breaks the silence, unable to bear the weight of loving a man who will offer him so much, but not allow himself to be cared for in turn. “Put on whatever. I’m sleepy, so I’ll let you get away with Steel Samurai.”
Miles huffs, somewhere between indignance and fondness. As if to prove a point, he puts on Signal Samurai instead.
Phoenix falls asleep quickly, every point of shared contact lulling him into dreams of opening up his chest and showing Miles the space inside that’s been marked as his for fifteen years. Even while he sleeps, he aches at the idea of returning to reality.
April 2014
“You’re off your medication?”
Phoenix winces. He’s not exactly happy about it either, but he doesn’t know what to do with the indignation Miles is bringing. “What can I say, law school isn’t exactly cheap.”
“I would imagine it’s also much more difficult than necessary if you aren’t properly medicated.” Miles huffs, as though Phoenix prefers having untreated ADHD.
“Ha, yeah…” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t mention that sometimes (especially around midterms and finals), he buys Adderall off the people who sell their prescriptions.
He doesn’t like doing it, both because it’s expensive (though less than getting a full supply without insurance) and because that particular avenue is a large part of the reason that the meds he needs to have a functioning brain are a controlled (and therefore very pricey) substance in the first place.
There’s not much else for options, though, so Phoenix makes the best of it. At least he has literally any option for Adderall. The last thing he needs is to try getting testosterone shots off the street. “It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure. But I’m going to make it through no matter what. You’ll see me on the other side of the courtroom soon, Miles.”
It’s uncomfortably silent after that statement. Phoenix isn’t sure what he said wrong. Miles hadn’t seemed upset before when Phoenix had said he planned to face off against him, but now there’s an unreadable expression on his face.
He opens his mouth to question Miles, to try and prod gently at this stranger-yet-not in front of him, but he’s interrupted before he has the chance.
“Marry me.”
January 2018
“Yuck.”
Phoenix wrinkles his nose and finishes stripping his left side drain. “Nobody mentions this part of the whole gender-affirming surgery thing.”
“And what part is that?” Miles leans against the doorway to the bathroom, asking even though he knows the answer. He’s just serving up the opportunity for Phoenix to complain again, because he’s a good husband like that. Friend. Friend husband. Platonic husband. That perfectly normal category that Phoenix needs to stop thinking about so much.
“The gross part where I have to measure surgery fluids twice a day.” He empties the fluid into the little cup they gave him, then squeezes the drain bulb while he puts the stopper back in. He moves to do the right side while Miles marks down the amount of fluid on the tracking sheet. “Ugh, this side has a clot.”
“In the tubing or the bulb?” Miles glances over, and Phoenix knows he’s only not offering to help because Phoenix told him that it felt good to actually be able to do something on his own. Even if that thing is a little bit disgusting.
“The bulb, so no big deal.” He repeats the same process and then slips the bulbs back into the pockets of his shirt. “I just hate when there’s chunks, you know?”
“It’s perfectly normal.”
Phoenix rolls his eyes. “I know you think it’s gross too. You’re just being contrary because you’re an asshole.”
“Pot, kettle, et cetera.” Miles’ mouth twitches at the corner, and a flare of affection burns through Phoenix’s chest. “You’ll be getting them out tomorrow anyway.”
“Thank god.” He just barely resists the urge to flop backwards onto the bed, instead sitting down much more carefully. Soon he can be as dramatic as he wants. “How am I supposed to deal with all these minor inconveniences? It’s ruining my life.”
“I feel just terrible for you.” Miles turns off the bathroom lights and joins him in the bedroom proper. “Do you want help getting settled?”
Want? No. Need, unless he wants to wind up straining himself and being uncomfortable for the entire night? Probably yes. Miles doesn’t make him say that out loud, just holds the pillows in place and makes sure that everything on the bedside table is in easy reach. When he pulls the impossibly soft blanket up around Phoenix’s shoulders, it’s almost too much to handle.
“You’re good at this.” Phoenix murmurs, halfway between tired and adoring.
