"Wright."

Phoenix grumbles something unintelligible at the soundtrack of his dream, rolls over in bed. He's starting to slide back into unconsciousness when there's another sound, like someone pounding on a door, and his name again, "WRIGHT," so loudly that he starts to sit up before he is fully awake.

"Wha?" he says aloud. Then he blinks, the world shifts into focus around him, and he looks towards the shut bedroom door. "Edgeworth?"

"Wright." The sound is muffled but there is an unmistakable note of relief in the sound. "Are you decent?"

"What?" Phoenix looks down - he's wearing a shirt, and boxers, and is mostly under the blankets anyway. "Yeah, sure."

The door opens. Edgeworth is stepping into the room before he's really taken in the surroundings, speaking before he offers any kind of greeting. "Where on earth do you keep the - WRIGHT, what are you wearing?"

"Uh. Clothes?"

"Why aren't you wearing pants?" Edgeworth demands, looking harried and frenzied and generally as unkempt as Phoenix has ever seen him.

"I'm covered," Phoenix insists. "I only have the one pair of sweatpants and you're wearing them. I'm not going to sleep in jeans."

Edgeworth is flushing pink all across his face, as if he walked in on Phoenix truly exposed. It's funny to get him to blush in general, but the effect is compounded by what he's wearing - a t-shirt, and Phoenix's only sweatpants, and nothing else. His hair has clearly been finger-combed into some semblance of order, and the shirt and pants both fit him just fine, but in comparison to his usual suit-and-cravat-and-excess-of-dignity it's undeniably hilarious to see him looking so human.

"Fine," he says, dragging his gaze from Phoenix's knee to the other's face in exchange for his cheeks approaching red instead of pink. "Where is your tea?"

Phoenix blinks at this demand. "What are you talking about?"

"Tea," Edgeworth repeats, as if emphasis will carry the coherency his original sentence lacked. "Where is yours?"

"I don't have any," Phoenix blinks, still fighting for full coherency. "Are you one of those people who need caffeine first thing in the morning? I think there's some instant coffee up in the pantry in the back."

Edgeworth makes a tiny strangled sound, as if Phoenix has possibly suggested they murder several small children and drink their blood in lieu of breakfast. "No, it must be tea. You don't have any?"

Phoenix shakes his head, yawns. "Nope. What time is it?"

Edgeworth huffs, folds his arms. The effect of the stance is somewhat spoiled by what he's wearing, but it's a valiant effort. "Fine. Where's the nearest store?"

Phoenix points. "Two blocks that way."

Edgeworth turns on his heel, heads back down the hallway and out of sight.

"Edgeworth," Phoenix shouts, swinging his legs out of bed and making for the doorway. "Hey, Edgeworth, you're not walking to buy tea, are you?"

"Of course I am," Edgeworth shouts back. Phoenix can hear the front door open. "If you kept some in the house, we wouldn't have this crisis on our hands."

"Edgeworth-"

The door shuts. Phoenix stands still for a moment; then he sighs, decides he's already more awake than he wants to be, and goes back to put on a pair of jeans.

It's far earlier than it has any right to be. The sun is up, at least, but Phoenix is fairly certain he's lacking two or three hours of valuable recovery time thanks to Edgeworth's caffeine addiction. But he's awake now, and the kitchen is empty and Edgeworth is technically a guest, mostly, and there's still most of a carton of eggs in the fridge and some green onions on the counter, so Phoenix makes the most of his morning by starting breakfast.

It takes Edgeworth longer than it should. The store is at most a five-minute walk, but Phoenix is still nearly done making the first omelette by the time the front door opens again.

"Edgeworth," he yells without moving from the stove. "Do you like omelettes?"

There's no response. Phoenix is just about to yell again when footsteps round the corner and Edgeworth comes into sight with a paper bag in hand.

"You don't have a teapot at all, do you," he offers by means of a greeting. Phoenix shakes his head. "Of course you don't." Edgeworth drops the bag on the counter, retrieves a box of tea bags from the interior and sets to work opening the shrink wrap on the box. "Cups, at least, I hope."

"Yeah." Phoenix flips the omelette over, leaves it to cook for a moment while he retrieves a mug from the cupboard. "This okay?"

"It'll suffice." Edgeworth takes it before returning to his struggles with the box; Phoenix fishes out a saucepan, half-fills it with water and sets it to boil before he pulls the omelette off the stove and slides it onto a plate.

"Here." He offers it to Edgeworth, who is just peeling the last of the wrapping off the box and pulling a paper-wrapped teabag from the interior.

The other man glances at the plate without much interest - then he pauses, looks back, looks at Phoenix's face. "What is this?"

"An omelette," Phoenix answers; then, when that elicits no comprehension, tries, "Breakfast?"

Edgeworth blinks, reaches to take the plate. "You made this?"

"No, my live-in chef did." Phoenix rolls his eyes. "Yes, I did. What do you usually have for breakfast?"

Edgeworth is looking rather lost. "Tea."

Phoenix grins. "That's not breakfast." He locates a fork, offers it to Edgeworth. "Go eat, I'll be over in a minute. Water's on for your tea, too."

Edgeworth takes the fork, looks past Wright's shoulder at the stovetop. "Is that a pot of water?"

"Edgeworth?" Phoenix waits until the other is looking at him. "Shut up and eat your breakfast."

It takes a few minutes for him to finish the second omelette. By the time he's coming to the table himself, the water has boiled and Edgeworth has managed to produce two mugs of tea, one of which he silently slides across the table in Phoenix's direction when the other sits down. Over half of his omelette is gone, as well. Phoenix doesn't comment on this. "How's the tea?"

"Fine." Edgeworth glares at his mug like it's done something to offend him, takes a mouthful that has to be painfully hot. But he swallows without cringing, stares into the mug so long Phoenix thinks maybe he's going for another infusion of liquid before he speaks. "It's good."

"The tea?" It's too bitter for Phoenix's taste, and blisteringly hot, but he figures he'll give it some time to cool before he tries adding sugar.

"The omelette." Edgeworth clears his throat, takes another mouthful of tea. "I didn't know you could cook."

Phoenix rocks back in his chair, trying to process the sound of the words and the meaning and the fact that that was almost a compliment, maybe, by Edgeworth standards. "I don't, really. I mean, I can feed myself."

Edgeworth coughs again, takes another bite and another swallow of tea to finish off the cup before he goes back to the kitchen to start another pot of water. While he's over the stove with his back turned Phoenix can steal a glance at him, take in the slouch to his shoulders and the way his hair is tangled at the back of his neck, crushed flat by sleeping and absent the assistance of a comb into compliance.

Edgeworth doesn't ask what Phoenix is grinning about when he comes back to the table, and Phoenix doesn't offer. It's far too entertaining to see Edgeworth with some of his guard down to draw his attention to the lack of it.