Chapter Text
The potatoes were delicious, the stuffing was dry, and the pie was unsalvageable. After the failure of his contribution, Apollo became obsessive about basting the turkey as it ticked away its last minutes in the oven. "We should just have my cookies," Trucy argued for the half-dozenth time, and was again ignored. "We don't need to make another dessert; we have dessert!"
Looking as close to sprawling as he'd ever seen her, Franziska lounged across one end of the sofa and studied the mess on the dining table. She, of course, hadn't offered to help clear a thing. Raising a glass of wine, she said around a yawn, "I suppose I can appreciate a holiday centered upon food, after all. Although I am unsurprised to see the defense's failure at achieving some of their efforts."
"If you're already yawning," Miles said as he clicked on the television and handed her the remote, "you'll be passed out after we eat that turkey."
"I will not," Franziska said and sipped her wine. "Not that it would speak ill of me if I did, after yesterday's travel nightmare. I came here as a favor to you, little brother; remember that." She clicked the remote to the next channel, tilted her head at whatever NFL game was on, and said thoughtfully, "Those pants are extremely tight."
"Enjoy," Miles said and left her to it. He'd never discussed Franziska's romantic predilections with her and tried not to speculate, but whether or not she enjoyed the players, she'd enjoy the violence.
After pouring a glass of Chardonnay for himself and listening to Franziska's surprisingly rapid investment in the athletic event, he tidied what he could on the table without interrupting Apollo and Trucy's impromptu potato-eating competition. Justice was a fine young lawyer overall, but Trucy did sometimes seem to bring out a strain of immature competition in him, Miles noted with a smirk. Looking over his shoulder at his sister back in the living room, his smirk widened. Ah, well. He probably wasn't one to talk about immature competition.
"Hit him again!" Franziska hollered at the screen, lifting her glass of wine triumphantly. Right, then; the violence it was.
Phoenix emerged from the kitchen just as Apollo won his eating contest and hurried to baste the turkey again. After scooting out of the way, Phoenix chuckled, "I don't know how much good all this basting will do in just the last hour. But I suppose it can't hurt."
"Constantly opening the oven door has to be lowering the temperature," Miles pointed out. "It's just taking longer for the bird to finish." From the look he got, that wasn't the right answer. "...I'm sure Justice is working very hard," he settled on.
"Better," Phoenix said with an impish grin. "I'll turn you into a mentor, yet."
"I will have you know that my department respects me deeply, Wright."
"Yeah, but they're prosecutors. I'll turn you into a mentor that even normal people would like."
Miles raised an eyebrow as he sipped his wine. "Are you truly attempting to lecture me on normality?"
"Is this a conversation we really want to be having?" Phoenix asked good-naturedly. Yes, Miles supposed they both knew far too much about the other for this to be a short discussion, and Phoenix nodded in satisfaction when Miles waved off continuing the topic.
Both of them were in good moods. Whatever strangeness had plagued Phoenix when Miles first arrived had eased over the course of the evening. Perhaps he'd just been worried about hosting his first holiday. For Miles' part, his initial concern about Franziska's presence giving away the game had proved unfounded. Oh, he'd been a little shaky with his explanation for why Franziska had wanted to talk to Apollo, but Phoenix hadn't noticed a thing, and she'd gotten her question and answer session out of the way quickly. And, after she'd loaded herself up with wine, fatty foods, and carbohydrates, wanting to experience Thanksgiving perfectly, even her anger over Klavier's poor performance had eased. Truly, this was a blessed day.
As Phoenix said something about how he was going to try to make a new dessert, Miles couldn't help but raise his wine glass and smirk behind it. A month. Maybe two. What had Gavin done to fall so spectacularly on his face? He wasn't about to leave the party just because he'd apparently won their bet after a matter of days; it had been the wager that drove him to spend more time with Phoenix Wright, but after that initial push, it was actually rather... wonderful. Still, it was nice to have the pressure off.
"Let me know if you need any help," Miles said when Phoenix finished, though he had no idea what the man had actually said. "I'll stop Franziska from throwing things at your television in the meantime. It sounds as if she's already become a devoted fan of Detroit's team."
Phoenix looked toward her in bewilderment. "Franziska cares about football teams? Really?"