“I…” Miles pauses, breath catching noticeably in the quiet. “Thank you. That is, I. I try my best.”
“It’s a good best.” Phoenix closes his eyes and leans back into the embrace of absurdly expensive fabrics and foam and goose feathers or whatever the hell. “Love you.”
He falls asleep before either of them has the chance to process what he’s just said.
March 2015
“New insurance card, huh?”
Nice going, Phoenix. Great start. It’s not like the new card is the only reason you’re actually meeting up in person again. Stating the obvious is a great way to break the ice with your husband-who-you-maybe-are-in-love-with-but-is-still-kind-of-a-nightmare-and-you-can’t-fix-that-yet-because-he-won’t-let-you-get-close-despite-being-the-one-to-propose.
(What? Why would you want that?)
“Yes.” Miles passes him an envelope with the new insurance card and relevant information without looking him in the eye. “Things had to be updated recently. There were…internal changes.”
(If you want to meet me in court, you should have access to the tools you need.)
And a serial killer, Phoenix doesn’t say. How’d it feel to prosecute him, Phoenix doesn’t ask. He stands in the awkward silence for a long moment, trying to figure out something to say that won’t blow up in his face.
(Okay. If you’re sure, I’ll do it. I just have one condition.)
“Um…how’s the prosecuting been lately? You’re winning a lot of cases.” He holds back a wince at his own stumbling. This is decidedly not a safe topic. Miles might be winning, but Phoenix knows that doesn’t mean he’s necessarily doing the right thing. He wants so desperately to help, but until he’s able to stand on equal ground with Miles, he doesn’t know that he can.
(And what’s that?)
“I can’t afford any distractions.” Miles says shortly. “I will see you again…some other time.”
And then he’s leaving again, like always.
(You can’t disappear again without telling me.)
“You remember your promise!” Phoenix calls after him. Miles pauses for a moment, just long enough for panic to start creeping its way back around Phoenix’s ribs. He nods once without looking back.
(...very well. That seems only fair.)
It’s cold, but it still eases the fear in his chest. Miles Edgeworth doesn’t break his promises. At least he can count on that.
January 2018
Phoenix remembers the moment before he fell asleep in horrifying clarity right in the middle of his post-op appointment.
“Doing okay there?” Dr. Croonarc asks, her brow furrowed. “I need you to hold still for this part.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to move.” He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the ceiling, the feeling of bare skin against the thin paper lining on the exam table, the strange sensation of tubes being pulled out of his skin—anything other than the realization that he told Miles Edgeworth he loved him last night.
“Congratulations, Mr. Wright. No more drains.” Dr. Croonarc gives him a smile that’s wry at the edges, tone somehow genuine and slightly dry at the same time. He doesn’t know if that’s common in surgeons, but he’s liked her demeanor from the start. She’s straightforward and to the point, but still plenty willing to crack a joke. “Your incisions are looking good and there’s very little swelling. I want you to wear the binder for another couple weeks at least, though you can ditch the foam.”
“Oh thank god.” Phoenix blurts without thinking. He feels sheepish for a moment until he sees his surgeon’s smile widen. “It’s just such a pain in the ass to put them back in, you know? My husband—”
Fuck. Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out.
“—uh. He helps put the binder back on.”
Dr. Croonarc doesn’t press, despite how weird Phoenix knows he sounded. Another reason to like her. “Well, if he’s willing to keep helping, let him. I know it’s annoying to rely on another person for so much, but the less you strain yourself, the better. You’re healing great so far, Phoenix. Let’s keep it that way, hm?”
He nods, trying to maintain an outwardly calm expression despite the tingling awareness that’s spreading through him. Another couple of weeks with Miles helping him do everything. Another fourteen days of opportunities to slip up and confess his love. Again.
“Oh, and you should still be careful with showering. Have your husband keep helping with that, too.” Dr. Croonarc hands him the post-visit paperwork and pats his shoulder. “See you in two weeks, Phoenix.”
“Yeah.” He stands, trying not to sound shaky. “See you then, doc.”
