Archive of Our Own

‘Well, well. What’s a fancy-pants prosecutor like you waiting for in a place like this?’

The playful tone snags Miles’ attention the way it always has – gravel-rough at the edges, fever-hot and thrumming, boldly adorned with a smirking mouthful of wolf-teeth – and Miles can hardly fight the upward curl of the edges of his own mouth in response, lax knuckles tightening around his steering wheel to steady himself before he’s even aware of it.

Because Shi-Long Lang’s always known how to shake the bedrock beneath anyone’s feet just by rolling into the vicinity, and Miles can already tell by the fire-lit glint in his eye that it’s practically natural instinct for him at this point.

‘That’s Chief Prosecutor to you, Agent Lang,’ he replies coolly, his growing smile appreciative and indulgent. A repeated beckoning gesture of two fingers in invitation, and he can already see Lang’s grin brightening in immediate reaction. ‘It’s about time you turned up. I’m aware that your flight was delayed, but the night isn’t exactly getting any younger.’

‘Lang Zi says: misdeeds and transgressions follow no set schedule.’ With that, Lang doesn’t hesitate to fling his packed luggage bag into Miles’ back seat, before proceeding to clamber in next to Miles without further ceremony. ‘Although I guess it’s intriguing that yesterday’s robbery here follows the robbery in Madrid last week, the robbery in Beijing the week before, and the robbery in Cairo last month.’

‘I mean, if anyone’s well-suited to take down an international crime ring, it’d be you,’ Miles says with casual nonchalance, pulling away from the curb and easing them onto the road at last. ‘Shall we stop by my office for a moment or two before I drop you off at your hotel? I’d prefer to at least familiarize myself with the very basics of this case before we make a start on it in the morning.’

‘Hmm? Weren’t you the one just complaining that the night wasn’t getting any younger?’

‘It isn’t. But I won’t deny that some things are worth making an exception for.’ The car slows, then stops; the ruby glow of the traffic light ahead spills over the half-moon planes of Miles’ fingernails. He turns to look over at Lang, cordial and expectant. ‘I’m not a big drinker myself, but I’ve saved some decent traditional rice wine in my lower drawer in anticipation of your arrival. Might I be able to tempt you?’

It’s then that, all of a sudden, something in Lang’s expression unexpectedly shifts.

Though Miles isn’t too sure what could’ve prompted it – after all, he’s entertained other associates with one-on-one private evening drinks in his office a few times in the past: Franziska, Larry, Wright, even Gumshoe of all people – and things aren’t likely to be much different now. But something visibly ignites in the steady burn of Lang’s gaze, and Miles comes to the abrupt understanding that for whatever reason, Lang’s more than thrilled with the offer.

‘Huh. As if you ever really have to try.’ Sleek eyes narrow into a cozy squint, the accompanying words low and furnace-warm. The scarlet luminescence draped across the dashboard flickers to vivid green, and Lang agreeably answers: ‘Alright, pretty-boy. Let’s go.’

In all honesty, Miles doesn’t know if he’ll ever really get used to that nickname, especially when it exits Lang’s mouth like that – like it’s layered with hot spun sugar and a streak of slender fangs and everything in between. But Lang’s never held back on compliments to anyone he distinctly deemed worthy, and it isn’t particularly too farfetched for Lang to be a little intense in his engaging approachability at times, so Miles doesn’t say anything about it.

They’ve driven for another ten minutes in mellow silence when Lang suddenly blurts out, ‘I specifically arranged to be assigned here, you know. Instead of one of the other three cities.’

The sentiment comes somewhat without warning; Miles blinks for a moment, caught off-guard.

‘… Is that so. Any particular reason?’

‘Yeah, he’s sitting right next to me.’ Lang arches himself into a minuscule stretch in his seat, casual and relaxed and languorous like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. ‘Given the choice of working with you or with anyone else, of course I’d settle with no less than the best in the business.’

A barefaced and brazen admittance, though Miles can’t put his finger on exactly why it could be. Still, his lips are already quirking into another muted half-smile. ‘You flatter me.’

‘Never. I call it like I see it.’ Even with Miles’ eyes on the road, he can feel Lang’s gaze on him, pointed and purposeful. ‘Though to be fair, I’ve got reason to believe that LA might be a major branch of these thieves’ organization so rounding them up might be like cutting off their left arm – might actually end up disabling the entire North American operation, you know what I mean? Either way, this is a case that requires expert handling. Which I don’t doubt is in your skill set, and likely even your sister’s, too.’

‘Franziska may be a little too busy to help much, but I suppose it’s worth asking.’ Miles’ blood stirs instantly at his next unbidden thought, drumming over the easy contentment settling in his belly. ‘I also … have a friend. A friend who’s quite masterful at picking up on unnoticed details and would probably serve as extremely valuable help to your investigation.’

‘Oh? Who might that be?’

‘Phoenix Wright?’ Franziska hisses, narrow-eyed and altogether unimpressed. ‘You soft fool!’

‘There’s nothing soft about knowing when to recruit someone who’s suitable for a particular undertaking,’ Miles protests in response, the cut of his frown deepening by the second. ‘We’re talking about a man who’s managed to crack even the most bizarre and baffling cases – many of which we’ve both lost to him from the other side of the courtroom. It isn’t a stretch to think that he’d have plenty to contribute.’

‘I might believe you weren’t being embarrassingly soft in any other circumstance, but I know you better than you know yourself, Miles Edgeworth.’ Straightening up from where she’d been tidying away loose documents at the corner of her desk, Franziska proceeds to stride across to the elegant circular mirror suspended on the opposite wall, raking lean fingers through her hair and deftly fastening on her studded earrings all the while. ‘That man showed me the true meaning of integrity and selflessness and justice … he stands out more brilliantly in the crowd than most attorneys I’ve known …’

‘—Wait. Hold on a second,’ Lang suddenly pipes up from beside Miles, surprise coloring his voice. ‘That Man? The friend that you mentioned in the car last night was That Man that you used to bring up in conversation like fifty times a day?’

‘The very same. And no, my idiot of a brother hasn’t actually stopped doing that,’ Franziska scoffs, tilting her head sideways in both directions to spritz a subtle dash of some sweet floral perfume along her pulse points. ‘Anyway, I need to be out the door right now so I don’t have time to discuss this. Rope in that fool Wright if you really need to, just make sure he isn’t actively irritating me with his usual buffoonery if I happen to be assisting you as well.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Taking Wright’s daughter to her magic performance, and then spectating. I offered last week, when I ran into her outside the courthouse and she mentioned that her father was going to have his hands full tonight.’ Sticky leather creaks and crinkles as Franziska readily plucks her stiff teal handbag from a nearby chair and sets its wide strap firmly on the ridge of her shoulder. ‘I suppose you can stay a little longer if you need to. But lock the door behind you when you leave.’

And just like that, she’s promptly sweeping out of the room without a further moment’s delay, and is quickly gone.

‘… Huh. From the way you’ve talked about him, I didn’t peg That Man to be a family man.’ There’s an inquisitive, curious look etched into Lang’s features when Miles turns toward him, which in itself is unexpected – Miles wouldn’t have thought that Lang would take any real interest in Wright beyond the requirements of the current criminal case. ‘I’ve mostly heard you mention his skills as a lawyer and you don’t go much into actual personal details. For some reason I didn’t imagine him having a daughter.’

‘Her biological father’s gone. Wright adopted her,’ Miles smoothly explains; it’s maybe a little difficult, at this point, to stamp down the tiny fire-flicker of respectful appreciation that flares to life in his chest at the thought. ‘He’s doing remarkably well as a single father. Much like he does with most things that are necessary, lawyering included.’

‘Oh, here we go. It’s starting.’

‘You tease me, but I wouldn’t have recommended him if I didn’t believe in his suitability for this case. Despite the fact that Franziska’s right about his occasional buffoonery, he’s still among the very best, and I don’t say that lightly. Just as you chose to be assigned here because you believed in my worth, I’m proposing his involvement because I believe in his.’

A concrete statement with no hesitation, no nonsense, no room for argument. And that’s that.

Lang’s answering expression is blank, unsmiling; his lower lip twitches once as if he’s fighting with himself over what to say. It’s an odd look unbefitting the optimism of Miles’ last statement, and he isn’t too sure what to make of it.

Distantly, he realizes out of the blue that he’s essentially managed to prove Lang correct by rambling about Wright the way he’s just done. Go figure.

After a moment or two, Lang sighs in acquiescent surrender. ‘Fine, you’ve made your point. Gotta say I kinda feel sorry for his daughter, though, having to make her own way tonight.’

‘She’ll do just fine, I promise. She’s a very competent young woman in her own right, and neither she nor her father can help the fact that he has his own lawyerly duties to attend to,’ Miles answers serenely, upfront and earnest. ‘She holds performances every single week, and Wright attends most of them. She’s never minded that work has had to take him away from her once in a while. Sometimes he even makes up for it by bringing me along the next week.’

And there it is again, molding itself into shape out of thin air: that strange, unreadable look on Lang’s face that doesn’t make any real sense, as far as Miles is concerned.

But he knows, by some deep-set instinct carved into his bones, that something about it feels like uncharted waters. Almost as if it’s some kind of unexplored territory that he may not particularly be well-equipped enough to delve into right now.

So he presses his lips together into a thin line, and says nothing more about it.

Instead, he clears his throat, fixing a meaningful but leisurely stare on Lang. ‘So, what shall we eat tonight? May as well not waste time while we continue to talk business.’

Lang pushes up a single eyebrow at that, seeming suddenly intrigued. ‘Why, Mr. Chief Prosecutor. Are you offering to take me out to dinner?’

‘Doesn’t have to be out; we can go right back to my office and eat in comfort, if you prefer. My treat, either way. At this point, it’d be rude of me not to offer, given that you’re quite literally here to help out our city – and me, in the process.’

A lengthy pause of silence, stunned and awed. Then, a bark of laughter slips through Lang’s teeth, and he shifts his weight to start moving off, laying a flat palm snugly against Miles’ lower back along the way.

‘Hell, how can I say no to that? Sure thing, pretty-boy.’ The heat of Lang’s skin warms Miles’ spine even through all the layers of cotton and suiting fabric, which makes Miles jolt a little; in all honesty, it’s the friendliest Lang’s ever been with him, and although he isn’t used to being touched in this way, he doesn’t actually really mind it that much. ‘You got any local Zheng Faian restaurants around here? It’s only been two days and I already miss the food from home.’

Miles dips his head in a single nod, relaxed and pleased. ‘I can make arrangements, Agent Lang.’

Lang’s hand stays right where it is as they walk side-by-side, comfortable and content, until they’re all the way out the door.

‘… Oh! Look who it is, sir.’

‘Yes, Detective, I noticed.’

Of course he’s noticed. Even beyond the unmissable beacon of the vibrant blue suit, Wright’s always stirred up and rattled the walls of every space he occupies like a windstorm; like he’s only ever a small talk away from tipping everything in the vicinity upside-down; like he’d know which crank to turn to rotate Miles’ world in the opposite direction without even breaking a sweat. Wright’s never not been full of surprises, really, and apparently this morning’s no different – he’s already inside the recently robbed pottery studio when Miles arrives with Lang and Gumshoe in tow, and even without Gumshoe eagerly pointing out his presence, it’s hard for Miles not to notice.

‘—Could you both give us a minute, please,’ he tells his two companions, straightforward and stone-blunt. And without bothering to offer any elaboration or explanation, he proceeds to take a firm step straight through the gaping doorway, and makes his way inside.

Neither Wright nor the potter really acknowledge him when he enters, submerged and hooked in the animated conversation they’ve locked themselves into; although he’d never admit it in a thousand years, there’ll always be some curious fascination and intrigue to the way Wright conducts his work, and Miles can’t exactly deny that he does want to watch.

‘… Wow. Sounds fancy,’ Wright says airily, sounding somewhat entertained. ‘I’ve had to deal with a broken urn or two in my line of work. And I studied art in college too, but never took classes in pottery. Now I wonder if I should’ve, so I can try to fix them up like you do.’

