Chapter 1: In Which Phoenix Wright Almost Drowns

Whenever I'm asked about the glamorous life of a lawyer, I tend to leave out the finer details. Like, just as a random example, the long nights spent revising my clients' testimonies so they don't incriminate themselves in court. And I sure as hell don't tell them about the bleary mornings afterward, where I stumble downstairs from my apartment because the elevator's out to find that it's absolutely pissing down outside and, surprise surprise, I don't have the money for a cab.

Again, just a totally random example.

Sure, my last client paid me well enough, after I managed to convince the judge she was innocent of killing her husband. For the record, it was carbon monoxide poisoning and the pathologist was the wife's jilted ex. But with the last of that money I bought a supposedly rain-proof jacket. A purchase I heartily regret now, since it doesn't do shit. I can feel water trickling down the back of my neck. Gross.

I should be happy it's raining, because California, am I right? But I'm still six blocks from the office and it's February, and Maya is going to die laughing when I turn up to the office. I look as if I took a dunk in the world's worst pool.
I'm startled out of my funk as a sports car passes me, spraying me with gutter water. The perfect frosting on this shitty sunken cake of a morning. I'm still spitting curses as it brakes sharply and pulls up to the curb, the window winding down.

"Phoenix, what in God's name are you doing?" Oh hell, I recognise that voice.

"Oh, you know, walking to work, as you do. Until someone tried to drown me." I'm going for quietly peeved, but I have to practically shout over the rain, which ruins the effect.

Miles peers up at me and my drenched clothes in dismay. "Well, don't just stand there, get in!"

On any other day I'd probably make an excuse about needing more exercise, but screw it, getting gross street water all over his precious car is as fitting a revenge as any, so I do as the man says. Inside, he has the heat turned on full blast. He actually goes a little pale as he takes in the state of me, which does wonders for my self-esteem.

"I am so sorry," he says, and he sounds so mortified I swallow the snippy remark I'm on the verge of making. Contrite isn't a look I'm accustomed to seeing on him. "It wasn't intentional, I promise. I was trying to avoid the potholes." Okay, that tracks. LA's roads do, admittedly, resemble Swiss cheese. The last embers of my righteous anger fizzle out, and I slump back in the passenger seat with a sigh.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him. "It sums up the kind of morning I've been having."

"Where do you live? I'll stop by your place so you can change. You can't meet your clients looking like that." I decide not to mention that I don't actually have any clients right now. Instead, I give him my address. If he's willing to make himself late for work on my account, who am I to stop him?

"Thanks," I say grudgingly, as he pulls back out into the road. Rain drums against the windshield.

I'm half expecting him to make a pompous remark like 'you owe me', but he just shrugs. "Don't mention it."

Come to think of it, he's not looking his usual stuffy self. He's wearing a deep purple blazer and a waistcoat, and not a cravat in sight. Maybe he's not headed to work after all, but a date or something. Maybe that's why he's feeling magnanimous enough to stop and help me. Sorry I'm late, I had to rescue this poor, half-drowned defense attorney, oh no, it was nothing, really-
Miles glances my way, and I realize I've zoned out while staring at him. Way to give off axe murderer vibes, Phoenix. I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to break the awkward silence.

"You, uh," I fumble for something to say that won't sound sarcastic, coming from me. Finally I settle on "You look good," adding, "the purple suits you."

Wow, that did not go over well. The look he gives me is one of abject horror.

"What are you doing?" he says, his voice clouding with suspicion.

"Um, complimenting you? It's a thing people sometimes do, you know?" He doesn't respond, and I let out a nervous laugh. "What, is it weird because I'm a guy?" That would be surprising, considering I'm pretty sure he's- oh, whatever. It is way too early in the morning for this conversation.

"What? No, it's not that. It's just…" Miles' shoulders have risen defensively. "...I'm not used to compliments." Well, that's a shame. And honestly kind of surprising. He's not a bad looking man. Wait, where did that come from? I press my lips together before I can make this train wreck of a conversation any worse, and we lapse into silence again.