"Foolish Americans!" Franziska slurred as one team lined up opposite the other.
"She saw that the other team was named the 'Patriots' and decided she wasn't a fan," Miles said dryly.
Phoenix laughed, then cut off to say very seriously, "Please protect my television if the Pats score a touchdown." He moved toward the kitchen, but turned back after a step and said, "That's when they make it to the end of the field and score points."
"I know that perfectly well," Miles lied, and breathed a tiny sigh of relief when Phoenix left without calling him on it. Good; as he'd suspected, the magatama was tucked safely away. He poured a glass of mineral water before joining Franziska and pressed it into her hand as soon as her wine was gone.
Minutes ticked past. While Franziska enjoyed her violence, he pulled out his phone and started catching up on the world's news. Initially, given some of their failures, he hadn't known if he would be able to eat any of the turkey when it finished. By the time it was finally cooked, however, it might actually sound appealing. This was taking forever.
"Mr. Edgeworth?" he heard a young voice ask, and looked toward the kitchen.
"Yes, Trucy?" Franziska pushed him away, not wanting their conversation to interrupt her viewing, and he joined the girl near a wall.
"Dad was wondering if you could—"
Hmm. "Trucy. I need to ask you something."
She blinked at the interruption. "Huh?"
Miles adjusted his glasses in a way he knew made him look professorial. "Your words just now reminded me of something that's been bothering me. To everyone else, including him, you refer to your father as 'Daddy.' To me, you call him 'Dad.' Why?"
Trucy's hand muffled her tiny gasp. "You noticed that?" She looked away, uncomfortable, but then turned back and met his eyes with purpose. "Well, that's good! I... I wanted to see if it mattered, and I guess it does!"
Brow furrowed, Miles said, "I don't understand. Why are you testing that, and why am I your test subject?" She seemed so defiant over something so insignificant. Her gaze shadowed and dropped to the floor, and Trucy looked suddenly very young. When she bit her lip rather than reply, Miles scanned the room around them and pulled her toward the hallway, away from any listeners. "Trucy," he began more gently, with his professor mode disengaged. "What's wrong?"
Her eyes were glossy when she looked back up; not teary, yet, but like they were considering the notion. She smiled wanly at his small, startled reaction. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like a test subject."
"It's fine. Please tell me what's wrong."
"They...." Trucy glanced at the kitchen entrance and her voice softened further. "People make fun of me at school. And I think I'm great and my life is great and they're not worth my time if they can't see that, but sometimes I—" She hugged herself. "But sometimes I hear one too many times that I'm the poor girl with the embarrassing dad, who doesn't realize that Harry Potter isn't real." Her arms flew back to her sides and her fists clenched. "Which is stupid! Because my daddy is better than theirs can ever be, and now we have a dishwasher, and I earn more at a single magic show than stupid Karlie earns in a week at Burger King!"
"You are talented and intelligent, and never let anyone tell you otherwise," Miles quietly agreed. This didn't answer the Dad vs. Daddy matter, though.
"Stupid Karlie laughed when I talked about my 'daddy,'" Trucy explained like she'd heard his thoughts. "It turned into this whole joke about how I dress, and my magic, and calling him that... and I guess I wondered if they were right. I wanted to see how it felt to sound a little more grown up." She bit her lip. "Did I? Sound more grown up?"
"I... yes," Miles admitted. Perhaps he should be reinforcing the girl's individuality above all else, but she did sound more mature with 'Dad' over 'Daddy,' and she'd asked. "Do you really care what 'stupid Karlie' thinks, though?"
"Not really. No." Trucy blew upward, sending her flip of hair flying. "But I did start wondering if maybe I should stop calling him that just... 'cause. You have to stop acting like a kid some time, right?"
He didn't know what answer to give her. He'd missed most of his childhood, and any affectations of youth had been forced out of him at an early age. For a long while Miles stayed silent and sought any response, any at all. "I'm not wearing a suit today," he settled on.
Trucy squinted at the strange response. "Did you bring another couple of wine bottles and not share them with anyone?"