‘Working with gold lacquer as a means of repairing broken pottery is a delicate undertaking, Mr. Wright, one that requires masterful hands. And kintsukuroi is a fine medium of art in itself,’ the potter answers with kind patience, to which Miles almost snorts less-than-gracefully in amusement – while not necessarily the case at all, Wright often looks like the type to have butterfingers just by his vibe and personality alone. ‘Though I didn’t believe there was anything overly desirable about the piece that was stolen other than said lacquering, and the colossal amount of time that it took for me to actually do those repairs. Sure, I shelled out a pretty penny for it because I’ve always had a keen interest in mysterious old pieces, but I never thought in my life that someone would ever shove a gun into my face to steal a decrepit urn that’s clearly seen better days.’

‘Glad you’re alright, everything considered. Lock your doors and take care of yourself, sir,’ Wright answers, before throwing Miles a purposeful glance and finally pivoting on his heels. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’

‘That’s all?’ Miles tuts under his breath, pointedly raising a single eyebrow like it’s a deadly weapon. ‘And here I was thinking that you might actually demonstrate some of your alleged powers of deduction and persuasion while I was around to observe. Might this be a case of overestimation on my part, or is it performance anxiety on yours?’

‘You’re so mean sometimes, you know that.’ A responding grumble of protest, frank and unimpressed. The crumple in Wright’s face doesn’t linger, however, because he suddenly brightens as if Miles had never made the quip at all. ‘I’ll have you know that I managed to get the license plates of the getaway car from this guy.’

‘A task that only requires asking? A kindergartener could’ve done the same.’

‘Do you see any kindergarteners around here?’ Wright flings out without missing a beat, before briefly tipping his head over to the direction of the doorway – an unmistakable gesture indicating that Miles should follow him back outside. ‘Anyway, I was the one who got the info, seeing as someone decided to turn up late.’

‘We weren’t late. You happened to be early, in case you somehow conveniently forgot our scheduled meeting time.’

‘Excuses, excuses. And you didn’t even tell me that you were bringing company.’

Dark lashes sink low, leaving Wright’s gaze soft and heavy-lidded, warm as a hint of spice with the biting sentiment to match. There’s something about it that’s strangely kind of handsome, and god, Miles has to physically shake his head to bat that fleeting thought away because he has no idea what relevance it even has to anything they’re discussing, or why on earth it even popped into his mind to begin with.

‘… I didn’t tell them that you’d be here, either, given that we had more important things to sort out and discuss on our end prior to coming. Which doesn’t matter either way, since you were all bound to run into each other once everyone arrived anyway.’

Wright sniffs in reaction, before rolling his eyes with theatrical rudeness. ‘God, it feels like the updated autopsy report all over again.’

‘That was one time.’

It’s comfortingly safe and familiar, really; hardly their first exchange that’s as prickly as thumbtacks while being playful and easygoing overall. But then again, Miles is well aware that such a thing is more or less their two-and-a-half decades-long friendship in a nutshell, and oddly enough, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then, Wright lays a warm hand flat on Miles’ lower back to guide him out the door – exactly in the same place where Lang had touched him the day prior – and something in him abruptly grinds to a sputtering halt.

Out of nowhere, his mouth goes dry.

Which doesn’t make sense. Sure, physical contact isn’t exactly something that’s ever really transpired in their typical interactions, and it’s now left him feeling profoundly out of his element without warning, but no part of this is altogether different from what’d happened with Lang yesterday: Wright’s never particularly been this cozy with him before, in the exact way Lang hadn’t. They’re walking side-by-side while engaging in casual conversation, in the exact way he and Lang had been previously. Miles hadn’t anticipated Wright’s nonchalant touch, impulsive and unusual as it’d been, in the exact way he hadn’t with Lang.

Yesterday, though, the gesture had felt breezy and relaxed, simply another passing event in his day. But for whatever reason, right now, Miles is more aware of the feather-thin distance between himself and Wright than the solid earth or open air or literally anything else currently in his surroundings.

‘… Edgeworth? You okay?’

He’s known Wright for so long; the touch sizzles at his nerve endings like the endless stretch of all those years spent in each other’s orbit have unexpectedly stirred awake. Sparked alight.

Beyond any explanation, he’s suddenly engulfed in an immense wave of unfathomable timidity, almost sure that if he were to look straight into Wright’s eyes in this exact moment, something in that attentive gaze would leave him winded, tremulous, tipsy with fever.

Judging by the heat blooming across the nape of his neck, he can tell that everyone’s eyes are on him – Wright’s, Gumshoe’s, and Lang’s – and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s stopped right in his tracks. He clears his throat, lifts his chin, squares his shoulders. Collects himself as best as he can manage.

‘I’m fine,’ he murmurs in answer, and it’s honestly a marvel that he manages to keep his voice steady because he’d nearly expected his own words to teeter off-balance. ‘Why don’t you give the license plate details to Detective Gumshoe, so he can run them for us.’

‘Yeah, no sweat,’ Wright replies, letting go of Miles at last; with that, he sinks long fingers into his suit pocket to pluck out a folded piece of paper, and holds it out without ceremony. Gumshoe instantly takes it, squirming with obvious exuberance at the progression in their case. ‘More than happy to help question any witnesses that those plates end up scraping out of the LAPD database, by the way. I mean, it’s always nice to be as useful as I absolutely, definitively, one hundred percent was today – right, Edgeworth?’

Miles’ skin and spine are left cold where Wright’s palm had been, and he shakes his head in a desperate attempt to quell that runaway thought. ‘You really are the most irritating man alive.’

‘Your mouth’s moving, but all I hear are compliments and gratitude.’ Almost as if to prove Miles’ point, Wright sticks out his tongue in a juvenile manner, before raising a single hand in a wave of goodbye. ‘Anyway, I’m going back to the office – the toilet hasn’t been cleaned in hours. Later.’

Just like that, he starts moving off, leaving them all to watch his retreating back in relative silence.

After a moment, Lang turns to Miles, brow furrowed in evident confusion. ‘One of your colleagues, I’m guessing? I come across weird lawyers all the time, but damn. That guy takes the cake for being straight-up unserious and unbothered.’

‘… Well,’ Miles starts slowly, quiet sigh spilling from his lungs, ‘he’s not exactly just any lawyer.’

‘Him?’ Lang hisses hotly, wild and incredulous. ‘This is “That Man” that you literally can’t shut up about?’

In all honesty, Miles has to admit it’s a valid remark.

Because for someone who effortlessly shines the way Wright does, he’s also easily what anybody would brand a hot mess – arched over his office desk in front of an impatient key witness while slurping up an exceptionally late lunch of greasy cup ramen with two pencils as makeshift chopsticks, and hurrying with such vigor that the noodles are slapping backward into his face – and considering the fact that Lang and Gumshoe have been idly tucked in the corner of Wright’s office on either side of Miles for nearly ten minutes at this point, it’s hardly any surprise that they’re both visibly growing restless.

‘… Come now. Can’t shut up is quite the exaggeration, wouldn’t you say?’

The dirty look that Lang proceeds to level at him doesn’t hide even a single shred of his obvious exasperation, to which Miles’ mouth can’t help twitching upward a little in response.

‘—Anyway, I sold the car months ago,’ the witness proclaims, his European accent thick and lilting; he casually tosses a sheaf of documents onto Wright’s desk in a bid to push his point. ‘So as you can see, even if it really were the getaway vehicle, I’d know nothing about this robbery.’

Miles swivels to look at Gumshoe, eyes narrowed in contemplation. ‘Mind verifying that time frame for me, Detective?’

‘Your doubts are unfounded, Chief Prosecutor,’ the man interrupts haughtily, clearly offended, as Gumshoe ambles over to stare down at the documents. ‘I’m an honorable car salesman of my word and I literally remember this transaction like it was just yesterday. The morning sun was starting to warm, the birds were singing, my sinuses felt ripe from seasonal allergies—’

He suddenly stops himself, then, as hesitant and tight-lipped as though he’d tripped up and made a serious error. Miles has no time to reflect on what that might even mean, however; in that same moment, Gumshoe’s already straightening up and nodding at him in confirmation.

‘Yeah, sir. Date says so right here.’

‘See?’

A quietly amused sniff tugs at the corners of Miles’ focused attention, pulling his gaze over to the sight of Wright’s newfound attempt to balance one of his pencils on his curled upper lip like a mustache. To Miles’ right, Lang is already murmuring god, we’re screwed under his breath: yet another completely understandable sentiment, first impressions considered.

‘… Well, it’s easy for anyone to say anything, but that doesn’t mean that it’s gonna line up with the facts,’ Wright hums casually, setting the pencil down at last and sweeping the now-empty ramen cup aside. Steady fingers reach out to slide the topmost page of the pile of documents closer, and keen eyes flick down to the rolling lines of text, interest half-piqued. ‘We haven’t spoken to the buyer yet since our call couldn’t get through, but either way, it’s weird that the car wasn’t registered under her name until just recently. When you consider what we already know, your claims are—’

The unfinished statement suddenly catches in mid-air, giving way to stunned silence.

And then, there it is. That same look of dawning understanding on Wright’s features that always quickens Miles’ pulse to a thundering surge and fiercely heats the blood at his throat and collarbones. That same look of realization that paints an unmistakable picture of having honed in on some vague inconsistent detail that no one else has noticed, and has thus far led to Miles’ crushing defeat countless times in the courtroom. That same look of bold brilliance that’s unique to Wright alone, and has never failed to stir the base of Miles’ gut with more unspoken thrill than he’s ready to admit to.

Lang’s stare burns into him, searing the tips of his ears; he doesn’t bother responding. Not when it’s clear that Lang’s about to see the magic for himself.

‘—If anything in the invoice is out of place, you can blame my assistant,’ the car salesman interjects in a hurry, obviously made uneasy by Wright’s pause. ‘She’s the one in charge of putting all documents together.’

‘Not out of place, per se,’ Wright grins, sharp and bright and kind of charming. ‘Is your assistant an LA local?’

‘… Yes?’ A disapproving frown, peppered with offbeat blinks of evident confusion. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s just strange, that’s all. Because if everything you’ve said before was true, then your assistant wouldn’t have messed up the date.’

A fascinating accusation on all counts; Miles folds himself over slightly at the waist to get a better view of the page between Wright’s fingers. Apparently baffled, Lang and Gumshoe move to follow suit without hesitation.

‘Outrageous. The date is printed right there,’ the car salesman snarls with emphasis, one part irate to two parts flustered. ‘Falsifying documents would land me in legal hot water. You of all people should know that better than anyone, Mr. Wright.’

‘But it’s pretty easy to bend the truth a little to avoid being accused of falsifying anything, huh? The fact of the matter is, January 5 isn’t really the right time for your seasonal allergies and singing birds and warm sun. And an American local would never have made that mistake on paper.’ Wright sets the sheet down, nonchalant and easy, before planting a firm elbow on his desk and cradling his jaw within his palm. ‘Not when one-slash-five also means May 1 in other parts of the world, giving you a perfect safety blanket of being too used to writing dates in European format as your defense if anyone ever caught on. Which I guess is a pretty smart way to try to trick other people into thinking that you weren’t the getaway driver while still having all the legitimate documentation to serve as your so-called alibi, but seeing as you did still have the car in your dealership until you sold it on May first of this year – which was not only just a few days ago, but also the day after the robbery, by some magical coincidence – it proves that even smart people have their moments, don’t they?’

Clearly, that’s all it takes.

Wright’s always had an intriguingly impressive ability to crawl and itch right under every guilty perpetrator’s skin, Miles knows. Still, the sudden eruption of chaos that abruptly bursts into life in the belly of the humble office manages to catch him off-guard either way; within a matter of seconds, the car salesman’s already perched halfway across Wright’s desk with Lang and Gumshoe hot on his heels in a mad scramble to restrain both of his arms, although undoubtedly, he’d managed to get a strike in regardless – the slick red smudged at the corner of Wright’s mouth is proof enough of that, jolting Miles right out of his inactive leisure, spurring his idle feet instantly forward.

And Wright, the absolute fool, is smiling in typical Wright fashion to the point that the blood’s starting to streak across his pale white teeth. Smiling like Miles reaching over to dab at his split lower lip with a silk handkerchief is all that really matters now. Smiling straight at Miles while gratefully reaching up to pat the backs of Miles’ knuckles with gentle fingertips like this is somehow making the whole uproar worth it.

