"Wright. What are you doing here at one in the morning?"
He looked away, then into the apartment, then away again. "Look Edgeworth, I'm so sorry. Can I stay the night?"
Miles crossed his arms. "Why?"
Wright appeared panicked. "Do, I have to get into it right now? I really don't want to. I..."
He wanted to press Wright but decided to show some mercy, just in case something actually bad happened. "You can tell me in the morning," he said as he stood aside so Wright could enter. After all, it was the least he could do for the man who saved his life.
Wright nodded a little too eagerly. "Thank you so much. I owe you." He looked into the bathroom, then turned to Miles. "Do you have a change of clothes?"
He scanned the other. Wright seemed to be wearing pajamas. They were dry, nor did they look particularly dirty. "Sure. I'll get you some."
He nodded again and glanced somewhere else. "Thank you. Um-"
Miles looked back at him.
"Do you have a washer and dryer? And if so where?"
"Why?" Can't you do that at home?
Wright's arms moved without clear direction. "So I can wash my clothes. I really want them to be clean." He smiled, then brought a hand to his face.
The genuine urgency caught Miles off guard. He didn't remember Wright being such a, clean freak. "The laundry room is over there." He pointed.
"Thank you."
When Miles handed Wright a change of clothes, he thanked him yet again and closed the bathroom door.
He hadn't seen Wright outside court much, so maybe this was what he was like? If only he treated his cases with the same care.
Or something happened to those clothes. In those clothes, maybe?
I'll know in the morning, Miles decided, entering the bedroom.
The bed was not made. He had been sleeping. He focused on making it so it would be presentable for Wright, who was the guest, technically.
When he was finished, he exited his bedroom, placing a pillow and blanket on the couch. The shower was running.
Miles picked up a book and waited for Wright to be finished with whatever routine he had.
Eventually, Wright came out of the bathroom, wearing his checkered pajamas, spikes weighed down by water.
"You may sleep in the bed if you wish," Miles directed.
"You don't have to sleep on the couch. I can." Wright looked into the bedroom. "Also, we've slept in the same bed before."
"When we were nine."
He shrugged. "I don't care."
If he doesn't care, would it be weird if I did? "Then, I suppose, I don't care either." It should be fine.
"Great. I'm gonna go to bed right now." Wright entered the bedroom and presumably, did just that.
It was strange sharing a bed with Wright again after all these years. Not that there wasn't enough room. It was a California King fit for Los Angeles' projected "King of Prosecutors," now that Miles was making a name for himself and von Karma wasn't alive to overshadow him.
He was anxious just thinking about it and hoped Chief Skye would receive it this year.
And what was with Wright? his anxiety reminded him. What had he come here for?
Yes, it was strange sharing a bed with him. He might have enjoyed the company more if he hadn't been so worried. Ignoring the context, it was almost nice. Like having someone to watch over him. As asleep as that someone was, Wright had been concerning himself with Miles since childhood. Now, Miles was close enough to feel his emanating warmth.
Wright feeling comfortable sharing a bed with him was the closest thing to wanted affection he had received in years, so Miles faced him and closed his eyes, pretending Wright was closer than he really was. Pretending he could feel more body heat than he really felt. He began sinking into sleep, lulled by a simulated sense of security, when
"Miles."
He opened his eyes and investigated his perceptions. The darkness was real. The feeling of skin on sheets was real. The faint sound of a dryer was real. Miles wasn't dreaming, and Wright wasn't moving.
"Miles," he whispered, sounding asleep, even as he reached out and touched him.
He froze at the contact. Wright's hand was limp on his shoulder. Definitely asleep. If he moved it would fall, so he didn't move.
"Take off your clothes."
Then Miles shrugged away from the hand like it had burnt him. Wright was- Oh my God.
Wright was dreaming about them in a sexual situation.
His face heated up. Felt a pulse run down his spine, through his groin. He had never thought about Wright like that, but God, if Wright was awake, he might've listened.
It would be inappropriate. They worked together.
Miles turned away from the other, promising himself that the status quo would be maintained. That he wouldn't mention this to Wright or act differently, besides making him sleep on the couch if he had to stay, of course.
"Miles."
Ignore it.
"Stop."
Miles wondered what he was doing in the dream.
"Stop."
Then sat up and looked at Wright. What am I doing?
"Please stop."
There was a twinge in his chest. "Wright. You're dreaming."
"I can't-"
"You're dreaming."
Wright snorted. "-Uh? Huh?"
Miles tried to meet his eyes, but couldn't find them in the darkness. "It's ok. You were dreaming."
"Mm. Yeah," he slurred, grabbing Miles by the shirt and pulling him closer. "'S good."
Miles tensed but allowed Wright to hold him in place. He rested an arm against the other's stomach.
Wright exhaled and pulled him closer.
For more than half of his life, Miles lived with nightmares. He hoped Wright's dream was an outlier and not indicative of a pattern or problem.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about that.
He saw white and experienced a snap of panic. Then, What is this? Miles was afraid to touch it, then did, because it couldn't be that, and it wasn't.
It was, powder?
Miles leaned to look at the floor, and there was white powder there too!
He stood up and examined the room. Wright wasn't there. There was powder all over the floor and bed. It even got on his shirt.
There was a sound: a hybrid of a hiss and a growl coming from the other room. Then again.
Then again.
Miles walked towards the door, put a hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. He heard that sound. Maybe it was coughing or blowing? He turned the knob and opened the door. He saw Wright through a slight haze, holding a bottle. Without sound, a stream of white spurted out of the bottle and fell to the floor.
"Damn it," Wright said at the bottle.
Miles sighed and further opened the door.
His guest winced. "Uh- sorry I can explain."
He coughed. The air was thick with powder. "Please do."
Wright inhaled, then said, "You definitely don't have bed bugs."
"What?"
He raised his hands in some sort of defense, still holding that bottle. "Ok ok so I have bed bugs and they started to scare me so I came here with clothes I had already dried on high for 90 minutes." He lifted a finger. "Which would've killed them but I dried them again here anyways. So you definitely don't have bed bugs. But, I had a dream where you got bed bugs and you got really mad at me so when I woke up I got this." He waved the bottle. "Just in case."
Miles barely understood all of that. "Let me see," he said, gesturing at the bottle.
Wright handed him the bottle.
KILLS BED BUGS. Diatomaceous Earth.
"Was this the sound I heard?"
"Yeah, when I was able to puff it." Wright smiled and touched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I should have just told you."
He felt too relieved to be angry. I was mad about bed bugs.
"I, just, I figured you wouldn't let me stay if I told you."
Miles stared at the bottle. "You're already here."
"Ye- oh. Does that mean I can stay longer?"
He nodded. "Sure."
"I really owe you."
Miles looked up at Wright, who was still smiling. "Don't worry about that. You've done plenty for me."
He shook his head. "Yeah, but I still should've told you."
"Yes." He brought an arm to his mouth and coughed. "I'm going to my room."
"I'll join you later."
"Very well," Miles said as he crossed the threshold.