trace (vestiges)
He knows that the poor clerk working reception in the emergency wing does not deserve the dressing down he receives, but Miles cannot stay his tongue by the time he bursts through the doors of the hospital. The other patrons and patients and visitors grow still as they watch him blaze a trail through the hospital with an intensity that could have signalled the end of the world, his eyes steely and steps assured. Detective Gumshoe trails after him, an anxious puppy following with his tail between his legs as Miles strides down the hall, following the clerk's feeble instructions. Two doors down the second hall on the right- two doors down the second hall on the right- These words repeat themselves over and over and over again in his mind, blocking out all other sights and sounds. He only has one goal.
Phoenix is here. The moment the detective had found him searching in the airport, his explanation of the situation had become clear. Phoenix had been found downstream of Dusty Bridge near Hazakura Temple. The man's body had been fished out of frigid, wintry waters, his near-corpse slung over a high rock, barely clinging onto life with lips turning blue and a series of bruises and lacerations that could have sent a weaker man into shock far sooner. After his entry to the hospital, his status had been unknown, thanks to the mystery which is still unfolding at the temple proper.
Miles cares not about any mystery, nor about the case which the detective must return to after this pick-up job is done; he has long-since abandoned thinking beyond that. All he knows is that it is the middle of the morning on February 8th, and he was not supposed to have come home for nearly another week-
And, if he even dares to delay, there may no longer be a home waiting for him at all.
Without even looking, he mutes his cellphone, silencing the incessant calls which have surely come from Larry- the man has not stopped calling Miles since he had turned his American cell back on, and Miles has absolutely no patience right now. He had tried calling Maya to see if she knew what had caused Phoenix's accident, but the young woman was unreachable, and Detective Gumshoe had turned pale when he had asked about her; Miles put any thoughts of Maya to the side. He cannot handle fearing the worst for Maya, too.
His body buzzes with fervent anticipation, a nearly-permanent block in his throat causing him to shudder and shiver and shake every time he allows himself even a moment's rest. So, he does not stop- he keeps moving and moving and moving, forcing himself onward through the halls, a figure built on pure adrenaline charging its way through the halls.
Eventually, he arrives at the designated door. The room number matches that which the clerk had provided him, so there is little doubt of who lays within. As his hand reaches out to the doorknob, however, Miles stops short; his eyes fixate upon the light streaming into this northeast-facing wing, his heart aching as morning sunlight casts innocent, hopeful rays upon the door.
What if what he finds isn't… isn't Phoenix?
Miles has already broken Phoenix's heart more times than he can ever truly atone for. His own heart clenches in his chest at the thought of the scars littering Phoenix's body; he may have helped heal those invisible wounds, but he does not know if he would ever be able to save Phoenix's flesh, too.
"Mr. Edgeworth, sir…" Gumshoe whimpers, his downtrodden figure peering awkwardly around the corner. "I'm gonna go sit in the lobby, okay, pal? Let me know when you wanna go, or if you need anything-"
"Wait there," Miles replies through gritted teeth. He immediately regrets his harsh tone- he knows that the detective is loyal to a fault to Miles, but with his weary, anxious heart, there is little comfort Miles can provide. He cannot even comfort himself, after all.
All he needs… it is behind this door.
Gulping, he finally wraps his fingers around the handle. It is cold and heavy in his hands, the chill somehow searing him like an icy flame; he does not let go, however, slowly turning a creaking handle until it gives way with a slight click. He leans his forehead briefly against the paint of the door, sucks in a breath, and then, steps inside.
"…Miles, is that you?" the voice he has been praying to hear for nearly the last day rasps.
Miles slowly opens his eyes. It is painfully difficult to see; the sunlight which streams gently through an opened window through fluttering curtains illuminates the white, sterile space, he knows, but the tears blurring his vision as shock and relief and sorrow strike him all at once, almost knocking him to the floor, prevent him from making anything out clearly. Mutely, he shuffles towards the voice, trying to blink away tears which he had thought he had finished crying upon the flight. As he sniffles discretely and makes his way closer, his mind slowly processes the figure who is situated in the bed.
He is sitting upright. He has a small portable bedtable set up before him with a laptop perched across it, and although his shoulders trembles as he coughs into his elbow with a feebleness that would break anyone's heart, there is no wound too big, no colour too far-gone, in this weary figure who can only be Phoenix Wright.
Clearing thick, unshed sobs from his throat, Miles murmurs, "You're… alive."
"Miles," Phoenix repeats, almost as if he is too stunned to comprehend what is going on. Then, his own face twists, his head hanging low, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes as his shoulders begin to shake again- this time, however, from something other than a cough.
Miles drops his suitcase to the floor without a second thought, feet carrying him across the floor to Phoenix's bedside. He does not speak as he opens his arms, enveloping the other man in his embrace, his own stance weak as his adrenaline finally begins to fade, leaving his entire body weak, limp. Phoenix does not pull away, merely shuddering as he continues to wipe away his vulnerability with bandaged fingertips, a wet, hoarse voice choking out, "You're early."
Miles merely shushes him, pulling up the nearest bedside stool to perch next to the man, holding him close. His lips traipse across dark hair, bruised skin, a split lip; his own fingertips, nailbeds abused after picking at them anxiously throughout the entirely flight back, wipe away Phoenix's tears with such gentleness that it only causing Phoenix to slump further into his touch. "Larry called me in a panic. He said you were-" He pauses, then shudders, pulling away from the other man just enough to be able to cup a stubble-covered cheek with a trembling hand. "He said you had drowned."
Thankfully, Phoenix smiles at this, rueful and weary despite the numerous bandages and pieces of medical tape holding him together. "Goddammit, Larry," he breathes wryly, a crooked grin crossing his lips. "I- it was scary, but I'm fine, Miles." Then, the man turns his cheek, pressing his lips against Miles' palm languidly, leaning into his touch without hesitation.
Miles' heart soars at the contact, and then again as he realizes the moniker which Phoenix has been using. "I'm home, Phoenix," he whispers, bringing his forehead to rest against the attorney's for a moment. "I thought I told you to stop putting yourself into these situations."
To his surprise, Phoenix merely shrugs. "I know, but- hey, at least I know I can always count on you to come running," he teases lightly. Before Miles can react, however, his expression falls, brows furrowing as his body is wracked once again with a dreadful cough from deep within his lungs. Miles immediately moves to rub the other man's back, eyeing the call button for the nurse just in case they need it.
Phoenix stops coughing soon enough, much to his relief. With a sigh, Phoenix leans back against his angled pillow, his hands intertwining with Miles'. "It really had to happen now, huh?" Phoenix groans. "You were going to come back for Valentine's Day. It was going to be great."
Those words somehow are the key to dispelling all of the anxiety and fear which have been consuming Miles for so, so long. Rolling his eyes, the prosecutor blinks at Phoenix, absolutely deadpan. "…you're an idiot, Wright."
"Oh, ha-ha," Phoenix replies mildly, his eyes creasing after a moment in genuine gratitude and affection.
Miles cannot help but smile back, stroking the back of Phoenix's hand. His touch is warm, and they are both safe, and this is more than Miles could have ever hoped for; so, he takes a moment to steady himself before finally asking the question which has been pushed aside all this time. "I tried contacting Maya," he says firmly, "but I couldn't reach her. What is the situation, Wright?"
Just like that, Phoenix's blissful expression fades into cold, calculating professionalism. He opens up his laptop. "Here's what I've found."
Well, this isn't what I wanted to do the moment I came back, but, Miles thinks fondly to himself, never letting go of Phoenix's hand as the man begins to explain the numerous files onscreen, I'll take it.