Something about it kindles an unexpected heat at Miles’ throat and cheekbones; when he turns to look away, he’s greeted with the view of slow, gradual wonder and suspicion blooming over Lang’s face.

But neither of them say a single word.

‘… I’m fine,’ Wright murmurs in reassurance as Lang and Gumshoe trudge with grueling strides toward the front door, hauling the furious man between them out of the office. ‘After being tazed, being hit by a car, and falling off a burning bridge, I’d be surprised if I couldn’t take a small punch like that.’

‘You’re unbelievable, you know that.’ A full-chested sigh pours through Miles’ teeth in reply. ‘Not just for taking the hit, but for being able to prove a key perpetrator’s guilt within minutes and before trials have even commenced. Honestly, it’s astonishing that you consistently manage to be able to pull off this kind of thing all the time.’

Firm shoulders pump upward in a casual, nonchalant shrug. ‘Agent Lang didn’t seem to be too impressed. Guess it made for an awkward first meeting, which is a shame.’

‘You’d be surprised. He just got to see you at your best, and he’s a sensible man; Interpol’s been stumped by the multinational reach of these robberies, so I don’t fault him for starting off a little antsy when he got here today. Either way, though, you have nothing to prove to him or anyone else. Lang is Lang, and you’re you – for what it’s worth, I did appreciate every moment of your involvement today immensely.’

And you, he doesn’t say. Though in all honesty, he doesn’t exactly need to.

Because Wright’s smile brightens even more, hearing that; against his jaw, his soft fingers shift and curl over the edge of Miles’ palm, and Wright warmly answers, ‘I know you do.’

Miles’ pulse suddenly skips a beat beyond his control.

‘… Don’t get cocky about it.’

‘Me? Never,’ Wright says, somewhat carefree and teasing. ‘I know that anyone getting any praise from you is basically like seeing a unicorn with how rarely it happens, so I’m just savoring them as they come, that’s all.’

A response that’s every shape and taste and color of Phoenix Wright, through and through. Hearing it loosens the taut muscles between Miles’ shoulders; coaxes the tiredness out of his bones; slackens his tense fingers into comfortable relief.

Really, Miles can’t say or know where they’re headed from here, but he can’t exactly deny the fact that he may just be a little more optimistic about the days to come.

‘… I mean, can I really be blamed for thinking that he gives off birdbrain vibes, though? I thought Prosecutor von Karma might’ve just been her usual fiery self when she said he was a buffoon or whatever, but from what I’ve seen of the way he acts, he doesn’t really do himself a lot of favors in proving her wrong.’

‘I’m not going to deny that Phoenix Wright can be an idiot, at times,’ Miles sighs, reaching out to collect the steaming porcelain teacup from the corner of his desk and slowly drawing it up to his lips. ‘I’ve borne witness to more shining examples of his ridiculous antics over the years, especially in the courtroom, than I care to actually count. But even in his occasional idiocy, I have to stress that he isn’t stupid. Those are two completely different things.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ The space between Lang’s brows crumple, and his mouth creases as though he can hardly believe that he’s admitting to this. ‘I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect that whole thing with the getaway driver to turn out the way it did. And I didn’t expect him to take a punch and come out of it grinning, either. I guess That Man is a little more hardy than I gave him credit for.’

Pulling in a sip of his earl grey, Miles’ eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. ‘It’s one of his greatest weapons, really. Subverting everyone’s expectations of him, I mean.’

‘Are you forgetting that I thought he was an idiot, then you confirmed that he was an idiot.’

‘Come now, you know full well exactly what I meant.’

‘Lang Zi says: irony is as blunt as a double-headed coin, and as sharp as a double-edged sword.’

Miles throws over a drawn-out dry stare, meaningful and hefty but without any critical jab behind it; somehow, the sight of it seems to be enough to spur Lang into sporting a toothy smirk in no time flat. ‘… Don’t know where I’d ever be without you and your infinite wisdom, Agent Lang.’

It’s kind of surprising, Miles thinks idly, to be able to occupy any comfortable space well beyond the fragile pleasantries of workplace professionalism and polite small talk, given his long history of cleaving himself tightly to his career in place of what could’ve been a sizable circle of friends – and to share that space with Lang of all people, who’d made no secret of his aversion to prosecutors in the earliest days of their initial meeting and who’s often the polar opposite of Miles in temperament and style and everything in between. But considering the last few years have blessed the two of them with the occasional criminal case in each other’s cities and more than enough time to form a quiet connection in the rare handful of hours that they hadn’t been shackled to their jobs, maybe they’d been bound to end up like this all along.

By now, they’ve shared at least a small few hurried mid-investigation lunches in inexpensive diners, exhausted late-night drinks in low-lit bars, lazy conversations in various coffee shops, and bored silences during voluntary parking lot stakeouts. But simply sitting in Miles’ office together like this, whatever the occasion, will always be nice.

Miles isn’t sure if Lang falls into the category of old friends just yet, though either way, he must be pretty close by now.

Judging by the way Lang’s pupils are visibly dilating at the mere sight of Miles’ subtle look of approval in his direction, Miles is fairly certain at this point that Lang probably feels the same.

‘So … hey. Off-topic, but you just got me thinking,’ Lang starts, and the words are soaked in that unusual tone again – the one that scrapes out from the deep of Lang’s chest like a dangerous secret, smooth as butter, rough as nails – and he shifts suddenly in his seat, as sinuous as if he’s teetering on the knife-edge of some big reveal, careful and sharp and spirited. ‘You know that first day I came, when you picked me up from the airport and invited me back here to break open your fancy rice wine. Just the two of us.’

Miles can only blink in reply, unsure as to where Lang’s going with this. ‘Hmm?’

Lang suddenly shifts again, looking as though he’s steeling himself. ‘Mostly spitballin’ here, but would you be interested in something a little more—’

‘—Hey, pal!’

Much to Miles’ chagrin, there’s absolutely no grace or decorum to be found in how he almost jumps right out of his skin.

Which is admittedly more than a little foolish on his part, because this had been planned. He and Lang are literally here, waiting for Gumshoe and Wright to arrive, because they’d all intended to sit down to comb through the available testimonies and evidence together tonight. The fact that the two people they’d been actively waiting for have just walked through Miles’ open doorway shouldn’t have been any kind of shock to his system.

But their arrival ends up unexpected all the same; it’s obvious in the way Lang’s face falls in exasperated dismay, clearly put out by the interruption.

Strangely enough, Wright seems to also have noticed, judging by the half-surprised, half-cautious look quickly unfurling across his features – Miles has to wonder, for a bizarre and curious moment, just how much of the end of that last conversation Wright had actually heard.

‘Both of you sure took your time,’ Miles points out with a frown, cool and frank.

Wright’s shoulders heave upward in a brisk shrug; it’s kind of impressive, for the most part, to see how fast he can empty his expression to a blank slate and recover. ‘Had trouble with our resident car salesman – he’s keeping his mouth zipped, now. We did finally manage to get in touch with the buyer just beforehand and find out that she was actually a friendly acquaintance of his, and without telling her why, he’d specifically asked her to lie about the purchase date if anyone asked. In a stupid stroke of luck he actually slipped up and kind of confirmed this by complete accident when we pressed him on it, but he really clammed up tight after that, so we didn’t really get much else out of him in the whole two hours that we spent in the detention center – though who knows if we can still pull more out of what little he did say? Here, I took some notes. Go nuts.’

With that, he fishes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and casually offers it to Miles; Miles doesn’t waste time in accepting it with a low hum of polite gratitude, his frown deepening.

Given the messy scrawl that’s immediately noticeable at no more than a brief glance, there probably isn’t much that they can get out of that wrinkled mess currently held between Miles’ fingers. At Miles’ side, Lang gives a disgruntled sniff, having obviously taken a quick glimpse himself.

Gumshoe doesn’t seem phased by it, though, his hundred-watt grin beaming with its usual upbeat optimism. ‘What were you wanting to look through today, sir?’

‘Everything we have. What little we do happen to have,’ Miles answers thoughtfully, still unsmiling. ‘I believe we still need to take a closer look at the footprint analysis from the pottery studio in conjunction with the surveillance footage from across the street. See if there’s any way to identify the primary perpetrator. The potter’s testimony – and I suppose whatever crumbs you managed to pick up from the getaway driver today – would be worth looking into as well, in my opinion.’

‘Not that I’m complaining or anything, since I wanna look at everything too, but wouldn’t your guys usually be the ones already on top of the, uh. You know, the usual grunt work that cops do?’ Wright says to Gumshoe with a nonchalant hand-flap of questioning. ‘Haven’t they looked through the footage and stuff yet?’

‘I’ve mentioned outright that I wanted to take the first look at everything for this case. Which I don’t think is unreasonable, seeing as Edgeworth and I are spearheading it,’ Lang cuts in, voice oddly tight and strict. ‘Did he not brief you on this?’

Three heads tilt upward to stare at Lang, caught entirely off-guard.

Because everything considered, the rigid strain in his tone may be a little out of the blue, despite the actual sentiment being perfectly sound and fair in all respects. Still, it’s the first time Lang’s properly addressed Wright altogether – their official introduction through Miles in Wright’s office the other day, virtually minutes before they’d informally interrogated the car salesman, had been marked with little more than an obligingly civil mumble on Lang’s end and light-hearted nonsense on Wright’s – and while Miles hasn’t really untangled the precise intricacies of what exactly it may be, there’s still that crystal-clear undercurrent of something wordlessly lingering in all the hidden cracks and corners of the way Lang’s been behaving lately.

Miles can only wonder, judging by the keenly mindful spark of knowing that’s just suddenly flickered to life in the deep dark of Wright’s pupils, if Wright’s actually aware of what it is.

‘… No, I didn’t brief him on that detail in particular, Agent Lang,’ Miles coolly intervenes, unexpectedly weighed down by the abrupt urge and need to come to Wright’s defense. It’s hardly taking sides if it’s the truth, after all. ‘It may be a silly question, but he wouldn’t have known not to ask it.’

Still, truth or not, Lang rears back as if the answer’s just singed his fingertips, iron-hot against his skin. It’s obvious that he hadn’t really expected Miles to speak up, especially not on Wright’s behalf, and a flutter of guilt momentarily ghosts against the walls of Miles’ stomach at the realization; though he knows at the end of the day that Lang’s a sharp and smart man who’s more than equipped to take any challenge or disagreement that’s tossed into his face regardless of the circumstances – on top of the fact that he doubtlessly wouldn’t find any comfort in Miles’ pity, anyway – so Miles levels his shoulders and stands his ground, tight-lipped.

After a lengthy pause that’s probably more fleeting than they all even realize, Wright’s mouth slowly curves into a placating but genuine smile. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware.’

A simple, grounded, respectable response, and Miles can’t be more appreciatively grateful for it.

Lang’s stare tenses at the edges as it locks into Miles’, and Miles wonders if some semblance of that quiet relief or recognition or approval over the striking sincerity of Wright’s reply had somehow unveiled itself at all across his own features.

‘—So that over there’s everything, then?’ Wright tilts his head pointedly toward the small circular table that’s temporarily situated in front of Miles’ work desk, shining eyes alight with interest.

‘Everything we have, in terms of physical evidence,’ Miles heaves out a sigh, casually reaching up to straighten his eyeglasses with slackened fingers. ‘We don’t have much to work with, as you can plainly see.’

‘Yeah, I was gonna comment on that. This isn’t a lot.’

‘He did say just physical evidence. Documented evidence, witness testimonies, surveillance footage and all that kind of stuff is on Edgeworth’s desk,’ Lang says in an even tone, lips coiling into a slanted frown. ‘We may not have a lot, but there’s more than what’s just on the round table. No sense in any of us adopting a negative attitude over having too little.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Wright answers agreeably, blunt and forthright.

Lang’s frown doesn’t ease.

Miles clears his throat, then, offhandedly musing: ‘I wouldn’t imagine today would take too long.’

‘Not with this,’ Wright concurs, flicking a meaningful gaze over to the woefully undersized table again. ‘Can all four of us even fit standing around that? Maybe I should leave you guys to suffer the hard labor while I go have fun learning about pottery.’

