Work Text:
It starts like this:
Miles in Germany, again. He gets caught up in a smuggling ring, again. There's an explosion, and people get shot - people get killed - and Phoenix learns about this when he's eating his cereal the next morning, tie flung over his shoulder so it doesn't land in his Lucky Charms.
Miles on the TV. There's dirt on his face and his cravat is torn, and Phoenix drops his spoon so hard there's splashes of milk everywhere. Miles Edgeworth is never anything less than perfectly put together and he looks filthy and tired as he gives his interview. His partner grimaces and says, the people responsible for the bomb have been apprehended and are in police custody.
Or maybe it starts like this:
Miles adjusting his cuffs in the mirror. Fixing the way his lapels lie against his chest. There isn't any lint on his pants, but he has a weird, sticky roller thing he uses anyway. Phoenix is lying on the bed with studied nonchalance, arms folded under his head.
You are being disingenuous right now. Oooh, 'disingenuous', I think that's a triple word score. Phoenix. Miles. This event is extremely important to my career. I need to make a good impression. And you can't make a good impression with me on your arm. That isn't what I'm saying. I saw the invitation. It said 'and guest'. What am I, Miles? I thought I was your boyfriend - must you use that juvenile term? - well what else am I going to call myself? I'm apparently not 'and guest'.
I can't talk to you when you're like this, Phoenix. I love you, but you're currently unemployed - I have a job! - you're a poker player in the basement of a Russian club. I can't introduce you to...to...to a Senator and say, here's my partner, he plays cards for a living and wears sweatpants to work. He sighs, God, he has a whole language of sighs and Phoenix has become fluent. I have to go or I'll be late. We'll discuss this later.
They don't.
Maybe it's in the stops and starts. A stuttered confession in the Gatewater Hotel. A missed anniversary, I am so, so, so sorry Phoenix. I can't believe I forgot the date. Days spent in bed, learning every inch of each other. Fights that last a week until they're too tired to continue. Support and understanding; late-night shoulder rubs and listening to him ramble about the Steel Samurai remake. Disdain and condescension; barbs that can't be shaken loose, so they fester.
I thought you had better judgement than this. Not much, but certainly enough not to use evidence in court without knowing its origins.
And:
Why am I even discussing this with you? You're a goddamn robot, Miles. Do you even remember what it's like to have an emotion, or did von Karma train that out of you, too?
Fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Fuck, Miles. I'm sorry.
And:
You are beyond reckless, Phoenix. She's a little girl. She shouldn't be working this late at night. How could you possibly think this is appropriate? I'm putting my foot down.
And:
If you stayed, maybe I wouldn't need to do this, Miles. Maybe we could have some consistency in our lives for once. I don't even know if I can trust you to hang around this time.
The end, when it happens, happens on a Tuesday night.
Phoenix sitting on the couch, jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He hasn't slept and caffeine-anxiety is making him jittery. Miles is late, hadn't called to tell him. They're at the point where it's almost a relief when he stays at work past 7. Maybe he does it on purpose, Phoenix wonders.
Miles walks in the door. He hangs his coat on the hook. Turns around to walk into the living room and starts when he sees his partner waiting for him. "Phoenix?"
"Hey Miles. I think we need to talk."