He wasn't sure why he allowed Phoenix Wright to stay. The Count Miles Edgeworth was not known for his fondness for company, quite the opposite. Perhaps it was pity. A storm raged mercilessly outside. Phoenix Wright was lost, drenched, and fleeing a fate worse than a vaguely-haunted mansion.
"I've been framed for my mentor's murder," he explained, his eyes pleading, and up close Miles could make out the scuffs and bruises on him. He sniffled into an absurd pink sweater. "This was the safest place. . . they didn't think a crybaby like me would come in here. But I won't be a crybaby!" he declared, hands bunched into determined fists. "I'll be helpful. You won't regret it!"
Miles frowned. "I'll settle for you being quiet," he hissed, shoving a dry towel at his hapless guest.
Perhaps it was pity, or perhaps it was something else. For when Phoenix pulled his drenched sweater over his head, showing a muscled chest covered in pink, glowing skin, Miles felt a primal tug he'd fought down for centuries. Saliva filled his mouth with the urge to feed. He swallowed.
"Thanks, you'll hardly notice I'm here," Phoenix said, toweling himself dry. "I won't get in your way."
The droplets clung to his gleaming hair and his skin. The ran down his shifting muscles in rivulets as he raised his arms over his head, leaving gleaming trails down his chest and sides. Miles turned away from the sight: all that fresh blood before him on display. "See that you don't," he snapped, whirling away and slamming the guestroom door behind him.
- O -
Count Miles Edgeworth was a solitary creature who lived in a secluded castle that he kept in intentional disrepair. The bats, overgrown branches, and creeping shadows were perfect for discouraging most would-be-intruders, and for the persistent few, a he'd creak the floorboards and drift just out of sight, letting the unwanted explorers catch the barest glimpse of him. Enough to scare them off, but not so much that any who heard their tale would fit the pieces together, and decipher who (or what) lived in the old mansion.
His background in law proved equally useful, for whenever an enterprising business or property tycoon sought to make use of his lands, they found themselves blocked by some wordy, convoluted law that had been on the books for decades. His castle was a historical site, and his woods were a wildlife sanctuary, and all together, his lands proved impenetrable to visitors and speculators alike.
Inside his castle, however, past the outer rooms of intentionally creaky doors and suspiciously-splattered walls, Count Edgeworth lived in comfortable rooms, with a small kitchen and a small sitting room, and a library the size of the Louvre.
Thus, he passed the centuries in relative quiet, sipping on forest animals and quietly reading, and watching times, technology, and language change around him. And if the years began to blur together, or if his books didn't quite hold his interest of late, he didn't complain.
Until it all changed one spring day.
- O -
The quiet became a distant memory. In the morning, Phoenix clattered around the kitchen raising a furious ruckus of crashing pans and banging pots. Miles slammed the door open, disheveled and furious and wearing pink silk pajamas.
"What's going on in here?" he growled.
Phoenix froze. A teakettle whistled. The oatmeal bubbled over, splattering onto the floor with a glorp.
"Making you breakfast?" Phoenix guessed.
"Either you are or you aren't," Miles said pointedly.
"Umm. Making you breakfast!" Phoenix said decisively.
Breakfast turned out to be plain oatmeal, not even a sprinkle of sugar for flavor, and English Breakfast Tea (also without sugar). "Odd that I couldn't find any other food in the house," Phoenix remarked.
"Not odd at all," Miles said smoothly. "My. . . deliveries must have been delayed by the storm." He prodded at the oatmeal: a thick, congealed texture laced through with burned bits.
"It's. . . I'm. . . sorry, I'll get better at it," Phoenix stammered. "Mine at home is instant. I make it in a microwave. You don't even have one—say, what is this place? Are you a historical LARPer?"
Miles blinked. "A what?"
"Or maybe you're one of those. . . Khura'in enthusiasts who live without electricity. . . ."
"Khura'in has electricity, you ignorant fool!" Miles interrupted. "How is it that—oh never mind," Miles sighed. "What I'd really like to know is how you managed to use all those to make this." He gestured at the kitchen, at the pots heaped in the sink, all coated with inedible oatmeal.