The statement’s snugly weaved through with Wright’s familiar brand of sarcastic humor, which Miles immediately rolls his eyes at, but he’s barely managed to push an equally sarcastic reply out past the seam of his own teeth when Lang suddenly speaks up again.

‘Maybe that’s best,’ he grits out, voice taut like a pulled string. ‘Since it’s harder for us to focus if anyone here is messing around. It’s not like we have time to entertain inane questions or unreasonable suggestions.’

Silence drifts and falls over Miles’ office, cloaking every inch of space from wall to wall, thick enough to cut with a blade.

‘… What?’ Lang demands outright, visibly a touch more agitated.

‘Pal,’ Gumshoe says calmly, patiently, and Miles can’t help half-hysterically thinking that if Gumshoe of all people can correctly assess the situation and step up to be the voice of reason in the room, the state of things around here must truly be dire. ‘Mr. Wright’s only joking. He does talk like that sometimes.’

‘Honestly, all that’s missing is the clown makeup,’ Miles straight-up scoffs, though more placid than piercing. ‘We’ve gotten used to it by now.’

‘Look, never mind. It’s totally fine,’ Wright interrupts both of them, bright and encouraging, taking everyone in the room by surprise. ‘Agent Lang has a point – I’ve never really been the kind of guy who finds it easy to sit still. Besides, I’m just helping out and not exactly leading this investigation or defending anyone involved, so … it’s probably as good a time as any to sit out today. Gives me a chance to help Trucy set up for her magic show tonight.’

Miles’ brow crinkles and furrows, hearing that. ‘Wright—’

‘—It’s been a few days since I’ve helped her, anyway. We could use the dad-daughter bonding time,’ Wright insists, eyes soft with reassurance when they catch on Miles’. ‘You guys are gonna be alright without me here. I don’t doubt that for a second.’

To his credit, Lang’s expression sags loose and seems no less than mildly stunned; from what Miles can tell, a part of him may have been expecting the famed Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney to put up more of a stubborn fight.

And evidently, Wright’s just proved his aim for the exact opposite, diffusing whatever weird friction this is at the cost of his own role in today’s order of business. For the second time in as many minutes, Miles finds it hard to smother the kindling embers of acknowledgment and respect that start to ignite in his chest.

The unexpectedly wild, unbridled urge to openly express even the smallest fraction of it swallows him up like a rolling tide, and he doesn’t bother holding back from reaching out to graze his fingertips against the square of Wright’s wrist. ‘I’ll catch you up on what we find.’

It’s truly odd how easy and natural this kind of physical contact is starting to become, now, after it’d short-circuited his brain hardly a week before.

Wright’s answering smile is breathlessly warm, and Miles feels its following absence like a gaping chasm in the room when Wright finally turns on his heel and leaves.

But the cavernous yawn of that loss doesn’t exactly last, much to Miles’ understated awe, because Wright’s crinkled note from earlier ends up tightly clutched between his fingers like a lifeline barely four hours later, when his back’s pressed against the cold wall of one of the detention center’s dimly lit hallways and a calm voice is rattling out a series of translated words from the phone that’s haphazardly sandwiched between his ear and shoulder – and he can hardly work up any strength to fight off the satisfied grin that’s blossoming on his own face, even as Lang finally enters the hallway to join him with some dubious look in his eyes like he doesn’t know what to think about whatever he’s seeing in Miles’ expression.

‘—That last one you mentioned means be ready by eleven. The one before that was more or less in the vein of keeping guards distracted.’

In the following silence, Miles’ heartbeats skyrocket to the point of deafening, ballooning against all the slabs of concrete erected on every side of him, as tumultuous as a storm.

‘… That’s perfect. Thank you, I owe you,’ is the only thing he manages to squeeze out before hanging up the call. ‘My god, Wright, you incredible, marvelous fool.’

Lang’s eyebrows dart upward into his hairline like he’s taken aback, obviously having not expected the emergence of Wright’s name from Miles’ mouth, but Miles’ triumphant smirk doesn’t shrink in size when he turns to look at him, and that alone is more than enough to get the message across.

The gradual astonishment that creeps into Lang’s features in response says it all.

It’s when Wright opens the front door to his apartment later that night, rumpled and sleepy and still smiling a sunbeam’s worth of unruffled contentment, instantly filling Miles’ belly with the kind of gentle tranquility that feels frighteningly like fond affection, that Miles wonders if he’s going insane.

Because he doesn’t do fond affection. Not when it’s normally easier to make his appreciation for others known in alternate ways, like meaningful favors and thoughtful gifts and such. But something’s clearly changed between the two of them within the few days since they’d commenced this case, and maybe insanity’s the least terrifying explanation that he can even think of at this stage.

Delicate fingers curl into a fist, and Miles wills himself not to blurt out anything stupid. Not when all that’s occupying his thoughts, all of a sudden, is how bizarrely charming Wright still looks even when he’s tired, and how tender and pliant he’d likely be under Miles’ hands if Miles were to reach out to touch him right now.

God, he really must be losing his mind.

‘Trucy in bed already?’ he says quickly, batting all other stray musings away.

‘Yeah,’ Wright grins, languid and honey-sweet. ‘Another night of success, though that’s hardly anything new with her. How’d you guys go on your end?’

‘Unexpectedly good. Believe it or not, we actually made an arrest tonight.’

The satisfaction that immediately surges through Miles’ veins at the sight of Wright’s animated surprise could easily fuel and power him for years to come. ‘For real?’

‘Yes, Wright, for real. We went down to the detention center to confirm a few details for some of the pieces of evidence after we’d combed through them, and while there, we noticed that our resident getaway driver was entertaining a visitor. A brief observation of their conversation didn’t really raise any alarm bells, although Agent Lang noted that it was a little off-putting that the visitor would occasionally throw out swear words in a foreign language to express his worry over the other man’s circumstances and his own displeasure of the situation.’ Miles’ mouth starts to unfold into a gratified smirk, then, engulfed in the thrill and rush of everything that’d taken place earlier that afternoon all over again. ‘Here’s the incredible part. That visitor was honest-to-god the actual robber we were looking for. And we caught him right then and there thanks to you.’

As expected, Wright blinks at that, speechless and bewildered.

‘… I’m sorry,’ he says after a few beats of confused silence. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Remember the notes you took while you interrogated the getaway driver this morning? That crumpled piece of paper you gave me containing your chicken scratch that I could barely read?’ Miles explains pointedly, and before Wright’s jaw can even unhinge itself to protest and argue, he quickly presses on: ‘Most of it wasn’t really useful, but one bullet point you noted down – probably purely out of spite, given the ridiculous eyerolling smiley face you drew next to it and the fact that it was a completely random statement that normally wouldn’t have anything to do with the case – was his threat that he would acquire the best lawyers from back home in Bulgaria to come challenge you in the courtroom.’

‘Oh yeah, that.’ The ensuing eyeroll Miles gets in response is a flawless imitation of the silly doodle he’d seen on the paper, unimpressed and almost offensively blasé. ‘I admit that when he said it, I made a huge show of writing it down like I was putting it in my schedule or something. Honestly, the face he gave me after that was worth it.’

‘Truly the paragon of professional restraint, and not petty at all,’ Miles mutters with a small shake of his head. ‘Anyway, in the detention center, I suddenly remembered your absurd bullet point, so I ducked out for a minute to call a Bulgarian acquaintance and associate of mine that I’d met in Berlin a few years back. He translated all of those so-called expletives for me on the spot, and as you can probably guess, they weren’t exactly curse words at all.’

‘Wait. He was trying to pass on a secret message?’ Wright’s brows soar upward in amazement, dusky eyes circling out wide. ‘God, that’s one hell of a gamble. Don’t tell me he tried to lay out an escape plan or something like that?’

‘Exactly that. The dimwitted fool hadn’t counted on anyone around knowing or having the means to translate what he was saying – thought there’d only be one guard present and no one else watching him behind his back.’ His prior grin returning in full force, Miles idly picks at an imaginary loose thread on the hem of his sleeve to ease the swell of exhilaration that’s just risen from recounting that day’s events, and fails rather miserably. ‘We quickly detained him before he could leave, and took another good look at that surveillance footage of the robbery that we had from across the street. There’s only a brief moment where he stupidly takes off his ski mask in the car just as it’s speeding away, and the video itself is incredibly grainy, but it was enough. We’re absolutely sure it’s him.’

‘Oh, wow.’ Vibrant irises gleaming, lax lips parted in awe, and Miles knows that Wright is genuinely impressed. ‘That sounds amazing. Man, I wish I’d been there.’

Miles pauses, swallows. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Chews on his tongue for a second or two.

‘… You were,’ he eventually says with reassurance, open and meaningful and soft.

The look Wright gives him, hearing that, snatches every last breath right out of his lungs.

Lost his mind indeed. And he wonders if he’d lose himself too if he were to sink his whole body into the gaze that’s being leveled his way, into all the unsaid sentiments that are unmistakably simmering behind it, into Wright’s earnestness and humility and unending passion for everything that crosses his path, into the way Wright’s stare snags and holds him, into Wright’s space, into Wright’s center, into Wright.

It’s nearly past the point of unbelievable, really, that a light-hearted conversation and a casual hand on his back a few days prior was all it’d taken for everything to shift underneath his feet and snowball into this. Almost like it’d all simply been dormant the entire time, always present and alive and right here, lying in wait to just abruptly awaken with no need for any colossal trigger, as firm and sure and inevitable as the depth of the connection between them has always been in all the years that they’ve known each other.

Wright doesn’t say anything in response to Miles’ words. He doesn’t need to.

What he does end up remarking on instead is: ‘I bet Agent Lang is over the moon right now. I mean, he’s gotta be, with this kind of solid arrest under his belt. Good for him.’

‘Oh, absolutely. We’ve caught both perpetrators present at the actual robbery; now all that’s left is whoever might be leading the operation. Agent Lang was so elated over it he invited me to have private drinks at his hotel to celebrate,’ Miles answers airily, carefree and easygoing like it’s a conversation about the weather. ‘I do plan on attending after this, but I did tell him in no uncertain terms that I wanted to update you on everything first, like I’d promised.’

Out of nowhere, the shape of serene calm on Wright’s face unexpectedly morphs, sculpting itself into a peculiar, indecipherable expression that’s noticeably a little tense at the seams. Miles doesn’t particularly know what to make of it.

‘You don’t have to take his earlier words to heart. He was high-strung,’ he tells Wright at once, because that’s surely what Wright must be worried about, right? ‘I made sure he fully understood the value of your contribution today. And it took barely any effort on my part, too, because he told me that he knew.’

‘That’s … not it,’ Wright scrapes out, voice suddenly stumbling off-balance. ‘That invitation for drinks at his hotel. Can you not tell that he wants—?’

Miles eyes him unblinking for a good few seconds, unsure as to what on earth he could be getting at.

Because as far as he can understand, there isn’t anything wrong with Lang’s preferences for tonight at all.

‘—Something more intimate? Yes, I’m aware.’

For whatever reason, Wright blanches at that word; Miles’ mouth curls into a perplexed frown.

‘I mean, I don’t plan on partying over there or keeping him up or anything. It’s already late as it is, and I need to go to bed soon too. One quick drink and I fully intend to make my way home straight afterward,’ he explains without ceremony, crinkling the bridge of his nose. ‘Either way, it’s been a long day, Wright. He’s tired, and he said as much. I’m certain that’s why he didn’t want anything more unruly than just myself and him, the actual heads of this investigation, being present. Not sure what part of that’s got you tied up in knots right now.’

Wright stares at him with something close to disbelief scrawled all over his features.

‘… Edgeworth,’ he says slowly, one part exasperation to two parts incredulity. ‘You really are the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met in my entire life.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Miles objects hotly, offended and thunderstruck.

‘—But you wouldn’t be the Miles Edgeworth we all know and love if you weren’t,’ Wright barrels onward, infuriatingly, as if he hadn’t cared to absorb Miles’ complaint at all. He reaches up; curls warm fingers around the knoll of Miles’ elbow; offers a brief but encouraging squeeze. ‘Anyway, you’re obviously set on this, so go have fun with those drinks. Have a blast, even if it’s all low-key. Today’s worth celebrating, and you guys earned it.’