February 2017
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
Miles sits next to him on the plush couch in his office, curled in on himself in a way Phoenix hates to see. “All of this…the end of DL-6 and now SL-9, the knowledge that I have used forged evidence, that I have so thoroughly gone against what I originally believed in…it’s too much, Wright. I have to get away. I need to discover if there even is a way to be the prosecutor I want to be.”
“Do you have to go alone?”
Miles looks at him in shock. “What?”
Phoenix shrugs. “If you say you have to go, then I believe you. I know it’s not exactly the same, but I definitely learned a lot about myself when I pivoted into law. It changed my perspective.”
Miles nods, then shakes his head. “But that doesn’t—Phoenix, I don’t understand why you would want to come with me. I’m telling you about it because it was your singular condition for this marriage in the first place. A marriage that I…” He looks down at his hands, something lonely tugging his shoulders down. “I more or less coerced you into, I believe. I may have phrased it as though I was doing you a favor, but it was out of selfishness. It would be better if you were not beholden to m—ow!”
Phoenix keeps his fingers close to Miles’ arm, still very much in pinching range. “There’s more where that came from if you don’t slow down and listen to me.” His expression must be as severe as he’s feeling, because Miles sits back without a fight. “I don’t know where you get the idea that you somehow manipulated me into marrying you, but you’re dead wrong about it. I’m definitely getting more out of it than you—no, stop, I’m not finished—and even if I wasn’t…even if we weren’t tied together legally Miles, I…”
He sighs and lays one of his hands on top of Miles’. “I’m going to be tied to you for the rest of my life, married or not. And if that’s not how you feel too, then that’s okay. I won’t pretend the insurance hasn’t been really fucking helpful, but the most important thing to me has always been knowing that there’s something keeping us connected.”
Now it’s Phoenix who can’t meet Miles’ gaze. “I know that’s selfish. If you want to go alone or just…not with me, I understand.”
Miles does not say anything. But Phoenix knows Miles, and he’s not afraid of silence. If Miles needs time to process Phoenix’s words and his own thoughts, then Phoenix will give him that time.
Slowly, Miles flips his hand and loosely curls their fingers together. Phoenix just tangles them tighter and squeezes once, taking the tacit permission to stroke his thumb across bare skin.
“I can’t change your mind.”
It isn’t a question.
“I…need to be alone. I need to do this on my own.” Miles looks at him now, sincere and breathtaking. “I will come back to you.”
Phoenix believes him.
January 2018
It’s amazing how much the car ride back from his appointment isn’t awkward. Phoenix keeps expecting to feel tension in the air, but there just…isn’t any. Maybe Miles didn’t hear him last night? Is he actually safe from the consequences of his love-addled brain? If so, all he has to do is play it cool and not bring it up. There’s no need to make things weird, not when it’s been so good between them since Miles got back.
“Hey, so you know how I said I loved you last night?” Phoenix’s mouth says, even though his brain is screaming at him to stop fucking talking.
In a truly shocking move, Miles barely tightens his grip on the wheel. His shoulders don’t even tense. Who the hell is this man and how did he get into Miles Edgeworth’s car? “What about it?”
‘What about it?’ Okay, this is too much. “What do you mean? Didn’t it…I guess I figured it would make you uncomfortable? Um. If it didn’t, then I’m glad.”
Miles briefly glances his way, looking mildly confused. “Why would I be uncomfortable? I know you love me, Phoenix.”
Uh.
“What.” Phoenix stares, mild simultaneously racing and completely blank. “How did you—I mean, when…holy shit, did I say something while I was still coming off the anesthesia? Some of that is still a little fuzzy, but I didn’t think I missed an entire love confession!”
Miles has the audacity to laugh. “No, though you did tell me quite earnestly that I pull off a jabot better than Franziska does. You also swore me to secrecy on the matter, in order to prevent your premature death at her whip.”
Okay, that does sound a little familiar. Phoenix stands by it, too. Though he’s not actually sure if Franziska’s bow thing is a jabot, come to think of it. He figures it’s enough that he knows the right term for any frilly neck things.