Glowering, he continued, "I'm not wearing a suit because this day is quite informal. When I need to show myself professionally, I never step outside the house until I'm perfectly presented. But on the days that I don't, there's no reason not to wear something more comfortable." She still seemed uncertain, and he explained, "If it makes you feel better to publicly refer to your father as 'Dad,' for any reason, I see no reason not to. But that doesn't mean you need to behave the same in public and in private. If you want to call him 'Daddy' at home, do so." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully. "Besides, I have the sneaking suspicion that your father would be unhappy if you called him something else just to appease your classmates, even though he'd never mention it to you."
"Oh," Trucy said, and bit her thumbnail. "I didn't think that he might not like it. O... okay! Even if I do call him Dad at school, just so I don't have to deal with them being stupid, you're right. There's no reason I should change how I act toward the people who matter to me, yeah?"
Miles smiled. Whether she stuck to her individuality at all costs or picked her battles, the important thing was that she seemed confident about her decision and herself. He'd certainly missed out on the chance to make his own mistakes. "Good. Now: why was I your test subject?"
"Well. I wanted to sound grown up and you're the most grown up person I know. So, if I could convince you...." She shrugged and bit her lip again, though her mood was far brighter. "Sorry! Was that okay?" Miles nodded solemnly and she grinned with relief. "Okay, great! Thanks. Um... since we're talking about names, do you actually want me calling you Mr. Edgeworth, or would you like something else?"
"Miles is fine."
Trucy giggled. "Really? Not even Daddy calls you that."
"It's just force of habit between the two of us, really. Now: when you came to talk to me, you said that he had something he wanted me to do. What was it?"
Soon Miles was driving to the nearest open store, steeling himself to fight for whatever milk and eggs were left on the shelves. Phoenix Wright: master of never planning ahead. He shook his head ruefully as he pulled into a parking spot and began that unpleasant hunt inside the crowded building. I should have just brought another cake with me, he grumbled as he got into line at the single cashier working on Thanksgiving Day. Ah well; let Phoenix handle the friends and family side of things, and play doting father back at the apartment. Miles had never been good at anything like that. He could contribute to the festivities with his car, he supposed.
His phone buzzed in the parking lot and he checked the text once the bag was stowed. You really told Trucy to call you Miles? asked Phoenix.
The girl hugged me and attempted—futilely—to pull me into a victory dance this Tuesday. Mr. Edgeworth seems strangely formal.
Maybe I can just get her to call you Edgeworth. This is weird.
Miles smiled and didn't answer as he pulled back onto the road.
Phoenix's new attempt at a dessert was tolerable enough that Trucy gave up on sharing her cookies, and while Apollo's basting probably hadn't done much good, the turkey was perfectly acceptable. ("Tolerable" and "acceptable" might not be high praise, but given the circumstances, they were more than Miles had hoped for.) "Okay," Phoenix said as he started boxing up the remaining food and arranging it in his refrigerator. "Lessons learned for next year, right? Of course, next year we're not going to even have a turkey, so... forget that particular lesson."
"You're not going to have a turkey?" Miles asked as Apollo and Trucy prepared to split the wishbone.
"Athena left to go visit your prosecutor whose bird would have needed therapy if he saw a dead turkey on the table, remember. So we're going with a ham." After shooting his daughter a thumbs-up for her wishbone victory, Phoenix considered his words and frowned. "I think I just committed myself to hosting an even bigger dinner next year, didn't I?"
"I suppose you did." Miles returned a smile to answer the unasked question: yes, I would love to come. Phoenix smiled back and then, damnably, looked at Miles' sweater with that same peculiar expression as before. Oh, hell. Not this again. "Ah, if you'll excuse me," Miles said, backing away from the leftovers and holding up his hands. "I'd like to tidy up."
Phoenix looked at those hands before answering, and Miles was left wondering just what in the world was wrong now. "Oh. Right, sure!" Back to his old self in an instant, he nodded. "I'll handle the rest of this. Thanks."
Miles sighed at himself in the bathroom mirror as he scrubbed. Most of the visit had been perfect. Not from any bet standpoint; with it mostly won, he'd barely thought about points and scoresheets after their arrival. He was a man with very few friends, and only two people in the world who knew him deeply. It wasn't like having Phoenix and Franziska in the same place was unusual; Wright had worked with both of them on cases, after all. But never before had the two people closest to him been in such a warm, domestic, peaceful setting. It was enough to make him relax, and that was something he seldom managed.