Miles never knows how Wright does it – how Wright can always so easily coax him into this dance, into this neverending push and pull of reaction and emotion: feisty banter one moment, heartfelt support in the next, and who knows what else to come after.

Still, he can’t deny that his own heartbeat’s drumming up a storm for every inch of it.

And somehow, weirdly enough, he’s actually more than okay with that.

Insane indeed.

It’s glaringly apparent from Lang’s crooked frown that he’s more than a little put out, but the words that tumble out of his mouth are at least, to Miles’ relief, still even and subdued.

‘I don’t get why this woman chose to contact you instead of me or Edgeworth.’

‘She, uh. She said I looked more approachable? Don’t take this as an insult, but both of you can look pretty intimidating when you want to,’ Wright rambles at low volume, tight and hurried like he’s somewhat on edge. ‘Anyway, that’s not really important. I’ve only talked to her briefly to say hello, and I’ve gotta say, something about this is giving me weird vibes.’

‘Well, given her self-professed connection to our robber, caution sounds like a completely normal and logical thing to exercise,’ Miles points out with a tremendous amount of patience. ‘Anyone would be wary of any alibi she wants to try feeding them, at this point.’

‘It’s not that. I don’t know how to describe it, like … she was honest about being the perp’s girlfriend, but I can’t help feeling like there’s something else.’ Wright’s glance surreptitiously flits backward to the young woman standing a little way behind him, limbs stiffly set and locked like she wants to be anywhere but here. ‘Call it a gut feeling or whatever.’

‘—Is everything alright?’ she cuts in cagily, discomfort marring her voice like cracked glass.

‘You tell us.’ Lang doesn’t hesitate to latch on to the opening she’s given them, sweeping toward her in long strides without a second thought; Wright and Miles move to follow behind, wearing matching guarded expressions. ‘You said you had an alibi for your man?’

‘I – yeah.’ The declaration’s firm and forward but more or less trips on itself, topples over in its insistence to be convincing, and Miles doesn’t believe her for a second. ‘There must be some kind of mistake. He was at home with me. We were watching TV.’

‘What were you watching?’

‘Some Will Powers documentary,’ she reveals, staunch and unwavering like she’s a little more sure of herself now, and Miles’ lips twist into a frown at that. He himself had sat down to watch that documentary, which had indeed aired on the day in question. This one statement, at least, lines up.

But Wright’s wariness overall is justified, because it doesn’t take more than one brief glimpse for Miles to understand his unfettered expression of concern that something’s out of place. Even the young woman’s outward presentation is unconventional – large thick sunglasses and headscarf wielded like shields and armor; chunky block heels coupled with her spine pulled straight and rigid as if in an attempt to appear taller and less anxious; an open coffee cup cradled within the unsteady fingers of both hands, the dark liquid inside visibly cooled and stagnant as if she’d been waiting nervously here for some time. Nothing about her screams normal, where being a witness is concerned.

Then again, any time Wright’s involved, he knows that no witness will ever really be normal. Not in a thousand years.

‘… Will you tell us your name?’ Wright asks in a soft, anchored tone. Calm and sedate, like he’s trying not to spook a wild deer.

‘I’d – rather not, if possible?’ she answers uneasily, jaw clenched tight with obvious apprehension. ‘I agreed to meet up just because you insisted on it, but I’d prefer to stay mostly anonymous if I can.’

Miles’ heart leaps with unbounded approval at the meeting up part, and he surrenders for a crazed moment to the unhinged thought of grabbing Wright by the shoulders and kissing him right in the middle of his face for successfully luring and drawing her here. The corner of his mouth suddenly twitches with the looming threat of a half-smirk at the small victory, and Lang stares at him for a moment, brows pulled close and wrinkling.

His own musings had never strayed into such ludicrous territory before, but at the moment, he doesn’t particularly care either way. Not when they can still get to the bottom of all this, thanks to Wright’s usual quick thinking.

‘Anonymity in an alibi won’t get you very far,’ Miles tells her plainly, in that voice of his that he knows will resoundingly echo with the unspoken warning that he’s in no mood for nonsense. ‘Especially not if the two of you were conveniently all alone. If literally no one else was present who can confirm your identity and presence, then there’s no reason why this should lend any weight to your claim.’

‘Ah – but – my dad was at home too, I guess. For a little while,’ she tosses out with a pinch of urgency, evidently buckling under pressure.

And then, like miracle and magic, what little of her face Miles can see around the enormous sunglasses contorts and crumples as though doused in immediate regret.

For whatever reason, she must’ve spoken too soon. Eureka.

‘Then I suppose you’d have no problem giving us your father’s contact details so we can verify this,’ exits Lang’s mouth as tough as steel, a perfect manifestation of exactly what Miles himself had been about to say down to the last syllable.

Whatever blood’s left trickling underneath the young woman’s skin drains, leaving her colorless and pale.

‘—No, I – I can’t—’

‘Why not?’

‘—Please. I just wanted to save my man, I don’t want him to go to jail.’ A breathy note of helpless desperation, wretched and pitiful.

A single hand rises in an unmistakable gesture of supplication; beige wool slides downward, briefly unveiling a wine-colored stain stamped into the heel of her palm. Wright suddenly recoils at the sight as if electrified, moving to point straight at it with what little decorum and courtesy he’d ever possibly had unceremoniously hurled straight out the window.

‘You,’ he rasps out hoarsely, aghast. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Miles and Lang stare at him wide-eyed, struck by baffled silence.

‘That day that we were at the pottery studio, I was hanging around for a little while, waiting for you to arrive,’ Wright quickly explains, swiveling to face Miles without drawing his accusatory finger away. ‘At one point the old man took me to the back where his personal quarters were. He had this super-ancient yellowing photo on his mantelpiece of him and his daughter. The little girl in that picture had that exact birthmark, and—’

The words catch clumsily on his exhale, coming to a stop in his throat. He visibly swallows. Swivels around again, cautiously fixing his astonished gaze back onto the young woman.

‘—And a beauty spot directly above her jaw. Right there on the left.’

Delicate fingers instantly fly up, by unthinking instinct and reflex, to shield her face from view – but not before Miles had already seen the tiny ink-black mole beneath her shivering knuckles.

The slender line of her throat pulls taut, bobbing in unvoiced horror.

‘… So it was partly an inside job.’ Lang’s epiphany comes almost as a snarl, thinned lips curling back, wolf-teeth bared and brandished. ‘You rat.’

‘I can’t even imagine betraying my own father like that.’ Miles’ own throwaway remark is dangerously veering into unprofessional territory, he knows, but once in a while something will always come crawling out of the woodwork to replenish and restore the sharper edges of that old, lingering grief; the now far-flung but still familiar sting of his father’s loss unexpectedly pulls him away from his own tongue, involuntarily distancing him from any charitable thought, leaving all righteous indignation to spill from his mouth without so much as a hint of restraint or mercy. ‘What would he think of you?’

All he sees after that is the blind panic seizing the young woman’s shoulders and the jerking motion of her forearm before Wright abruptly sidesteps in front of him, blocking him from her reach.

In the very next moment, Wright’s dripping from head to toe in cold coffee – and she’s taken off running.

Even without Lang’s shout of alarm and outrage, though, she doesn’t get very far. Not when Wright’s standing close enough to her to react in an instant, and it takes little more than a handful of quick footsteps and an outstretched hand for her wrist to gradually find itself within the tight cage of Wright’s coiled fingers, leaving Lang with ample opportunity to quickly make his way over to restrain her other arm. And then it’s over as quickly as it’d begun – a series of rapid-fire occurrences that have already fully unfolded before Miles can even blink, like a slideshow of scenes clicking one after another at breakneck speed through a film projector, colliding into Miles’ sternum head-on and sending his blood-beats thundering, emptying his chest of all air.

The heightened severity of what’s just transpired, every rhythmic pulse of it that’s bloomed like a windstorm and then faded, doesn’t actually even dawn on him until the moment Wright slowly murmurs, ‘We’re right next to oncoming traffic. You weren’t even looking at where you were running.’

Troubled concern ripples through the vein of his statement: a benevolent harmonic overtone. Miles realizes, with a mild jolt of awareness, that her safety had taken up Wright’s frame of vision far more just now than any misdeeds or offenses had.

She shakes her head in distress as Lang proceeds to secure her other arm from Wright’s grip, wordless whimpers keening as they claw past gritted teeth.

Before Miles’ fingers can even grind into movement to extract his handkerchief from his pocket for Wright to use yet again, Wright’s already flicking his gaze downward and pinching at his own ruined suit with dampened fingertips, pushing out a subdued sigh.

‘Well. I guess getting coffee thrown on me has always been my signature thing,’ he mutters under his breath, and Miles has to marvel at how Wright can even find the vigor and wit to speak lightly of any part of the situation when he himself is still reeling over everything, over how Wright had stepped in to take the splash of coffee that’d been intended for him on his behalf without a second thought, over how speedily Wright had catapulted straight to the heart of the matter and solved it all like it was nothing. A pronounced and straightforward conclusion, as though wrapping up this whole mess had taken little more than simple empathy. ‘God, I need a shower. If it’s alright with you guys, I think I’ll just go home and clean myself up. And then … I’m gonna go scoop up my daughter and hug her for a million years and not let go even when she gets sick of me.’

The strain in Lang’s gaze unwinds at that, marked by muted surprise, and Miles idly bites down on his cheek. By and large, they both get it. They both understand well enough.

Neither of them utter a single word when Wright finally strides away and makes a swift departure, leaving them there without saying anything else.

All in all, he isn’t usually one to pick at his food, so it barely takes any time whatsoever for Lang to look up at him with bemused curiosity as soon as his fork’s started rolling a cherry tomato through his salad leaves in a moment of weakness.

‘… That entire debacle with the potter’s daughter yesterday,’ he releases a dull sigh, answering Lang’s unspoken question. ‘In hindsight, I’m realizing that it wasn’t one of my finest moments.’

‘Nah. Out of anyone, I’d say you had the most justification for reacting like that.’ Lang’s focus lingers a little too long on the corner of his steak, gleaming knife sliding back and forth without any considerable pressure or intent to slice straight through, almost like he’s equally riddled with the burden of too many things playing on his mind. ‘Either way, my brain tends to be stuck in police work pretty much twenty-four seven, and looking back, I do know that I ended up acting like a ruthless cop yesterday. You’re a hardened prosecutor who pretty much never breaks out of lawyer mode either, and given your history, it makes sense that you acted in that mindset, too. It is what it is, but of course our kind of thing is gonna be consistently outmatched and outclassed by someone who’s always easily able to see things for exactly what they are, and who approaches everything while choosing to stand in the goddamn shoes of an actual human being rather than as a tool or weapon of the law.’

It takes one, two, three quiet breaths amid the ambient hustle and bustle of the restaurant around them for Miles to realize what Lang’s talking about – who he’s talking about. When it finally sinks in, Miles’ jaw slackens in wordless surprise.

‘For the record, I still think he’s an idiot,’ Lang continues with stubborn persistence, because of course he would. ‘When I met him I literally couldn’t fathom why you’d rambled on and on about him nonstop in the past, That Man this, That Man that, when it seemed like he was in a totally different league from us and I don’t mean in a good way. Although I guess I wasn’t far off the mark, in the end – every time he’s been around to help us with the case, he’s had no trouble at all with proving that he’s definitely in a different league from what I imagined. And yeah, not in a good way, because this actually kind of sucks.’

‘… What? How on earth could that possibly be a bad thing?’

‘I mean. Not to speak on his behalf or anything,’ Lang murmurs dimly, hesitant and unhurried. ‘But at this point I’m pretty sure he and I have had a common goal.’

That, if anything, is as crystal-clear an indication as ever that Miles has definitely been missing some information this whole time, buried in the crux of all the different ways Lang’s been behaving oddly since the start of this case, in the heart of all of Wright’s inexplicable knowing gazes and respectful silences, in the core of all the incomprehensible impulses and sentimentalities that Miles has found himself submerged in lately. But still, he can’t make heads or tails of any of it. So he presses his lips together in a secure line, and simply watches. Waits.