He’s not sure if it’s lucky that they’re already pulling into the parking garage. Is this conversation better to have in the apartment? He doesn’t know. He’s kind of been working on the assumption that they’d never have this conversation. It’s been enough for Miles to be more open with him. He’s never wanted to push at the boundaries of what they have.
Apparently he already has. “When the hell did you find out, then?”
Miles parks his obnoxious sports car and gives Phoenix a look of exasperated fondness which makes him feel so seen that he wants to crawl under the passenger’s seat and never get back out. “Phoenix Wright. Last year you all but told me that you plan to love me for the rest of our lives, and then you let me go anyway because it was what I needed. And now you’re letting me care for you while you recover, despite how much you hate needing help. Add onto that the fact that we have been married for nearly four years, and I believe you will find a fairly convincing argument for the idea that somehow, despite everything, you love me.”
He’s shaking. He’s afraid and in love and he never really thought he’d get this far. Does it matter that Miles knows? Is it really that important that he’s been shit at hiding it? Doesn’t he want Miles to know that he’s loved (so fucking loved) and that Phoenix will never, ever stop caring?
“Since when are you good at emotions?” He asks, choking out something like laughter. “I never would’ve guessed you could just say this sort of thing without clamming up or getting flustered.”
There is so much gentleness in the way Miles is looking at him. He sort of hates it, in a distant, vulnerable way. “I could say it was the time away that did it. I could blame my therapist. Both would be true, especially in making it stick. But the real turnabout happened because you saved me, Phoenix.”
It’s not fair. It’s maybe the worst thought he’s ever had, and Phoenix knows himself. He thinks a lot of terrible things underneath all the trust and trying that’s been so fucking hard since he chewed glass and metal and then faced his husband in a courtroom and saw that he was still too distant to reach. It’s always worse (he’s always worse) when Maya and Pearls are in Kurain and he’s alone because he is truly horrible at being alone. It’s so completely and entirely not fair, and he hates that he thinks it, but that doesn’t make the thought go away.
What’s the point of me if I’m not trying to fix you? Who am I if that’s gone?
Miles is handing him the thing he’s spent years hoping and trying for on a silver goddamn platter, right alongside the love he’s wanted desperately for most of his life at this point, and all Phoenix can do is be selfish.
“Let’s go inside,” Miles sounds casual, none of the terrible softness that wants to eviscerate Phoenix. His gratitude feels like a delicate metal chain in his gut. “And Phoenix…”
He stares at his husband, aware of the limits of his range of motion more than ever before. He can barely move his arms. He’s got a special pillow slung across his chest to prevent the seatbelt from digging in. He’s wearing the wrong kind of binder for the first time since he was a teenager. There are stitches dissolving above his ribs.
Miles is giving him a domesticated version of the smile he uses in court, overly knowing and a little cocky and stripped down to fundamental truth.
“Take your time. I don’t mind waiting.”
June 2017
“Why was that woman bullying Mystic Maya?” Pearl Fey asks, pushing up her sleeve, all 8 year old anger.
Phoenix can only answer truthfully to a little girl like Pearls, who has only ever known this tiny village. “Well, she’s the opposite of a lawyer—a prosecutor, so her job is to prove people guilty. A lot of them don’t care if someone’s innocent. All they care about is if they win.”
Pearls looks so completely shocked that it’s unavoidably adorable. “Th-That’s terrible!” Back to the anger now, an attempt to justify the world of innocence she’s always known with all these awful new truths. “B-But…She’s really a good prosecutor with a heart on the inside, right?”
Phoenix…isn’t sure how to answer. “...I don’t know, Pearls. So many prosecutors are the same…he’s the only one I’ve ever been able to trust.”
“He? Who are you talking about, Mr. Nick?” Pearls is calm now, asking like it’s a simple question instead of the most complicated one of Phoenix’s life. “Is it that person Mystic Maya was talking about? Mr. Eh-ji-werth…?”
