trace (vestiges)

Pearl is far too much bravery condensed in far too small a frame, Miles thinks; she remains resolute as he drives her and Phoenix home, the atmosphere in his vehicle tense and unnerving as they sit in the remnants of their work that day. She wears guilt like a mantle around her shoulders, her tiny, shivering frame rigid, swollen eyelids forcibly open in terror and anxiety despite her clear need for rest. He watches her periodically upon the drive back to the city through the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing but traces of pain ringing her mouth, concentrating into the silent, desperate action of a stubby thumb caught between her small teeth, chewing.

He sends Phoenix straight to the master bedroom while he takes liberty to prepare a bath for Pearl. Once she is quietly situated with warm, dry clothes laid out nearby, he goes off to prepare food. He doubts she will eat it- he knows that he himself can never stomach anything when his fears mount- but it is there, and he is patient.

She does eat in the end. Not much, but enough; Miles praises her brusquely before guiding her stoic self up the stairs, guiding her each step of the way until she is tucked in. It has been a year since he has gone through these motions with her, and even then, he had always had Maya's help; settling the young girl in on his own feels strange, foreign.

And yet, it seems that it is enough. He brushes her hair off her cheek and murmurs, "Tomorrow, Mystic Maya will come home. Pearl, you will require rest if you are to help us take care of her then, understood?"

As those words sink in, Pearl's taciturn expression finally breaks. Crumpling in on itself, a high, keening whine slips past her lips as she buries her fact against Miles' stomach, whispering, "Mystic Ma-Maya…" between stuttering, heaving sobs.

He does not speak. He fears, too, after all. Franziska has promised to stay with Iris, but the chamber within the Inner Temple which Iris is trying to unlock apparently falls to temperatures which are well below freezing, and Maya has been in there for not one night, but two.

Miles Edgeworth is not a religious man, but as Pearl Fey cries in his arms, he prays.

Once she is tuckered out from her tears and he has slipped away, Phoenix is already lying upon the bed, arm covering his eyes, exhaustion oozing from every pore. Miles does not interact, merely heading straight to the washroom to clean up. He does know what to say to the other man; he can only hope that something will come to mind as he gets ready to sleep for another long, wearying night.

No words come to mind. As he steps out, ready for a night during which he doubts he shall gain any rest at all out of fear for the next day's trial, he sees Phoenix sitting upright, halfway under the covers. The other side of the duvet is folded over, ready for Miles. So, mutely, Miles complies, slipping into the bed and turning off the lights. A foot of space rests between them.

His heart aches. They are silent.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, Phoenix begins to speak. There is a strangeness to his voice, a surreal, ethereal quality that seems to halfway stem from a fever dream and a candid, horrifying nightmare; a lilting desperation causes his voice to hitch every few words, and yet, he somehow remains strangely monotone, his voice exhibiting none of the warmth and candor and life which Miles has always adored in the other man. Phoenix feels halfway like a robot. He sounds empty.

His words, however, are decidedly not so. Apparently, Phoenix's deductive and investigative skills still far outmatch Miles', for he has managed to unearth clues which the prosecutor could have never even imagined. Those words are full of far too much meaning for Miles' exhausted, jetlagged, confused self to even comprehend.

Iris and Dahlia Hawthorne are twins.

Their mother is Morgan Fey, the woman who had tried to get Maya convicted of murder the year before.

…which means that the little girl currently sleeping in his guest bedroom is Iris' younger sister.

Oh my god, Miles thinks, burying his face in his hands as he sinks underneath the bedspread, absolutely exhausted, it really does all come back to the Feys. Phoenix meant it, didn't he? That this was all related to spirit channeling? When Phoenix had brought up the idea that it was linked to the Kurain Technique, Miles had outright rejected the notion; how could the school run by the woman who had triggered the entire DL-6 incident be related to this bizarre, absolutely baffling case?

But apparently, it all was. Miles glances over to Phoenix, looking at his weary silhouette faintly illuminated by streetlights filtering in through slightly-parted curtains amidst the dead of night. The attorney's brow is furrowed, his dizzied fatigue clear as day in muddy eyes.

…if anyone shall solve it, it is you, Wright.

With a sigh that is far too defeated for his liking, Miles murmurs, "Well, Wright. We should go to sleep. The trial shall begin early tomorrow-"

Before he can finish his sentence, Phoenix's arms have pulled Miles' head to lay upon Phoenix's lap. The prosecutor splutter and is about to move away when Phoenix whispers, "I… thanks for taking care of Pearls today."

Bristling, Miles can only huff a quiet, "Of course I did," under his breath before making a move to leave. He does not want to be held; he does not want to be close. There is something so strangely unsettling about Phoenix's touch in the moment, thanks to the unresolved frustration and bitterness and fear still curled up in his fingers, ready to strike out at the faintest rumbling beneath Miles' feet once again.

He wishes he were grounded still. That earthquake earlier that day had dislodged the last dregs of sanity in him. He is fearful and weary, and he does not want Phoenix to hold him if Iris is more important-

Gentle fingers smooth through Miles' hair, the touch so tender that instantly, Miles has to choke down a sob, his body automatically curling into the touch which he has been trained to worship, of which he has been yearning for over the past year apart. Those fingers stroke and massage and tug, simultaneously easing the strain behind Miles' eyes and augmenting it tenfold as tears unshed add pressure on their own. "Wright, I don't want-"

"Please, Miles," Phoenix whispers, leaning down close. He does not look at Miles, merely pressing his own eyes into Miles' hair. "I just- need to hold onto something."

…and I did not?

He bites back the words. Then, taking a deep breath, he brings them back upon his tongue, albeit more even, tempered. "I needed something after the earthquake today."

"…I know." There is shame in Phoenix's voice.

"You ran after the defendant."

"…I'm sorry." His voice cracks.

"I…"

Phoenix shudders, arms wrapped around Miles' shoulders tightening their hold.

"I wanted you to stay."

"I-"

"Apologize after you get your answers… Phoenix." Miles sits up, pulling away from the other man. Then, without waiting for Phoenix's protests or complaints, he gently guides the attorney to lay down, drawing the blanket over them both.

The bed is cold. The space between them remains. Miles prays that tomorrow night, it shall be different- tonight, however, he does not know how to solve it, how to bridge this gap that is so easy to cross in theory, but so cavernous, so utterly vast, when looked at through the lens of Miles' memories, Miles' fear, Miles' moment of waking up alone and seeking comfort and being abandoned instead.

He wants to change this. He cannot do it alone. He needs Phoenix.

And Phoenix isn't his right now to have, whether he likes it or not.