‘I’m willing to admit he’s a brilliant judge of character. A first-rate lawyer. A selfless colleague, a loving father, and clearly a loyal friend. He seems to have a pretty honest and humane outlook on everything, and I can tell he’s a really compassionate guy.’ Stainless steel clinks brightly against glazed ceramic as Lang sets his cutlery down, evidently giving up on the steak – at least for the time being. ‘He’s literally all of the things that you made him out to be, and maybe even more. What’s harder to admit is that for a while, I guess I just didn’t want to listen, because it’s tough for anyone to measure up to that.’

Of all people, Miles muses, there’s no question that he himself wouldn’t have any trouble relating to those kinds of insecurities as the once-Demon Attorney. Especially when roughly half of his life had been steeped in the pursuit of perfection, in the impulsive bloodlust for victory at any cost, in the crucial destruction of all competition that’d crossed his path; in the end, it’d been Wright who’d stolen the world he’d known straight out from beneath his fingertips and turned it upside-down. It’d been Wright who’d writhed his way under Miles’ ruptured skin, cradled his battered and bruised heart in both hands, patiently stayed to see him open his eyes.

It’s maybe the reason he can so easily offer Lang a minuscule smile right now, meaningful and genuine and hardly difficult at all to coax out into the open.

‘You’re exceptional as you are, Shi-Long Lang. One of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known,’ he affirms, pressing wholehearted sincerity into the root of each and every word. ‘I hope you won’t let anyone, yourself included, tell you otherwise.’

The responding grin he receives in return is radiant, lighting up all of Lang’s face from corner to corner, though it’s tinged with a peculiarly bittersweet hint of surrender and acceptance.

‘Means a lot, coming from you.’ A mixed cocktail of simultaneous concession and peace, as if Lang’s finally come to terms with whatever it is that’s left him restless as of late. ‘Not gonna lie, losing totally blows, especially when it involves this. But I did see it coming a mile away – hell, I pretty much felt and knew the moment it all started clicking into place. I can tell it’s just a matter of time now.’

Miles blinks momentarily, altogether flummoxed. ‘What are you talking about? What did you even lose?’ His head tips sideways in disjointed questioning; wisps of fine hair spill over his cheekbone with the subconscious movement. ‘Wait … what on earth were you gunning for? Who were you competing with? How—’

The next thing he sees is a stone-blunt look of exasperation outright barreling straight into him, speaking unadulterated volumes of are you a moron or what, and suddenly the memory of Wright’s voice slinks over the shells of his ears: You really are the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met in my entire life.

An insistent feather-light flutter, tickling against the edges of his recollection.

Can you not tell that he wants—?

—Something more intimate? Yes, I’m aware.

Some shrouded door in his vicinity suddenly creaks ajar, sweeping wide and full and yawning, allowing white-hot incandescence to flood through beyond all control and expectation – and it’s like every sound and sight and movement around him grinds to a stuttering halt, fierce and crushing, leaving all his nerve endings raw and exposed and oversensitive to the touch.

‘Ah. There he is, finally,’ Lang snorts with some degree of amused gratification, gaze firmly fixed on Miles as he moves to pick up his steak knife again. ‘Welcome to reality. Took you long enough.’

Just like that, Miles can’t switch the beacon back off now that the light’s blazing straight into his face, ferocious and blinding.

Out of everything in the world that the aforementioned reality could’ve taken the shape of, all puzzle pieces converging and aligning to form this specific picture admittedly hadn’t come even remotely close to anything that Miles could’ve imagined. Not when Lang’s comfortably settled into a specific part of Miles’ field of view nowadays that hasn’t ever been, and may never be, equal to the space that he himself has apparently currently taken up in Lang’s eyes; even with the seed now soundly planted in every layer of his conscious attention, he can’t bring himself to look at Lang that way. Can’t so much as visualize feeling anything more than the steadfast camaraderie and respect that they already seamlessly share, especially not when he’s already immediately distracted by Lang’s outspoken speculation just now that he and Wright share a common goal.

It’s maybe regretfully unkind, clutching onto that presumption with an urgent white-knuckled grip when Lang’s just pried open his own ribcage to bare his naked beating heart to Miles like this, but Lang’s now staring at Miles with an utterly baffling expression like he’d absolutely expected Miles’ thoughts to wander exactly toward the direction in which it’s currently racing. Judging by his raised eyebrow, it’s likely he may even be the tiniest bit self-satisfied about the pinpoint accuracy of that prediction.

Which he has to give Lang credit for, because god, it’s now really hitting home in the dizziest, heaviest, and most feverish way that it isn’t just Lang who’s been carrying Miles that close to the chest – but allegedly, also Wright.

All this time. This entire damned time, when Miles hadn’t even had the opportunity to thoroughly parse or put a name to exactly what it is that’s been dangling in front of his nose, stark and primal and terrifyingly wide awake.

Before he knows it, a burning heat’s enveloping his throat and his blood’s pounding like hammers in his ears.

‘… I can’t believe it,’ he breathes, the sentiment clambering out of his mouth half-strangled. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘That’d be a first.’ A mellow, friendly eyeroll, accompanied by a noisy wet bite of succulent meat. ‘I said it’s cool, pretty-boy. All up to you now to get what you want. Don’t say, just do.’

It’s one of the most gracious gifts anyone’s ever given him, really; Miles reaches over to briefly envelop Lang’s hand on the table with his own in bone-deep gratitude, fleeting but earnest, before promptly letting go.

To his relief, Lang’s answering grin beams vividly enough to rival the moon, broad and toothy and without any trace of reserve or insincerity to be seen.

The unexpected vision of Wright standing at his front door, firm shoulder lazily pressed sideways against the polished wooden frame and crisp new suit cloaked in a smooth, trim fit over softly bent limbs and languidly jutted hips, may just hit a little differently following the conversation with Lang over lunch.

‘… Why have you gone silent.’ Franziska’s hiss of irritation knocks its way into his ear like a striking wake-up call, snatching him out of his momentary reverie. ‘Did you even hear me? I said that that fool Phoenix Wright is making his way over to your house as we speak.’

‘He’s here. Arrived just now,’ Miles declares into the phone receiver, urgently winding the gears of his brain back into gradual motion and keeping his voice as even as humanly possible. ‘I presume you managed to assist him in some way?’

A barbed scoff comes in answer; judging by the subtle twitch of Wright’s little half-smile – the same smile that always careens straight into Miles’ solar plexus, tunnels into the deep of Miles’ veins, hurtles erratically through Miles’ blood nowadays – there’s no question that he’d heard it. ‘I will allow him to fill you in on the details, but all in all, some things simply require a woman’s touch. It’s undeniable that he would not have gotten very far without me.’

‘I’m sure he’s very appreciative of your help,’ Miles answers in mild amusement, reveling in Wright’s pointed look of interest. ‘As am I. Thank you, Franziska.’

‘Don’t mention it. And I truly mean don’t.’

With that, they end the call; the hallway settles into a comfortable quietude.

And suddenly, that strange restless diffidence comes slinking back over all the rigid knolls of Miles’ spine, leaving him inexplicably lost and on unsteady footing, unsure of what to do with himself. Every humorous memory of Wright thoroughly backed into a corner behind the defense’s bench, sweating bullets and babbling desperate nonsense, is a cozy familiarity that Miles now realizes he’s grown far too comfortable with – Miles has never even entertained the thought of having their positions switched, as someone who hasn’t felt overstrung and keyed up like this for as long as he can remember.

They haven’t even properly greeted each other yet, and somehow, Miles is actually nervous.

Which he logically, rationally knows he shouldn’t be, given how long they’ve known each other at this stage; besides which, Wright’s clearly here on business, and tonight doesn’t have to end with Miles making a clumsy fool of himself, not when he knows how deeply their mutual respect and unspoken regard has always been rooted and anchored in the space between them anyway. It’s astonishingly hard, though, when Wright’s armed with that endearing little grin that’s obviously both directed at and brought about by Miles, his usual stray wisp of hair plunging over one slanted eyebrow in a stupidly charming way that drains years off his actual age and lights up every inch of his face, arresting and handsome, a sight for sore eyes.

How absurd, Miles wonders with awe, that the full weight of their exchanged gazes had stayed half-veiled to him for so long, given how completely open and undressed it’s admittedly always been now that he knows precisely where to look.

‘Suit looks good,’ he says with sincere appreciation, swallowing around the gradual rise of his quickening pulse to temper it down.

Wright’s grin blooms wider, sun-soaked and summery and vibrant; it doesn’t take any more than that for Miles to realize that he’s absolutely, inconceivably doomed. ‘Hardly a surprise, seeing as you’ve always been the expert on bespoke stuff. Seriously, though, thank you. I know how much you must’ve paid to get this tailored so quickly when you didn’t even have to get me a new suit. I was already planning to get the other one dry-cleaned, anyway.’

‘I wanted to,’ Miles insists placidly, more aware than ever of Wright’s stark and modest humility in having never really known money, especially when his very own pockets have literally never been anywhere close to empty throughout his entire adulthood. ‘After all, I’m to blame for your ruined suit. Which I owe you an apology for, no less. I promise I won’t lose sight of myself like that again.’

‘You don’t owe me anything, Edgeworth. Least of all an apology,’ Wright replies in an instant, decisively staunch and ardently sincere. ‘Your reaction that day may not have been great, but it was completely understandable – like, I knew where you were coming from, what with your dad and everything. I mean, you’re only human, and I don’t think there’s anything shameful about having given in to the roughest parts of being one, sometimes. So hey, it’s totally fine to take it easy and forgive yourself for something like that, you know?’

Even without the added sentiment being spoken aloud, Miles still hears it anyway: Your loss is a part of your past, and your love is a part of you. And perhaps somewhat more terrifyingly, I’ve always been happy to have you exactly as you are.

Miles releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d seized in his lungs.

Seems like it mightn’t be so farfetched after all – the part about forgiving himself being okay.

‘… I appreciate that. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.’

‘Good.’ The momentary seriousness cartwheels straight back to Wright’s prior bubbly grin, and something about it is so characteristically, idiotically Wright in every way that Miles can’t help steadfastly thinking with more than just the tiniest bit of fondness that he’d always be happy to have him exactly as he is, too. ‘That woman we talked to, the potter’s daughter, feels really bad about it anyway. Her dad’s heartbroken over the whole thing, just like you implied he’d be, and that was pretty much the tough love she needed to wake up. She asked me to pass on her apologies to you.’

‘Is that what you were doing with Franziska? Talking to the daughter?’

Wright shrugs at that, pliant lips rolling inward in idle thought. ‘Detective Gumshoe mentioned that Agent Lang apparently tried the other day and got nowhere. I tried on my own too, and she was kind of more receptive? But still pretty obviously anxious – probably because she knows I’m a dad and she did end up taking what you said that day to heart, not to mention the entire coffee incident. As soon as I brought Prosecutor von Karma in with me, though, she really opened up. Not gonna lie, I’m actually shocked at how much we’ve got now. I’m dead serious when I say it literally might be enough to wrap up this whole case.’

A woman’s touch. So much for not wanting to be in the vicinity of any of Wright’s shenanigans; the temptation to call Franziska back to remark on their doubtlessly efficient teamwork claws mercilessly at Miles’ base impulses, but the promise of key information for their case is definitely more thrilling and critical at this point, so he knows that his harmless brotherly ribbing will simply have to wait.

The fact that Wright had even thought to call Franziska, who of all people tends to be irritated by his mere presence alone and isn’t afraid to allow her leather whip to express it, is a decidedly brilliant move that Miles doesn’t even bother to stamp down his approving marvel over.

‘Color me intrigued. Go on, then. You’ve got my attention.’

‘Okay, so, you’re gonna love this, right.’ Both of Wright’s palms flip upright and sweep apart in a picture this gesture, beads of starlight shimmering in his pupils, a little boy in a candy store. ‘First of all, black market grave robbers.’

‘Why on earth would I love people disturbing the dead and desecrating their place of rest,’ Miles monotones dryly. ‘Or, for that matter, dealing in shady lawbreaking practices to get their hands on money that they haven’t earned.’

‘You know that that wasn’t what I meant, I’m—’ Wright starts, tone dipped in notes of prickly exasperation, before he halts suddenly in his tracks and stares Miles straight in the eye. ‘Wait, did you just make a joke?’