“...he’s not around right now, Pearls. Maybe some other time you’ll get to meet him.”
She accepts this with all the ease of childhood, blissfully unaware of the turmoil in Phoenix’s chest. “Okay, Mr. Nick!”
He breathes much easier when they move on to the topic of the murderer. Finally, a conversation he can be good at.
January 2018
They don’t talk about it. Well, more specifically Phoenix doesn’t talk about it, and Miles lets him get away with it. He waits, because he’s always meant every goddamn thing he’s said to Phoenix since they reunited in a courtroom lobby on the day Phoenix made the stupidest decision of his life.
Which is probably because he loves Phoenix. Now that the pieces are laid out so starkly in front of him, Phoenix can’t avoid the conclusions. He’s honestly not sure how he managed to keep it shoved aside for so long, but then, he’s never been a very straightforward thinker.
They’re in the stupid shower again, and even though now Phoenix can stand with his back to the spray and let the suds wash off that way instead of Miles pouring water over him with cupped hands like that’s an okay thing to do to Phoenix’s heart, it’s still exquisitely painful in that fundamental way Phoenix has been planning to feel for the rest of his life.
It hits him all at once how absurd this whole thing is. What is he waiting for? Why is he still holding back? There’s so much he wants to say, and there is plainly no reason for him to keep not saying things.
“Y’know, it really sucks that this isn’t even a little bit sexy.” Phoenix blurts, because he hasn’t been any good at intentional romance since the girl who tried to kill him (though according to Mia, he hadn’t actually been very good at it then, either). “I’ve been wanting you since the first time I figured out that thinking about other people while touching myself was a thing I could do, and now we’re naked in a shower and it’s not even sexy.”
Maybe he’ll get lucky and slip after all and hit his head so hard he gets amnesia again. Let blank slate Phoenix deal with a gorgeous, naked man who turns his heart into a perpetual motion machine and makes his blood feel like battery acid. Surely he’ll do better than this. The bar couldn’t be lower.
Miles just keeps massaging conditioner through Phoenix’s hair like he’s completely unaffected, even though Phoenix can hear the bluff of feigned confidence in his voice. “I don’t know. I think it’s a little sexy. It’s understandable that it wouldn’t be for you, what with all the surgery recovery.”
“That’s even worse.” Phoenix tips his head back so Miles can wash all the product out of his hair, starting to feel more certain in letting himself enjoy the feeling of those fingers touching him. “How come you get to feel all sexy when I’m stuck holding my arms at my side and needing you to do everything for me?”
He means it to be teasing, but there’s a plaintive note of sincere vulnerability that can’t help but escape. He’s never been any good at hiding things from Miles Edgeworth.
Miles hums and turns off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Phoenix with practiced ease, keeping him from feeling the cold air because he wants Phoenix to be comfortable, because he cares about the little things, because he’s been showering Phoenix in little luxuries whenever he can get away with it, and holy fuck Miles Edgeworth really does love him back.
“You’ll be recovered eventually,” Miles says, doing a damn good job of pretending like he’s confident and suave, even though Phoenix is completely sure that he’s also spent the last four years of their totally businesslike and not at all exclusive marriage not so much as considering jumping into bed with someone who isn’t his husband. “I imagine you’ll give me quite the turnabout once you’re able.”
“Damn right I will.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out quite so low, but he’s pretty satisfied at the shiver it sends through Miles. He’s learning all sorts of things today.
Despite the ostensible sexual tension, the process of getting Phoenix dry and rebound and dressed is as straightforward and unawkward as usual. They understand each other so completely, even though they’re both so loath to let other people see the soft and easily bruised parts of themselves.
And maybe that’s just it. At some point in the years since they signed those papers at the courthouse, Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright stopped being ‘other people’ and started being ‘my husband.’
When he’s finally in sweatpants and the binder and a zip-up hoodie (because he wants at least one night to luxuriate in not having to wear the mastectomy shirts anymore), Phoenix turns to look Miles fully in the face for the first time since he made a fool of himself in the car.