But then Phoenix had given him those strange looks and Miles still didn't know what was wrong. If it were a normal workday, he'd write off Phoenix's peculiar expressions. Perhaps Miles' words reminded him of some ridiculous client, or perhaps he was frazzled with settling another childish argument at the office. He didn't know how to take this, though, with Phoenix veering back and forth into distraction for no reason.
After drying his hands, he slipped past the kitchen door and found a quiet corner to check his emails. The solitude didn't last long. "Hey."
Miles glanced at Phoenix, who to his relief was no longer giving him those looks. There was, however, something uncomfortably weighty about that syllable. Uncertain, he echoed the man's greeting and followed it with a brusque nod. Phoenix folded his arms across his chest, shot a sidelong glance at the people in his living room, and inclined his head toward the balcony where they'd talked before the Tuesday games. The same concern built as it had then, but Miles followed him out and stayed silent until the door slid closed. "Is something wrong?"
"I was going to ask you that."
"I don't understand," Miles said. Phoenix's peculiar reply had done nothing to soothe his nerves.
"Well, it's just... today. Since it's almost over." Phoenix gestured expansively at the sliver of street they could see from the balcony, and presumably the city beyond. "You know."
"No," Miles said carefully. What was Phoenix going on about? Had he noticed something Miles had tried to hide? "I don't know."
"It's Thanksgiving."
Wright could be maddeningly obtuse, sometimes. "Yes, I'm aware of the date," Miles said, verging on snappish. "The food gave it away."
"And after today," Phoenix continued like Miles hadn't sounded ready to storm off, "everyone's going to be in full Christmas mode."
Oh. Though that awareness had coiled low in Miles' mind, scraping its claws across his memories every time he flipped past a radio station that had decided to jump into carols on an obscenely early date, it had been easy to push it back into the shadows whenever it reared. Phoenix was right, though; come tomorrow, that control would be much harder to maintain.
"I just... it's been a while since we've been in the same place for December." Miles felt the ghost of a smile at Phoenix's words, though it faded as quickly as it rose. Phoenix had visited Europe on Miles' dime, yes, but never during the winter. He was so endearingly pathetic with cold weather. He called this a winter; Brandenburg or Brussels would break him. "And it's not the sort of thing I just wanted to bring up over the phone," Phoenix continued. "So. Uh. Is December any better than it used to be?"
Miles leaned on the balcony railing and sighed. "I thought so." Nightmares were rare, now, but there was always that anniversary week where every night was blood and fear and darkness. Still, one week—with isolated lapses in other months—was far better than his old, nightly routine. Seeing December on the calendar no longer made him sick, and Christmas decorations meant something beyond memories of Manfred calling him into his office for annual discussions of what he needed to do to make up for what had happened.
"But...?" Phoenix prompted when he stayed silent.
"It is better," Miles answered after some thought. "It really is. You have no idea what this time of year used to be like for me. But I may have overestimated my recovery."
"Oh?"
"They asked me to put together a Christmas party for the department." Miles grimaced. "Gavin spearheaded it; the man never passes up a chance to socialize. He said I'd barely need to do anything, it would all be my assistant, and he could even offer suggestions for the venue to book. All I'd need to do would be to sign off on the proceedings and...." He heaved a sigh. "And give a boilerplate speech to everyone about how wonderful the holidays are and how they bring the office together and I honestly have no idea how he finished. My mind locked up and I said absolutely anything I could think of to turn him down. Limited resources or wasted time or something." Phoenix didn't reply immediately, and Miles looked over to him, resigned. "So: I'm better than I was, but not as strong as I hoped."
"That's not about being strong, Edgeworth. Don't worry about that. You're probably the strongest person I've ever met."
Miles drew back, genuinely startled.
At his surprise, Phoenix continued, "You were tortured for fifteen years and you're still alive. You're feeling bad about not wanting to throw one Christmas party while most people wouldn't even be standing here, you know?"
"I almost wasn't." Phoenix had nothing to say to that. Miles knew he preferred to view the year's disappearance as nothing more than a cruel ruse, presented in the most hurtful way possible to steer Phoenix clear of any attempts to find Miles and bring him home. The truth was unthinkable, and so Phoenix simply avoided thinking about how the letter had been written in literal terms and only moved into the metaphorical after one last, fortunate round of self-reflection.