When we reach my apartment building, I jump out and race upstairs to cram myself into yesterday's crumpled suit. I feel distinctly shabby as I adjust my tie in the mirror, but it's better than the swamp rat look I would have been sporting if Miles had left me on the street.
Still, I cringe a little. I've never enjoyed being the worst-dressed person in a room - or car - and looking this bad next to Miles Edgeworth feels like a cardinal sin. If we were in court, I'd hold myself in contempt. I cover my shame with my (allegedly) rain-proof jacket and hurry downstairs before Miles gets tired of waiting for me.

"Seriously though, screw the rain," I grumble as I climb back into my seat, not meeting his eyes.

"I quite enjoy it," he says. Of course he does. It probably reminds him of England, and croquet, and - and high tea and row-boating, or something. My expression must give away my skepticism, because he snorts a quiet laugh. "I understand Californians have a fraught relationship with weather, but there are these things called umbrellas. You should try them sometime."

"I know what an umbrella is," I snap. Miles doesn't say anything, merely fixes his eyes on the road and pulls away from the sidewalk. It occurs to me through the haze of irritation and insecurity that he probably wasn't insulting my intelligence, but engaging in banter. You know, like a normal person.

Aaand I'm an asshole.

Look. I don't have a Miles Edgeworth complex, I swear. But I remember how he used to be back in school, and the whole stopping-to-help-me thing reminds me of how he used to be. His quiet kindness, even when Larry and I were at our most obnoxious. Sure, he was a little smartass, but he was our little smartass. And… well, I missed him after he moved away. Like, a lot.

I wonder how much he even remembers. Now probably isn't the best time to bring it up.

One excruciating car ride later, Miles pulls up outside my office. At this point, all I want to do is forget any of this ever happened, but I'm not such a jerk that I'll take off without saying thank you. So as I get out, I paste on a smile. "Hey, thanks for this."

"You're letting the rain in," he says shortly. He peels away the moment I shut the door, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, stunned.

Yeah, I probably deserve that.

···················

Maya and I have an ongoing argument about my aversion to public transport. An unrepentant cheapskate, she point-blank refuses to take taxis if I'm not the one paying. Which, Your Honor, is assuredly a contributing factor to my chronic pennilessness.

But Phoenix! I hear you cry, if Maya, a tiny hippie who loves talking to random strangers and offering to read their horoscopes, can safely ride the bus every morning, so can you!

I have many counterpoints to this. Buses are crowded. Buses smell weird. I hate sitting next to strangers. And I just don't like waiting. Sure, if I hang around the bus stop for ten minutes, there'll be another bus. But by then I could be halfway to the office. And walking is supposed to be good for you, so really it's a net gain. At least, that's what I tell myself as I suffer through my trek to the office.

I never did regale Maya with the tale of my disastrous encounter with Miles. Frankly, I'm eager to put the whole thing (especially my behavior) out of my mind forever. She would only laugh at me, and it's not as if it would change anything. Miles has probably forgotten about it by now anyway, as busy as he is with all his high-profile cases.

Which is why I almost have a heart attack when, several days later, a familiar red sports car pulls up beside me.

"Want a lift?" Miles calls through the open window. For a moment I can only stand there uselessly. Did he happen to spot me, or is this his way of rubbing my daily slog of a commute in my face?
"It's a yes or no question, Wright," he presses. "Do you want a lift or not?"

"Uh, s-sure." I won't lie, I half-expect the passenger door to be locked. But it's not, so I hesitantly get in. It's pleasantly warm inside, and smells newly cleaned. "Thanks," I tell him, and he offers me the briefest of smiles before turning away to check his side mirror.
Impossibly, given the state of LA's traffic, he looks more relaxed behind the wheel than anywhere else. Reggaeton spills quietly from the radio, which honestly surprises me. But then, maybe that says more about me than it does him.

Since I'm kind of on the subject of me being a jerk… "Hey," I begin, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry about biting your head off last time. I had my head up my ass, and you didn't deserve that."

