trace (vestiges)
He still does not like this office. He doubts he ever truly will like it, in all honesty; it's familiar and nostalgic, but there are just too many ghosts lingering in the walls. Too many former selves proudly strutting in and declaring himself the victor in cases that were not his to win; too many apparitions of wasted confidence that was never deserved.
He still thinks of Mia Fey whenever he comes to this office.
And yet, he can never truly hate the Wright & Co. Law Offices, either. He does indeed hate the fact that the door never seems to be locked- one would think Phoenix had better security systems, but Miles knows that after trials the man tends to simply come home and collapse if he does not need to take care of Maya or Pearl afterwards- so Miles is able to enter the darkened office with little delay, as unnerving as it may be. He is familiar with the way now, with no need to turn on the lights even though night had fallen long ago; his feet carry him easily into the main waiting area with that same old coffee table, the same old worn couches.
In the darkness, Miles finds the coffee table. He places food down onto it, and then, walks straight to the ottoman at the side of the room. The blanket stored within is soft and fresh from a recent wash, smelling of lavender detergent and Phoenix's cologne, the latter scent invading every corner of this office in mild ways. The prosecutor takes a moment to breathe that scent in, letting some of his fatigue wash away despite the myriad of knots in his own tense shoulders.
With the blanket retrieved, he pads silently over to the couch. The blanket is unfurled and spread over the prone body laying upon it without hesitation. The action is enough to awaken the sleeping man, even with Miles' care, unfortunately. With a rueful chuckle, Miles murmurs, his own voice hoarse after a long day of calls and investigations and meetings, "Have you eaten, Wright?"
The man lying upon the couch sits up. Squinting through shadow, Miles can see that familiar spiky-haired head shake, Phoenix's voice rumbling out sleepily, "I'm not that hungry though." Clumsily, the attorney reaches out and pats the space where he had laid his head.
Miles sighs. Gods, how he longs to just drag Phoenix back to his own home so the man can sleep somewhere better than this-
He swallows those thoughts down. There are ghosts in this office, true- but Phoenix loves those ghosts. He'll stay here till the end, Miles just knows it.
So, with a reluctant groan, Miles sits down onto the couch, silently thanking the darkness for masking his flushed cheeks as Phoenix lays back down onto his lap, the blanket tucked comfortably around his shoulders. "Stay for a bit," Phoenix murmurs into his thigh.
Miles' fingers find themselves intertwined with Phoenix's hair before either man can blink, massaging the man's scalp as he allows himself to lean back against the couch, head lolling back over the headrest, the tension fading a bit from his shoulders as well. "If I must, Wright," he muses aloud.
He does not need to see Phoenix's smile. A hand grabs his, removes it from Phoenix's hair, bringing it down to rest upon the attorney's cheek. The smile on his lips, as slight as it is, curves high cheeks into Miles' palm perfectly.