“We can at least kiss,” He says, finally settling into the truth that Miles managed to start living in, sometime in the last eleven months. “Even if it isn’t sexy.”
It’s a question, technically. He knows the answer even before Miles presses their lips together.
It isn’t what he’s dreamed about. He can’t wrap his arms around Miles the way he wants to, can’t run his fingers through the hair that’s always looked so soft and beautiful, can’t do anything but stand there and let himself be kissed.
It’s still one of the best moments of his entire goddamn life.
“I love you,” He whispers when Miles starts to pull back, the slight chapping of his lips catching against the smoother contrast still brushing so closely. “I know you already figured it out, but I still want to say it.”
Miles cups his cheek and rubs his nose along Phoenix’s, still breathing the same air, as though he can’t bear to part anymore than Phoenix can. “I will never object to hearing it. And…I love you too.”
They kiss again with increasing sureness, until Phoenix licks across Miles’ lips and makes him moan in a way that’s so clearly unintentional, and Miles shoves a hand into Phoenix’s hair and sucks his lip in payback, and then they’re both pulling back and laughing because it’s not the time to be sexy, but it’s still so stupid and wonderful that they’re contrary and competitive even in this.
They wind up on the couch, Phoenix propped up on Miles this time instead of the pillows, and it’s going to stop being comfortable before too long, but he knows that neither of them care. He just wants to be close in the way he’s pretended he doesn’t need for so fucking long that he almost can’t stand getting to have it.
Miles strokes along his side while they watch a documentary about seahorses, because neither of them wants to be too distracted, but they’re also both complete nerds who genuinely enjoy a good documentary. His hands settle lightly on top of Phoenix’s chest, so very careful not to add any pressure. Phoenix doesn’t know that he’s ever felt so safe and loved. It’s unbearable. It’s addicting.
“How does it feel?” He asks, and it’s not the first time. He asked right after the surgery, when Phoenix was still too foggy from anesthesia to answer. He asked again during the first shower together, when Phoenix was busy feeling anxious about holding the drains and a little too aware of how much the mutual nudity didn’t freak him out.
He asks now, when Phoenix is settled and calm and has had multiple chances to see the completely flat chest he’s been trying to imagine for well over a decade.
“Really fucking good.” Phoenix’s voice is sure and steady, even as he feels the prickle of tears. His chest is both lighter and more full than ever before. “Really, really fucking incredible, Miles. I still kind of can’t believe it.”
Miles drops a kiss on the top of his head and lets his hands settle lower, right beneath where the binder ends. “Good. I’m so very happy for you, Phoenix.”
Phoenix shifts just enough so he can see the warm, slightly flustered but so completely loving look that Miles is beaming down on him. He feels drunk on what feels like a hundred kinds of euphoria. “Thanks.”
He’s thanking Miles for more than just the shared happiness. It’s for the open emotions, for giving a shit, for understanding as much as he’s able and being okay with that limitation, for taking care of Phoenix even though he’s so bad at accepting help, for the fucking insurance that made this possible in the first place…for taking a risk back then and refusing to let Phoenix slip back out of his life.
Soon, Phoenix will heal. Soon, he’ll be able to shower and dress alone. Soon, he’ll get to lay flat on his back and sleep on his side and drink without a straw and do things on his own again. He loves Miles, can enjoy some of what comes with the helping, but he’s desperate to feel more in control again. He knows Miles understands. It’s wonderful and terrifying to know that he’s so understood.
Soon, he’ll feel like they’re on equal ground again. Soon, they can come back to what couldn’t happen with their kisses earlier. Soon, Phoenix will stretch his arms above his head and wear nothing at all under his shirts and see two lines of scar tissue running across his chest and feel right every time he does.
For now, he tucks his face into Miles’ neck and lets himself drift closer to sleep. They’ll have to move eventually, but until then, all he wants is to cocoon himself in the sheer bliss he might’ve tried to run from, had things been different. He doesn’t want to run. He knows that Miles doesn’t, either. Not anymore.
That’s more than enough for now.