"Hmm. Well, I almost drowned you. So I suppose that makes us even." He turns to me, the corner of his lip quirked, and I feel an odd flutter in the pit of my stomach. Startled, I blink and glance away. Christ, I know I've been single for a while, but there's no need for me to get into a bi panic over every queer man who shows me an ounce of kindness. Not that I know that many, but still.
It occurs to me that I've gone awkwardly silent, but when I turn back, Miles' eyes are on the road. I feel a pang of…what?

Disappointment?

Pfft. As if.

···················

Miles never actually offers to start carpooling, but for the next several days he just happens to pull up in the same spot beside me. If I didn't know better, I'd say he timed it perfectly. And since it's still February and I don't exactly have clients hammering at my door, well, I'm not complaining.

Honestly? I'm kind of… starting to look forward to it each morning. At least my brain and mouth have stopped giving each other the cold shoulder so I can engage the man in decent conversation. Sort of.

"...so then the prosecutor says, 'do you know what the sentence is for committing perjury?', and the defendant looks at him and goes 'well, it's way less than for murder!'"

Miles is silent for a good five seconds. "That's patently ridiculous," he says at last. "No defense attorney worth their salt would allow their client to knowingly commit perjury."

"Yeah, but that's the joke," I insist, because everyone agrees that jokes get funnier after you explain them. "'Cause he's such a bad defense lawyer, see?"

Miles is still frowning to himself as he pulls up outside my office building. I figure I've annoyed him again, so I shut my mouth and reach for the door handle. I'm taken by surprise when, apropos of fuck all, he says, "Would you like to get coffee?"

What do I say to that? I mean, yes, obviously, I love coffee, but also, what?

"Uh-"

"-Not right now. Obviously." Miles isn't even looking at me. His gaze is fixed on something in the rear-view mirror. "Later. After work. You don't have to say yes."

"Coffee sounds good," I say quickly, before he can somehow talk himself into declining his own offer. "You got a place in mind?"

"I'll send you the address." He reaches over me to the glove compartment and grabs his phone. Oh, wow, we're really doing this. For the next few minute or so we go through the process of me giving him my number and him texting me the place, and I would swear under oath it's the most surreal thing I've ever experienced.
"See you there," he says, and I mutter an affirmative before scrambling out of his car, my face burning.

I shake myself as I climb the stairs to the office. Obviously this is a congenial drink between peers, nothing more. Hell, it's not as if the two of us are even friends or anything. I should have suggested it, really, seeing as how he's been giving my dumb ass a ride to work each morning for the past week.

I let myself into the office to find Maya leaning on her desk, wearing a shit-eating grin. "Interesting ride-share, Phoenix," she says in a sing-song voice. "What's that all about?"

"Called in a favor," I respond grumpily. Which is a heinous lie, and she can probably smell it a mile off. "How'd you know, anyway? Are you spying on me?"

" Eff-why-eye, I happened to see you whilst I was watering Charley," Maya sniffs, twirling a long strand of hair around her finger. "Nice subject change, by the way. You should use that tactic in the courtroom. See how that turns out for you."

I refuse to dignify that with an answer.

All at once, I'm aware that I'm still clutching my phone like it's a glove and I'm in a period drama. I take it off silent mode - in case any clients call, shut up - and shove it in the top drawer of my desk so I can actually get some work done.

Later that afternoon, when I check the address of the coffee house, I have to bite back a laugh. It's literally two blocks from the office; I pass it every day. Which means Miles didn't actually need my number at all.

I'm not really sure what to do with that.

Oh, and Maya's pants are thoroughly aflame, too, because later I check Charley's pot and find it's bone dry.

A/N: Hello, hi, heyyyy I'm apparently writing rom-coms now~
If you're enjoying this and haven't read The Hannya Four, that's a thing that exists. It's set several months after this fic, and features these two idiots navigating their relationship while working opposite sides of a murder trial and there's a lot of Phoenix being in a tizzy and occasionally getting his ass kicked.