Phoenix flushed. "I said I'm not good at it, alright! It took me a few tries! Would it kill you to say thank you? I made you breakfast, you know."
"Yes, and I'll be all day cleaning up after you!" Miles snapped.
"Oh, all right, I'll clean up. I can see why you live all alone," Phoenix retorted. They glared at each other.
Grumbling, Phoenix stood and went into the kitchen. Miles turned and stalked into the woods.
He returned three hours later, having discreetly devoured a woodland creature while ordering same-day delivery on what he hoped to be ordinary pantry items. The last time he'd shopped for groceries was the mid-1800s, and he was fairly certain leg of mutton was no longer commonplace.
Devouring his meal had taken a mere fifteen minutes, and placing the order another ten. The remainder of that time he spent on Reddit.
Getting my own apartment for the first time, he posted in r\Cooking, lying through his teeth and his top-of-the-line smartphone. What essentials should I stock? He was not, as Phoenix Wright had assumed, a technophobe, nor was he attached to any historical lifestyle. His wifi was state-of-the-art, all throughout his lands and even in the woods, so take that. The real reason he didn't own a microwave was that nothing of class could ever be prepared in one. Count Edgeworth did not eat leftovers or, he thought with a shudder, instant oatmeal.
He waited three hours for replies, and then ordered one of everything. He returned to find his kitchen in disarray, even messier than he'd left it.
Soap suds covered every inch of the floor, and Phoenix cowering by the sink. He was shirtless and drenched again, his right hand dripping blood. "Sorry!" Phoenix rambled. "I dumped the oatmeal down the sink, but you didn't have a disposal, so I took the sink apart to clean it out. Those pipes are sharp, did you know?"
"Oh for the love of!" Miles shrieked, grabbing Phoenix by the hand and heaving him out the door. He splashed back to the sink and glared at the kitchen, trying not to scream.
A flash of red caught his eye: Phoenix's blood smeared across his palm. Slowly, he raised it to face and breathed in deeply. It smelled sharp, bright, alive. Before he could stop himself, he'd licked his hand clean.
He sighed while he mopped and repaired the sink and recited his favorite novel to himself. He would never admit it, but Miles had a soft spot for young adult romance, or at least, the circa-1800 version of it. He had read this one so many times he knew it by heart. By the time he got to You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love— and was interrupted by his doorbell, he was calm. Calm enough to entice Phoenix from where he sat meekly in the guest room, and bandage his hand.
"I'm sorry," Phoenix repeated. "I swore not to make trouble for you, but that's all I've been doing. I guess this cut is your house's way of getting back at me."
Miles held Phoenix's wrist, the heartbeat pulsing quick and strong just beneath the surface, and tried to ignore the warm skin against his, the blood just out of reach. He looked around frantically—anywhere but at Phoenix. His eyes landed on the sweater (clearly hand-knit) and the cheap undershirt (already torn).
"You're quite accident prone, aren't you?" he mused.
"I'm not usually!" Phoenix insisted, tugging at his hand. "I'll prove it, and I'll put my own skin on the line!"
Miles automatically tightened his grip, holding Phoenix in place. "If you're to be, ah, making yourself useful around my home, you'll need something more durable to wear," he said.
For some reason, Phoenix flushed at that suggestion. "I can. . . wear your clothes?" he suggested tentatively.
"And ruin them?" Miles shook his head. "I said durable."
- O -
The last time Miles had employed a maid was 1849, and he still had the uniform. But when he said so, Phoenix turned red to the tip of his ears.
"You want to see me in. . . a maid uniform?" Phoenix asked in awed tones, a shy smile creeping over his face, and Miles backtracked so hard he turned red.
"It's very practical!" he nearly screeched, producing the garment. Phoenix's sigh carried both disappointment and relief.
The dress itself was stiflingly long and made of coarse fabric: a plain black gown covered with a plain white apron, and not a single ruffle in sight (despite the abundant ruffles on every other surface of the house, including on his host). It also proved impressively tear-resistant, and able to withstand the vigorous scrubbing to wash out stains.
As the days passed, Phoenix improved at cooking, and learned to use each of the twenty spices that Miles had ordered in bulk. "How funny that you ran out of every spice at once," he remarked. He no longer flooded the kitchen, and gradually he took over groundskeeping as well.
