it overflows
When the sun rises, a sliver of light peeking through velvet blinds landing upon a serene face, a smile forms. Slow, lazy, and comfortable- none of these words describe Miles Edgeworth normally, but the night had been restful for the first time in what felt like an eon. His muscles had been soothed by the bath, his senses lulled into security thanks to bubbles and jazz and a bit of whiskey to end the night. He snuggles his face into a plush comforter, breathing in deep the scent of jasmine and musk and-
Oh. Dear God.
Just like that, the ease which had cloaked Miles the entire night through evaporates into smoke, a mere memory of a distant peace. Now, all which echoes in his mind is I bathed with Wright. Willingly. I- I invited him into my home?! What in the world has possessed me? Am I growing senile? Of all the nonsense in the world, I-
His phone vibrates upon his bedside table. Wincing, the man blearily examines the time- plenty left before he has to leave for work, so who could be contacting him?
The message is short, succinct. "Let me know when you're available."
Heat floods through his body, coursing through every fiber of his being until anxious sweat begins to pearl upon his skin. Throwing off his blankets in agony, he shivers in the sudden chill, storming over to the bathroom. He needs to wash his face, to clear his head of whatever nonsense Phoenix Wright is indicating in that one simple message.
In the morning light streaming through the high dappled glass window in the bathroom, the remains of the night before stand out, clear as day. An extra set of used towels hangs off of the rack by the door, and the laundry hamper is far more full than it should be. The blue of barely-worn silken pyjamas seems to glow in the natural light, drawing all oxygen and light and sound towards it until Miles can do naught but stare at it in mixed awe and horror.
Just what had he done the day before? Not only had he invited Phoenix Wright over, but after the absolute travesty of an 'evening' together, now they had promised to do this again?!
The cool tile beneath his feet is hard, icy and bruising against his knees as he loses strength and falls. Before he knows it, his breath has quickened, heart pounding between his ears as if to attempt to deafen him. His fingers scrabble for purchase, for something to cling onto, but there is nothing by way of a safe haven as he shivers on his hands and knees, aching, heat pooling against the chilling marble until it almost burns against his skin.
Almost. Not as hot as the bathwater the night before, however.
He shudders, then clambers to his feet. Although he knows in the back of his mind that he has done nothing wrong, that nothing indecent or inappropriate had been at play, the sudden urge to wipe all traces of the evening before cannot be overpowered. So, he hastens to wipe away the evidence; the hamper is emptied downstairs in a rush, his bare feet echoing against his floors as he shuffles about in a near-sprint. The spare toothbrush and razor are thrown away without a second thought, and a quick, icy shower leaves his own body spotless, free of any contamination.
Then, he steps out, fumbling for a towel. The first one to enter his grip is quickly brought to his face, wiping away the frigid frustration numbing him after such an icy spray.
The scent of the bubble bath, tinged with something clean and fresh and far too familiar to be a coincidence, enters Miles' nose without warning. Freezing in place, he glances back at the towel rack, his own usual towel still in place. What is held against his face, bearing that scent and warmth and still slightly damp from the night before is not his own.
The drive to the Prosecutor's Office is a slow, painful one that morning. Traffic jams block his every route, his convertible inching forward in an almost mocking fashion, almost as if to highlight the empty seat by his side, that familiar scent etching itself even further into his nose. By the time he greets the security guard through gritted teeth, he has fully come undone, his cheeks flushed and hair mussed and cravat halfway undone in an attempt to cool off from the feverish combination of stifling, embarrassed shame burning through his veins alongside the gooseflesh which has risen upon every inch of his skin.
It is all too much.
Yet, to find that it would be Detective Gumshoe of all people who could interject some sense into his flustered thoughts is nothing if not a surprise. "Did you fight with Mr. Wright?"
On any other day, perhaps Miles would have been able to fight off his utter humiliation. Today is not that day, however, so he merely chokes on the Earl Grey he had been halfway through sipping.
Oblivious to Miles' internal disarray, the large, bumbling detective looks over from where he stands, the dust cloth in hand spotless thanks to his daily cleaning of every surface in Miles' extravagant, embellished office. "You only ever get that sour look on your face when it's Mr. Wright, pal. Did something happen?"
Clearing his throat weakly, Miles finally splutters out, "No. We are perfectly amicable- not like it's any of your business, Detective."
With a slight pout, the older man's shoulders hunch over, a dejected sigh escaping his lips. "I'm just worried about you two, that's all. You two should be nicer, y'know? You make a pretty good team."
"We are 'nice'." His hackles thoroughly raised from how on-point his inescapable assistant's occasional astuteness can be, Miles defensively adds on, "We've been plenty cordial- friendly, even."
