Prompt: Ema starts a band called the Hobosexuals. Her first album is called Fuck Bums.

It was three in the morning, and Miles Edgeworth was not pleased.

"You don't understand, she's moved on from you and it's terrifying," Phoenix whispered harshly over the phone line. "I don't know what to do, I mean I just keep smirking and backing away but it's only a temporary measure, I need your help!"

"And why do you suppose I should be able to help you?" Miles asked, around a yawn. He'd been up working on a case until shortly after one, and was not appreciating the abbreviated rest. In fact, he was debating the merits of simply hanging up and leaving Wright to face this so-called crisis on his own. Ema had always seemed sensible enough to him - over-enthusiastic at times, perhaps, but not to a terrible degree.

The man's next words changed that opinion completely.

"B-but... she reminds me of Oldbag," Phoenix hissed, and Miles sat bolt upright in his bed, glancing instinctively around the room. No old woman lurking in the shadows, he relaxed very slightly, but focused intently on his friend's shaky voice: "A young, science-obsessed, sexually explicit Oldbag, and I -"

There was a pause, and something that sounded like a sniff on the other end of the line. "I remember when she was just an innocent schoolgirl traumatized by murder. What happened in Europe?!"

Miles thought that was a little unfair. He liked Europe; he'd done well for himself there. It was no Japanifornia, to be sure, but Ema's apparent transformation was more likely due to hormones than any foreign living. He didn't bother to voice this objection, however, as Phoenix sounded near-hysterical already.

"What exactly is she doing?" he asked instead. "How... Oldbag is it?"

"So Oldbag," Phoenix moaned. "It's the Oldbag of the new generation. It's Youngbag! She made a band."

Miles, who had been expecting far worse by this point, blinked. "A band."

"It's. It's called 'the Hobosexuals,'" Phoenix moaned. "And she gave me their first single, and it's called 'Fuck Bums', and the lyrics are -" he broke off, in what seemed to be a powerful involuntary shudder.

"Oh," said Miles.

"They're really explicit, okay," Phoenix said, all in a rush. "And it's not a solo gig either, she's got - somehow she's enlisted Klavier and Apollo, I don't know how and I don't want to know but, but they all chime in on the chorus and I might be imagining it? I might but Klavier has this gleam in his eyes and Apollo is just way too enthusiastic even if he does just really love singing and I'm getting paranoid, here, okay?"

His voice got progressively squeakier throughout the rant, until by the end Miles had to pull the phone away from his ear, wincing.

"Wright," he said, once the man seemed worn out. "Phoenix. Breathe."

A deep, shaky breath sent static down the line.

"Klavier Gavin is a flirt with a fondness for the absurd," Miles said soothingly. "And your protege, while certainly an admirer, is most likely enamoured less ofyou and more of the benefits of being on good terms with a detective."

"But Ema-"

"As for Miss Skye," Miles paused, and couldn't quite contain a smirk. "She seems to be very focused on your current image. I suspect once you change that, her... affections will fade away soon enough."

"Ch-change my image?" Wright's voice was weak; pliable. The voice of a man who would follow just about any suggestion that he thought could help him. "How?"

"I've been meaning to speak to you about this," Miles said, standing up from his bed and slowly walking over to his closet. "You have done all you set out to do when you first donned that... ratty exercise wear. You've managed to protect your daughter and friends, and even delivered justice to your nemesis, clearing your own name in the process. Don't you think it's time?"

"I - Miles," Phoenix said softly, and his voice was hesitant now, hurting, and Miles' hands clenched on the handle of his closet as he opened the door. "I'm not sure I..."

"You're not happy 'playing the piano', Phoenix," Miles interrupted strongly, striding into his walk-in closet and flicking on the light. "You never were. And do you really want the Hobosexuals to continue?"

The piteous moan was answer enough.

"It's time," Miles repeated, and opened the door at the back of his closet. His breath caught a little at the sight awaiting him, and he had to clear his throat before continuing on: "And when you pass the bar, I can find a suit for you that will entirely erase 'hobos' from Miss Skye's mind."

"...Maybe you're right," Phoenix said slowly, and Miles bit his lip. "Maybe it is time. I have missed facing off against you across the courtroom."

"And I you," Miles said, heart beating fast.

"I - okay then. I'll do it." Phoenix's voice was gaining life as he made the decision, becoming firmer and stronger and more vibrant in every way, and perhaps some people were aroused by sarcasm and stubble, but Miles had always had more refined tastes.

"Your new suit will be waiting," Miles said softly, and didn't say has been waiting, I've been waiting, all these long years, and now finally-

They said their goodbyes, Phoenix with a promise to hit the books right away, Miles with a promise to call his tailor. And as he pressed the end call button, Miles reached out, and gently skimmed his fingers down a silk blue waistcoat, the material cool and promising against his skin. He brushed a speck of dust off the darker blue jacket, precisely tailored to the exact measurements of one Phoenix Wright, and smiled.

Perhaps he'd been a little misleading, but then, as Wright himself could attest, sometimes such methods were necessary. And this suit - it demanded to be worn (to be removed, by Miles after a trial, one button at a time with his other hand down those exquisitely pressed slacks and Wright flushing and gasping for more, clean-shaven and hair spiked back and looking a million utterly debauched bucks).

'Well done,' Miles texted Ema, and went back to bed.