"Remarkable timing indeed," Miles answered placidly.
For his part, Miles politely took three bites of each dish, though he hadn't eaten human food in years. After meals, he'd set out for a solitary walk. "Exercise is good for digestion," he pronounced, omitting exactly what he would be digesting.
"Can I come too?" Phoenix always asked.
"Not today," Miles always replied.
But as spring crept into summer, the uniform became an obstruction. Phoenix took to pinning up the ankle-length skirts, and if Miles noticed his ankles, he didn't say anything. Phoenix took his silence as permission and began pinning the sleeves as well.
It was almost comfortable, the Count and the fugitive. Miles woke to fried eggs seasoned with parmesan and black pepper, home-made buttermilk biscuits with jam and cream, and teas ranging from the traditional green tea to original concoctions of strawberries and popcorn. The first time, Miles had turned up his nose at it. "It's an Ivy University special-tea!" Phoenix had said, laughing.
Phoenix drew his bath and laid out his pajamas, and they were always clean, soft, and perfectly-pressed. Phoenix fluffed his pillows and aired out his sheets. And in time, living with Phoenix became second nature: as comfortable as his own skin, as familiar as his own name.
As autumn settled over the woods, filling the air with crisp scents and richly-painted leaves, Miles began to feel unsettled. It was the goosebumps he noticed first. Hundreds of tiny goosebumps covering Phoenix's arms, where he'd taken up the sleeves of the gown. Was it cold? His own cold-blooded body had long grown immune to chills. Miles traced his finger over the bumps and felt Phoenix shiver. He placed an order for firewood, and it was delivered that night.
Phoenix sat next to him before the fireplace, their arms barely brushing. "Why didn't you just get wood from out there?" he asked, gesturing at the forest around them.
"Why would I?" Miles asked in genuine confusion. "This firewood is infused with cinnamon and pumpkin spice."
Yet Phoenix's uniform continued to shrink, despite the growing cold. The neckline dropped further and further. "It's tight over my chest," Phoenix complained. "I'm getting fit from all the yardwork!" He posed attractively in a mirror, admiring his muscles, and Miles found himself staring. Phoenix caught his eye and winked.
The next day, his skirt was pinned higher than ever. It was bunched and pinned at the waist on one side, showing Phoenix's leg all the way up to his thighs. Underneath, he'd worn long stockings that stretched over his knees. The cabled knitting wound decoratively around his calves and thighs, like a ribbon on a present, and Miles's hands twitched toward them.
"What are those for?" he sputtered in indignation.
"Well, it has been cold recently," Phoenix said innocently.
He wasn't sure what it all meant, but he had to ignore it! Miles sealed his lips and resolved to never mention Phoenix's artistic liberties with the uniform again. And for a while he succeeded, though Phoenix's modifications grew more and more glaring: ruffles had started to appear along the shoulders and hemlines, and it was looking more and more like something from a Spirit Halloween.
Until the betrayal.
"You weren't pinning the uniform? You were cutting it?" Miles roared in disbelief, too angry to care about his bared fangs.
"I had to get the fabric for the ruffles somewhere!" Phoenix cried. "The original fabric was the closest match!"
"I can't believe you!" Miles seethed. "Everything in this house is historically significant!"
"I get grease on it all the time," Phoenix protested.
"It's made to withstand grease and washing! It's not made to withstand being cut!"
"Oh," Phoenix said, as if that was all there was to it.
"Oh nothing!" Miles said, still riding a surge of fury. "You swore you wouldn't make trouble for me! Now you'll be punished!"
"I just don't think you can do anything to me," Phoenix said, shrugging. "What did you have in mind? Are you gonna bite me with your pointy teeth?"
They stared at each other.
"You some kind of vampire? Is that why you live all alone in a spooky mansion?" Phoenix laughed nervously.
Miles said nothing while Phoenix gradually remembered the barren pantry, the three-bite meals, the solo walks, and the garlic powder suspiciously absent from an otherwise complete spice set. He backed away a step, mind racing furiously.