A skeptical raise of the brow strangely stings Miles' pride. Is it so impossible for me to be respectful? I've helped the man many times in court, and I've taken my fair set of losses against him, so why are you so fixated on how I treat Wright?
He cannot ask these questions, however. Any more participation would indicate that there was indeed an issue, and an admission is not something he is looking to perform.
Still, as he thumbs through the next case file which has found its way onto his desk, Miles can do little but massage his temples while his mind wanders back to the source of his heartache. Although the initial situation had been absolutely humiliating, had the rest of their evening been so shameful as to make him act like so? They had been cordial- that had been no lie to appease the detective. He and Phoenix had spoken, had laughed, had basked in warmth and steam and comfort with an ease which he has never before felt with the other man.
An errant thought flits across his mind. Why should I feel embarrassed, anyways? He has seen me at my utter worst. Thrown in prison cells, accused of murder. He has seen me clumsy and powerless and useless. This thought lingers in Miles' head, perseveration at its worst, replaying again and again until it has morphed into, He has seen me at my worst… but he accepted the offer anyways.
"Let me know when you're available," the text read upon his phone. It still reads like so, Miles confirms, fingers trembling slightly as he opens up his inbox. There are very few messages from Wright, he realises numbly; they are not exactly on communicative terms, aside from their endeavors to help that hapless assistant of his, or from during the DL-6 case in order to save Miles' life. The two of them claim some boyhood friendship, and Miles is eternally indebted to the attorney for taking on Miles' defense, but… after returning from Europe, what can they claim to be? Prosecutors and attorneys stand on opposing sides of the courtroom, chasing one singular truth together. He knows as much. The space between those two benches must remain firm, must remain equal, in order to ensure fair trials and that the truth shall eternally come to light.
Phoenix's silhouette, bathed in the dim light of Miles' bathroom, his low, rumbling chuckles echoing through the high ceilings in time with the slight popping of bubbles, their idle banter and Phoenix's expressive eyes shining, dark and heated amongst the quiet lapping of water upon Miles' own chest from the attorney's every movement…
Phoenix Wright had enjoyed that night. All evidence points to that fact. Miles' own embarrassment aside, the other man had participated with full consent, and he had offered to do it again.
That space between their benches may no longer exist.
His gut seizes, twisting and clenching until it is leaden and heavy. He is responsible for breaking that separation, the sanctity of their vows in the courtroom; has he destroyed something that cannot be corrected? Will he ever be able to look upon Phoenix's resolute expression in the courtroom again without remembering that heat, that closeness?
Horror dawns upon him as sudden arousal emanates through his body once more despite the detective's presence in his office. "Continue cleaning later," he mumbles, irritated and more scathing than he'd like. Keeping his gaze fixated upon the documents laid out across his broad mahogany desk, he waves the older man out. "Go make yourself useful at the precinct. Your job is not to work as my housekeeper."
A glum sigh and murmur of accord escapes the detective as he trudges out of the office, shoulders slumped. "I'll see you later, pal," Detective Gumshoe calls before shutting the door behind him, leaving Miles to press his forehead flat against the cool desk and suffer in silence.
I came back to L.A. to fix the court system. Can I afford to be distracted every time I see Wright? His fingers curl into the knees of his pressed slacks, creasing the crisp lines in his own desperation. The answer to these questions are all too clear, after all. He cannot ever afford to show weakness in his work, especially not against a formidable sparring partner such as Phoenix Wright.
Long after his teacup is emptied and the remainder in the pot has run cold, Miles stares blankly at the text typed up in response, ready to send. The sun streaming through his ceiling-high office window disappears, leaving his face illuminated by the dim glow of his table lamp; still, he stares, as if willing for more intelligent, more professional, more profound words to appear on screen. He needs something- anything, really- to make him appear more credible. More composed.
As is, the gooseflesh still lingers underneath his suit, hair raised upon the back of his neck. His body is cold, but his cheeks still burn, his core searing him flesh from the inside.
"I can make arrangements as necessary to my schedule. My door is open for you, Wright."
When the clouds part to reveal the moon, he presses the send button and stands up, packs his briefcase, adorns his coat, and heads out the door. At least until he gets home, he shall pretend that he is Miles Edgeworth, the most esteemed criminal prosecutor in the district. He shall pretend to be aloof and uncaring, vicious and powerful. His favourite music shall play, and at this time of night, no traffic shall impede his journey. He shall be unconquerable. The largeness of his bathtub- and the best solution to that issue which he has found- shall be a problem to untangle when he gets home. He will be stronger, sterner, then- strong enough to deal with this farce once and for all. I must be.