‘What can I say, when you spend a little too much time with someone in moderately close quarters, their clownery might just rub off on you,’ Miles hurls back without a second thought, and even through the faux abrasiveness and intentional deadpan he can easily tell that his own words and musings are wandering dangerously, laughably close to some kind of love confession; his clavicles heat up at the realization, smoldering beneath his pressed collar. ‘Anyway, grave robbers? We know to link all of the back-to-back robberies together due to each of the stolen items vaguely seeming to be of Sumerian origin, but are you saying that the bejeweled cup that was stolen in Madrid, the crystal-studded comb that was stolen in Beijing, the solid gold flute that was stolen in Cairo, and the old clay urn that was stolen here all came from – what, people’s tombs?’

‘Not just people’s tombs. The same tomb.’ Wright’s beaming now, the eager fire within it blinding and infectious, such that Miles has to fight to keep his own mouth from bending its way into mirroring the silly grin. ‘Some high-ranking priestess that archaeologists were looking for and managed to find a few months ago. Apparently they noticed that their pile of artifacts had gotten smaller before everything could even be properly looked at and cataloged, so some stuff must’ve literally been taken from right under their noses while they were excavating the site, and kind of haphazardly sold in a hurry to buyers all over the world before the items could be properly identified by anyone. The potter’s daughter alluded to one particular prospective buyer in Paris who seemed pretty eager to pay threefold value for all of the relics together in a complete set.’

‘That’s – beyond remarkable,’ Miles breathes in answer, bordering on incoherent. ‘My god. All of the international investigative teams have been stumped by this for weeks and you really managed to extract the motive for the entire global operation in a single interrogation tonight. How on earth do you always manage to pull off something this insane?’

‘I mean, I did say I tried and failed to get much in an earlier conversation, and Prosecutor von Karma sure helped a great deal, but either way, I can actually do you one better.’ If possible, the eager vibrancy in Wright’s face flares with even more delight, and Miles already knows in an instant that whatever he’s about to hear will rock the whole boat without question. So far, Wright hasn’t been wrong about Miles loving this. ‘Her boyfriend, as in our resident robber, didn’t share more details with her than necessary, but in spite of that she still thinks she knows who one or two of the leaders of the North American operation might be. Like, I’ve actually got names.’

Miles’ heart almost collides into the roof of his mouth, hearing that.

‘… Wright,’ he says slowly, methodically, curling tensed fingers around Wright’s wrist and tugging, urging him inside the house. ‘That’s unspeakably massive. We need to call Agent Lang right this minute.’

‘Way ahead of you. Already did that on the way here and told him everything.’ Wright still moves to trail after Miles despite this, allowing himself to be led in and twisting his palm over to coil warm fingers around Miles’ wrist in turn, too. ‘Gotta say, I must’ve been the last person he was expecting to get a call of any kind from, but at least I know genuine gratitude when I hear it. He said he’ll be looking into the tip on the supposed heist coordinators as well as every single buyer and seller for every single item tonight, as well as contacting the French authorities tomorrow morning.’

For some reason, even though it isn’t out of character at all for Wright to have thoroughly bypassed Miles in favor of directly contacting Lang first – given that Lang’s the official sole head of the full North American investigation on paper, regardless of his personal choice to unofficially recruit Miles as co-head – the revelation still sends a pleasant little jolt of surprise through Miles’ chest cavity; after all, Lang’s only just been toeing the line of polite civility and hasn’t even tried approaching Wright with anything like friendliness the entire time he’s been here. For Wright to have braved Lang’s disesteem toward him without hesitation, and to have managed to successfully pull some expression of sincere appreciation out of Lang after everything that Miles has seen of their interactions so far, is definitely no small feat in the slightest.

Then again, he’s fully aware that Wright’s tendency to be steered through each passing day by his heart, his grit, and his integrity above anything else isn’t exactly a new phenomenon.

‘Well done,’ is all Miles says, sound and meaningful and unwavering.

Wright huffs out a minuscule wisp of a laugh, a honeyed little chime of bells. ‘Thanks, Edgeworth. I did my best.’

Even his determined presence and bearing in loss has always turned heads, not to mention his victories – and this solid triumph tastes like spun sugar in his elated voice, like candied syrup in his merry smile, like bold mulled wine in the confidently tall stretch of his spine; always effortlessly eye-catching even in his ridiculous tomfooleries and mostly mundane normalcies, and right in this very moment, Miles might actually go as far as to say that he looks beautiful.

A tiny sliver of pride swells in the gaps between Miles’ ribs and out of the blue, he’s overcome by that same half-deranged rush of hot temptation from not too long ago to catch Wright’s jaw in both of his hands and kiss him stupid in response, because god, this man is everything, and Miles can’t even remember a singular moment in his life when he’s wanted anything more.

Not now, though, the rational hemisphere of his brain quickly supplies, desperately willing for that fevered urge to ebb out of sight. Not when they’re both currently caught in the delirious exhilaration of tonight’s success; the last thing Miles wants is for Wright to second-guess or doubt the reason behind him doing anything that forward and brazen.

So he takes a purposeful step closer to Wright and reaches out with his free hand instead, idly tracing a butterfly-light but uneven path upward from Wright’s elbow to the ridge of his shoulder, and it’s only when Wright’s quiet inhale snaps in half and stutters at the contact that the lethal accuracy of Lang’s suspicions about him slams into Miles like a crashing tide.

‘—Wright,’ he rasps out, floored. Mouth dry, tongue jumbled beyond measure.

There’s no doubt in his mind whatsoever about where Wright stands, now. Especially not when Wright’s gaze darts up to meet his head-on, and his dark eyes abruptly round out in amazement and disbelief only a few breaths later, mouth sinking partway ajar as though the earth’s just cracked and shattered like glass all around him and he’s now seeing straight into the chambers of Miles’ heart, hearing every one of Miles’ unsaid secrets, for the very first time.

A single tight nod of stunned acknowledgment, and barely a whisper: ‘Yeah.’

They’re finally, finally on the same page.

A tremor quivers through Miles’ palm as he lays it flat over Wright’s collarbone, and he counts every soft thud that passes through the delicate pulse point beneath his fingertips, one heartbeat, two, three. It’s still barely even sunk in, despite the fact that it’s crossed his musings again and again on merciless repeat, that he’s able to do this now like it’s the most natural thing in the world after a simple, friendly hand on his back had managed to unravel him so intensively hardly two weeks earlier.

Miles swallows, combs through what’s left of his tattered composure; as reluctant as he is to allow the moment to pass, he’s unexpectedly, regretfully reminded of the stone-cold fact that their work isn’t actually done yet. Which means it’d be more sensible, maybe, to get their prior conversation back on track, at least for now.

To his unbridled relief, Wright seems to get it – thin, sharp brows crawl upward toward a jet-black hairline with gradual understanding just from one searching look at Miles’ face.

‘So … ah. I assume you intend to defend her?’ Miles finally murmurs after clearing his throat, more to soothe his own fire-lit nerve endings than anything. ‘The potter’s daughter, I mean.’

‘For sure.’ The resolute reply comes in the blink of an eye as expected, though to Miles’ gratification, each syllable rings somewhat hoarse and off-balance. Apparently, Wright’s just as affected by him as he is by Wright: a surreal notion that he wouldn’t even have been able to conceive of mere days ago. ‘Given that the urn was kept in a safe that only her dad knew the combination for and she had the job of making sure that he was available at home to be robbed, she did have her part to play – and she deserves to face justice for it. Not to mention the flimsy attempt at giving us a false alibi to save her boyfriend, too. But she seems to be pretty naïve and scared, kind of like someone who just got caught up with bad people, you know? I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I didn’t at least try to get her a slightly reduced sentence.’

‘I figured. What about her father?’

‘In the clear, I believe. Prosecutor von Karma helped me verify all the details earlier, and it appears he genuinely had no idea he was bidding on a stolen artifact when he bought the urn online,’ Wright explains, straightforward and sympathetic. ‘Losing so much of his money on it, plus his daughter being arrested, is punishment enough anyway. I intend to offer my support and help him get through this however I can.’

‘Such a compassionate bleeding heart.’ A graceless snort, though the words aren’t armed with any real bite.

Another slip of gentle laughter; Wright’s evidently not taking the bait. Not today.

‘Oh please. You tease me, but I know you secretly love me for it.’

Of course I do tumbles out of Miles’ conscious thought in the blink of an eye, like there’s nothing more obvious, and he’s sure that Wright’s aware judging by the ease with which he reaches his free hand up to clasp the one that Miles has wrapped over his shoulder; and just like that, they’re completely intertwined – an unmistakable snapshot of all the endless pages of complex history hanging in their midst, all the weight of that and more now yawning wide open in the space between them, and all the future years side-by-side that Miles will always look forward to, twinkle-eyed and hopeful and as absurdly optimistic as Wright never fails to be about everything.

Somewhere along the way, the flustered stirring in Miles’ belly must have thinned out and eased, because somehow, he suddenly isn’t so nervous anymore.

Even when they finally pull back from each other and let go, the mingling heat of their skin snakes around the columns of their fingers and stays, stamping fire into their bones and fluttering all the way up into their mouths like the phantom of the kiss they hadn’t shared.

Lang had been okay with both of them coming along to observe the final round of arrests, and all things considered, it doesn’t exactly play out as dramatically as it would for a crime ring of this caliber in blockbuster movies.

Especially when the mundane suburban home that they find themselves at ends up swarmed by a relatively heavy police presence led by Gumshoe and Lang, but without any sirens blaring, no voices shouting. Wary backup officers standing by with twitching fingers hovering over their firearms as a precaution, but no weapons drawn, no spray of gunfire peppering the air. No battering down of any doors, no droplet of blood spilled, no retaliation beyond the venomous expletives spat out by the suspects as they’re all handcuffed one by one and escorted outside. Calm devastation thrums in the undercurrent of all the movement and noise, mercilessly stripping apart the small team that’d served as the head of the North American heist operation piece by piece in real time right in front of Miles’ eyes, but it’s colored by no unnecessary theatrics, no cinematic melodrama.

Because real life isn’t a movie, he knows, and no part of it has to be.

He doesn’t need to dance with Wright beneath a curtain of rain. He doesn’t need an impassioned embrace with Wright amid the fallen bodies of his enemies. He doesn’t need to follow a script filled with syrupy tropes, not when the true iceberg-depth of their decades-long friendship has always come as natural as breathing and the promise of something even deeper has already made its home in their chests for longer than they’ve even been aware.

Right here, planted at the edge of the gnarled lawn with Wright at his side, Miles only has to reach out and slowly slide his hand into Wright’s before Wright moves to thread their fingers together without a second thought, snug and secure.

Don’t say; just do.

Not a single word falls from Lang’s lips as he emerges from the doorway of the house and strides in their direction, fragile old urn cupped in his palms, his pointed glance distinctly flicking downward to their joined hands as he makes his way past. But he offers a little nod to Wright, who nods back with a gleam in his pupils, and the sight leaves Miles far warmer than it probably should.

‘… Ah, there you two are.’

To Miles’ credit, he doesn’t jump from the whirlwind surprise of Lang’s unexpected appearance, and on the tabletop, his fingers don’t disentangle from Wright’s out of automatic reflex.

He does gradually let go though, slow and hesitant and a painfully obvious exercise in courteous professionalism, paying little mind to the way Lang visibly stares down and tapers his attention to the unsubtle action like it’s an unspoken source of curious intrigue for him. Which Miles supposes checks out, given that he’s rarely ever been this open – at this point, for him to shamelessly partake in such a forward gesture has to be some kind of incredible novelty in literally everyone else’s eyes.

‘We deliberately picked a café that was somewhat hidden away for the peace and quiet.’ He moves to pull in a tiny sip of his earl grey, before delicately setting his teacup down and looking up into Lang’s face at last. ‘I’m surprised you managed to find us.’

‘Can’t take credit for that, your good detective told me where I might find you.’ A keen gaze peers back at Miles through fine lashes, leisurely and purposeful. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving – I’ve been asked to come consult on the Madrid arm of the robberies, so I booked the next flight out in a few hours’ time. The Spanish team seemed really impressed that we managed to wrap everything up so quickly here. It’s a shame you can’t come along.’