"You can't drink my blood. . . because. . . I said I'll put my own skin on the line," Phoenix bluffed. "A vampire can't take what they haven't been invited to, right? This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood or something."
Phoenix flushed when he got agitated, Miles noted. It was really very fetching. "That is the most convoluted blend of mis-remembered urban legends I have had the misfortune to hear," he said blankly. "Even if any of it were true, it's your house that I couldn't enter without invite. And, if you recall, you are in mine."
Phoenix glanced quickly in the direction of the front door, thinking of the interminable woods beyond. Where would he go? Even if he made it back to civilization, he'd be a wanted criminal, living his short, remaining days in jail with the noose waiting at the end.
He turned back to look at Miles, who had given him a bed and a fireplace and an entire pantry full of useless food, who had been his companion for the spring and summer. Miles was frowning now, and—Phoenix had a romantic streak too—he couldn't help but notice: Miles was handsome even when frowning. The creases in his forehead made him look distinguished, and his eyes were faintly gleaming, the same deep red as his clothes.
The same deep red as blood.
Phoenix would take his chances.
"I'm not a crybaby," he said, even as his voice wobbled. "Not anymore. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."
Miles's eyes widened, and when at last he spoke, it was barely a whisper. "Very well."
- O -
For his punishment, Miles took Phoenix to the innermost room, rolled up the rug, and had him kneel on the hard stone floor with the clipped skirts arrayed around him. An hour later, Phoenix was grimacing and fidgeting, his knees deliciously pink under the fabric.
"Head down," Miles ordered.
"Yes, sir." Phoenix bowed his head and stared at the floor.
Miles circled him, observing him from every angle. He dragged a fingernail down Phoenix's chest, to where a layer of ruffles barely covered Phoenix's chest. "How you teased me," he said reproachfully. "Did you know I strained to see under these every time? Did you know I lay awake imagining what lay beneath?"
"Yes, sir."
He continued circling, pausing behind him and leaning in close, cold breath whispering across his neck. Slowly, torturously, Miles slid one ruined sleeve down Phoenix's shoulder, licking at the exposed skin from behind. Phoenix shivered.
"You have goosebumps again," Miles murmured into his ear. "Perhaps you're regretting cutting off the sleeves."
"N-no, sir."
"Hmm. We'll see." Miles unraveled the uniform's bow with a sharp tug. It fell open. Roughly, Miles shoved it off his shoulders and to the ground, where it puddled around him. The fabric ripped loudly as Miles tore it away, and Phoenix winced at the sound. He tried to look over his shoulder, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of his host-turned-captor. "Eyes. Down," Miles hissed.
"Yes, sir."
In one fluid movement, Miles's hand snaked around his waist, and Miles's teeth broke into the skin on the side of his neck. Phoenix whined and trembled, but he held his position, eyes remaining downcast.
"Well done," Miles crooned approvingly. His hand tightened as the blood trickled over Phoenix's collarbone. Phoenix moaned lightly, gradually losing the battle to hold still. He moved in little twitches, and his entire body tensed with the effort to obey. His already-pink knees scrubbed against the stones.
"Don't think you're done yet," Miles said sternly, pulling Phoenix to his feet and sitting him on the bed. In a show of affection, he trailed his lips over the pink, chafed knees where the blood beaded through in small droplets, soothing them with cold kisses.
At last, he reached the shoulder wound. Miles's hands pressed against Phoenix's back, while he latched onto the wound and drank his fill, for the first time in centuries. The warm blood flowed through him, rich and warm and heavy. Suddenly too sleepy to stay upright, he pushed Phoenix down onto the bed, draping over him as continued to drink.
Finally sated, he shifted just a fraction and found Phoenix's lips. His tongue passed between them, sticky with Phoenix's blood. Phoenix kissed back, eager and uncoordinated and dizzy with blood loss.
"Take it easy, now," Miles admonished him. "Can't have you passing out."
"Sorry. I don't have a lot of experience with. . . ." Phoenix trailed off, frowning in dazed confusion.
"With sex? Or with centuries-old, blood-sucking vampires?"
"Either. Both."
Miles huffed fondly, drawing Phoenix closer and nuzzling him sleepily. "Then I'll teach you everything," he decided.