Lang’s head slopes sideways on the last syllable, and it abruptly dawns on Miles that the sentiment’s actually directed at Wright, too.

On top of that, it’s followed by Wright’s unflinching response of: ‘I’d say it’s more of a shame that you can’t stay around longer, Agent Lang. But there’s no doubt they’re gonna be in great hands now that you’re heading over there,’ which Miles refuses to admit is sending his own mind somersaulting straight into a maelstrom of wild disbelief, because it sounds almost like they’re pressing up against the now-smudged edge of cordiality and tipping over into the realm of something close to friendliness on both sides – a concept he’d barely even been able to entertain the possibility of just last week.

He isn’t given ample time to mull over it, though, because Wright’s phone suddenly bursts into iridescent light and melody on the table right next to where their hands had been entwined only a minute ago, shaking an obnoxiously loud sigh loose from the pit of Wright’s chest.

‘God, Maya’s been relentless with pestering me for updates. Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.’

‘Updates?’ Miles repeats in confusion. After all, despite Wright’s ridiculous disregard for professional conduct at times, Miles is well aware that he wouldn’t ever have divulged the finer details of the case to anyone outside of its investigative team on principle.

‘Yeah,’ Wright scratches out after a fleeting pause, flushed to the tips of his ears – at which point the unforeseen revelation collides into Miles with such a shuddering jolt that he has to wonder if the resulting quiver in his stomach had erupted from a thousand butterflies at once.

‘… Oh.’

Lang audibly snorts like this is the most unhinged comedy he’s had the privilege of witnessing all week.

‘I mean, I was well on the way to losing my sanity over this, and who else was I supposed to confide in about you? Obviously not you,’ Wright protests as he reaches over to retrieve his phone, before long legs promptly unfold to push him up from his seat and onto his feet. ‘And you know better than anyone that talking to Larry was out of the question. I’d never hear the end of it.’

‘I’m sure,’ Miles replies in a deadpan, though judging by the incredulous looks that are being cast his way from both Wright and Lang, neither of them are the least bit fooled by his attempted smooth exterior. ‘Come now, Wright, you mustn’t keep Miss Fey waiting.’

Wright’s face creases from edge to edge as though he has a lot more to complain about, but he begrudgingly nods and picks up the call, scurrying off with a grumble hanging from his lips all the while.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Lang doesn’t hesitate to move into the seat he’s just vacated, sitting opposite Miles; it’s curious, how frequently they’d dined together since Lang had first flown in for the case and how often they’d been seated across from one another precisely like this, and yet this is somehow only the first time that they’re facing each other with all the cards laid out on the table from the very start – for whatever reason, there’s a strange echo of finality to it that Miles isn’t thoroughly sure how to define, even though he fully knows that their friendship-of-sorts is firmly carved in stone and hardly bound to come to any kind of end at all after Lang’s impending departure. Lang’s mouth is currently sealed shut like he’s content to have Miles take the reins right now, though, which Miles can’t help being endlessly grateful for.

‘For what it’s worth, I truly appreciate it. And I know Wright does too.’ A slightly clumsy way to start off, maybe, but still a start all the same. ‘The fact that you’ve been such a gentleman about all this, I mean.’

Lang snorts again, every part benign amusement rather than derision. ‘Never thought I’d ever hear that word being used to refer to me in my entire life, but I get you. Like, you’ve actually been more smiley and upbeat in these last few days than I’ve ever seen you. If things not going exactly the way I wanted is what it takes for that to happen, then it’s worth it.’

Miles doesn’t answer, throat seizing tight. Who knows, he muses, if this is exactly the reason why he hadn’t been able to pick up on Lang’s intentions earlier, in the same way he hadn’t picked up on Wright’s – after years of vapid sweet-talking and superficial flatteries from Wendy Oldbag and countless other random women who’d attempted to pursue him, Miles had never found himself well-equipped to recognize something genuine for once.

He’s vaguely reminded, then, of the way Wright had sharply honed in on the actual purpose behind Lang’s invitation for private drinks a while back, and still earnestly wished him a fun night together with Lang anyway: a sincere act seamlessly rivaling the selflessness that Lang’s also just shown.

Because here and now, even in loss and rejection, Lang still cares.

‘I have to admit it’s kind of funny in the stupidest way now that I look back at it, but you wanna know what sealed the deal for me? Those celebratory drinks we had in my hotel room after we nabbed our perp. I can admit I had an ulterior motive – definitely tried to put the moves on you the whole night – but you were so obliviously, cluelessly resistant that it was like trying to hit on a damn brick wall.’ A brief and gentle eyeroll, mellow but incredulous. ‘You couldn’t stop rambling about That Man all night long and every time I changed the subject, you changed it back. And then you were pretty much like well this was great, see you in the morning and walked out. Not gonna lie, any dream I’d ever had about you and me died right there.’

A wash of heat floods over the hollows of Miles’ cheeks at that. ‘God, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t even realize.’

‘You can’t help what you want. And you have nothing to apologize for.’ Lang’s signature smirk slashes across his face, then, dauntless and unruly. ‘Lang Zi says: only the man that sees the real beauty and worth of any bird would be willing to set it free.’

That alone is disarming, and Miles finds himself almost buoyant like he’s wading up to his hips in shallow water, wandering on paths he’s never seen or walked before. After all, his rather patchy history with peeling away the armor he’s caged himself in and forging soul-deep connections of any kind with other people speaks for itself; if anyone had dared to suggest two weeks ago that he’d become a carefully cradled jewel in anybody’s eyes, let alone that of two extraordinary men at once, he’d have thought that they’d lost their minds.

He’s hardly one to back down from a challenge, though – much like That Man, whose foolish optimism and determination is always infuriatingly contagious – and all he really wants right now is to take Wright’s hand in his own sturdy grip and keep on walking, spine straight and chin held firmly aloft.

‘… Looks like your man’s coming back,’ Lang drawls, slowly rising from his seat and tensing the entire length of his arms backward in a momentary stretch; there’s something about your man that tickles at the fringes of Miles’ brain in an unexpectedly gratifying way, which has probably already started leaking into the mostly neutral expression he’s wearing, given the humored look that Lang’s throwing him. ‘I’ll see you on the next case, Chief Prosecutor. Be well – and happy, for that matter.’

‘You know I will be. And I’ll be sure to have more of that rice wine saved and ready for the next time you’re in town.’ The smile playing at the corners of Miles’ lips curls faint and small, but wholeheartedly sincere. ‘Have a safe trip, Agent Lang.’

Lang leaves him with a sharp-toothed grin, silent in his departure barring the brief murmur of gratitude that he offers in response to Wright also wishing him a safe flight. And then he’s gone in the blink of an eye, just as quickly as he’d arrived, a perpetual typhoon sweeping in and out of Miles’ life at a moment’s notice in the same exact way he always has.

Maybe they’ll both have grown even more by the time they meet again, Miles considers; something he’s definitely more than eagerly looking forward to, and always will.

‘… Well, that was inexplicably fast,’ he tosses out next, meeting Wright’s prompt re-emergence with a cautiously critical eye.

‘Yeah, I told Maya just enough to get her off my back and then mentioned that I’m out with you at the moment, so at least she’ll give us some space today and not try calling again.’ Solid shoulders bob upward in a nonchalant shrug as Wright sits back down, although judging by the faint crimson tint to the peaks of his cheekbones, he probably hadn’t been as slick with the phone conversation as his words would suggest – which Miles can’t help finding idiotically precious, as much as he’d never admit it aloud. ‘She said she’s really happy that we finally got our shit together, by the way, in those exact words. Well, I guess she shrieked it more than she said it, but whatever.’

‘I mean, as lovely as Miss Fey is most of the time, the part where she was bound to blow out your eardrums over this was kind of a given, wasn’t it? I’d say that’s on you for choosing to confide in her.’

‘I wouldn’t have had to, if you weren’t so typically you. And I say that with love,’ Wright shoots back in a blunt monotone, evidently unimpressed by the dig at his expense.

‘That doesn’t make it sound any better, you insufferable dolt,’ Miles scoffs with stubborn insistence, but his mouth’s already started twitching its way to a half-smile; he understands to its fullest extent, now, how their traded barbs and bickering have always been their comfort blanket, their cozy shared space, their understated love language. ‘Anyway, I refuse to take the blame for not picking up on the fact that both you and Agent Lang had eyes for me when I had no reason to believe that such a thing was even possible until just recently. You’re literally world-famous for being able to zero in on little clues and hints that no one else could detect or solve, so your awareness of the situation hardly challenges my one-time ignorance.’

‘To be fair, I didn’t think it was remotely possible for you to ever want me back either, so I wasn’t really aware of it until that day that I came over for a visit. But it goes beyond just that. Like, Agent Lang dropped in at my office yesterday morning to iron out some details for his final case reports, and while he was there he mentioned that every time you’re around him, you can’t shut up about me? He even said that it’s been going on for years.’

Miles’ next inhale barrels into his lungs too quickly, and he almost chokes on his own spit. ‘I’m sorry, he what.’

‘You didn’t even pick up on your own feelings, I’m just—’ Out of nowhere, a hairline crack in the sleek glass of Wright’s laid-back façade suddenly gives way to a peal of shimmering laughter, cotton-light and musical and merry. ‘—I have no words, Edgeworth. Except that I really do unequivocally adore you.’

The affirmation slides unashamedly along Wright’s breath like he’s just having a casual conversation about his day, like it’s the most logical thing he could’ve uttered next, like there’s nothing more organic and real in the known universe. Miles has to momentarily clench his jaw to keep from stupidly gaping, although he knows that maybe, when all’s said and done, this is how everything had always meant to unfold – sitting in the back corner of some nondescript café at the tiring conclusion of yet another criminal case, in rumpled suits that have endured more than their fair share of everyday lawyerly stresses, two and a half decades after they’d first met as little boys. No dramatic grandeur, no ceremonious exchanges or gestures: just a quiet, natural next step forward into something that’s been a hell of a long time coming.

And Miles wouldn’t change a single fraction of it for the world.

‘The sentiment is very much returned,’ he says coolly, sloping himself forward across the table to hook Wright’s gaze to him in closer quarters while tapping neatly trimmed fingernails on the polished wood between them. ‘But if you intend on doing anything about that, then you could at least start using my given name.’

‘I haven’t heard you use mine, either. Not since we were kids.’ Wright visibly brightens as though he’s just received the biggest gift on Christmas morning, pearly grin wider than ever. ‘But of course I can, Miles. More than happy to, Miles. Anything for you, Miles. Hey, use mine too, Miles.’

‘I take it back.’ A regretful groan drags itself past Miles’ teeth. ‘God, Phoenix, you really are incorrigible.’

The name moves like honey over his tongue, rolling smooth and slow; just like that, any lingering doubt over whether he’ll grow accustomed to saying it and using it again, as comfortably as he had in their childhood, evaporates in the cascading heat of his subsequent mock-dismayed sigh. Getting adjusted to hearing his own name from Phoenix’s lips, though, might take just a little longer, especially if it’s going to be consistently drenched in that much playful affection.

Honestly, this man will be the death of him.

‘Oh, come on. I wasn’t even teasing you, I’m just happy and I really like using your name. Cut a cheerful guy some slack,’ Phoenix beams, the openly honest sincerity of his joy far too massive and mountainous for the cramped booth that they’re both currently tucked away into, catching Miles off-guard and sending his pulse jackrabbiting. ‘… Okay, I guess that maybe I was teasing just a tiny bit. What’s it to you, tough guy? You gonna go kiss me over it?’

‘I don’t want to hear that from you unless you’re prepared to come here and kiss me yourself, you clown.’

It’s like looking at a boundless expanse of ocean every time Phoenix grins; at the end of the day, he may very well be the silliest, cringiest, and most chaotically birdbrained hot mess that Miles has ever known, yet Miles still can’t even begin to imagine choosing anyone else.

He slips warm fingers into Phoenix’s waiting palm on the tabletop – an emboldened challenge. Underneath, Phoenix’s ankle nudges forward to snugly graze against his: an equally unflinching answer.

‘I suppose that can be arranged,’ is all that Phoenix murmurs with stars in his eyes, and when he leans in, Miles doesn’t hesitate to meet him halfway.