Shaking his head, Miles leaned on the railing again and looked at the featureless side of a building rather than Phoenix's pained expression. "I suppose I can say that... I am no longer a walking wound. But when wounds heal, there's still a scar. I'm left waiting to see if it fades." Silence greeted that answer and he risked glancing over again. Phoenix looked serious, and his eyes were dark and thoughtful.
"I hadn't put it in those terms before," Phoenix slowly said, "but yeah. I guess some things leave scars." He joined Miles in leaning on the railing and staring at the building beyond. "Scars can be pretty ugly, sometime. It's nice to have people who know about yours and don't care."
Right: Miles wasn't the only one who'd gone through pain in his life, not by a long shot. Seven years might not equal fifteen on the calendar, but at some point the sheer length stopped mattering. And, for all that his father's death had broken him, at least Miles had never stumbled across the cooling corpse of a dear friend. Scars were all ugly in their own way. "You didn't invite Maya," Miles pointed out, his cheeks warm. If there was one other person Phoenix might mean with that description, and thus one suitable distraction from these entirely inconvenient emotions, it was Maya Fey.
Phoenix blinked in confusion and tried to swerve topics to keep up. "Maya? Oh, Maya!" He grinned. The weighty mood on the balcony changed as surely as if a storm front had passed. "Of course I invited her! She and Pearls were going to get a ride from someone else driving in to the city, but a snowstorm hit the mountains last weekend. They're still digging out and the roads aren't safe."
"And they couldn't take the train, instead?"
"Didn't get tickets in time," Phoenix said regretfully. "Everything's busy around Thanksgiving, even the train to Kurain. She promised to swing by the next time she gets a break in training. She wants to see you, you know. You'd better say yes; I get the feeling she won't even consider taking no for an answer."
What safe territory this was, and what a relief. "I would be glad to," Miles said, a little too sincerely.
Phoenix picked up on that emphasis and shot him an amused look. "You're actually missing your old friends, huh? I didn't think you still cared."
"Oh?" Miles asked mildly. "And why would you think that?"
With a smug grin, Phoenix said, "So, Edgeworth, tell me what Detective Gumshoe is up to these days."
"Didn't you invite him for dinner?" Miles replied, his tone still even. "Or have you lost his contact information over the years? He and Maggey are down in Orange County." At Phoenix's surprise, he continued, "They're working for a private security company owned by another couple. They seem to get along quite well. Their children are all friends. Even if you had invited them, I doubt they would have come, to be honest. They have their own family traditions, I'm sure." Phoenix gawked and Miles chuckled softly. "They send me a Christmas letter every year, Wright. One of the less objectionable parts of the holiday season."
"Gumshoe has kids?"
"Two boys." Miles' smile spread. "With college funds established on their first birthdays, so that they might grow up to be better informed than their father."
Eyes ready to pop out, Phoenix demanded, "Wait, wait. You'd cut Gumshoe's salary if the guy sneezed, but you're going to pay for his kids to go to college?"
"No, I simply established the funds with some seed money. They'll be responsible for putting in more over the years." That answer still left Phoenix gawking, and so Miles patiently explained, "I'm no longer his supervisor, simply a man who—with some distance between us—saw that he did in fact do a lot for me. Even if he was very, very bad at it."
"But this is your own money," Phoenix said, scratching his head. "You'd take away money the department was paying him, but you'll write him a personal check?"
"Exactly." At Phoenix's bewilderment, Miles asked, "Where does my money come from, Wright? Certainly not from my father, insurance payment aside; he was as idealistic and... charitable with his work as you are."
"So, from... von Karma?" Phoenix asked warily.
A nod. "He didn't leave a will; up until the day he was executed, he probably thought they wouldn't dare to actually kill him. As someone with a permanent European base, Franziska was granted the physical assets: home, cars, artwork, and such. They gave me the liquid assets: investments and most of his bank accounts, less those needed to pay the outstanding taxes." The thought of that much money clearly left Phoenix dizzy, but there was more. "And beyond that, did you know that once you reach a salary tier with this city, they cannot reduce your pay level during even non-continuous employment periods?"
"I. That's. You. Do I even want to know how much you make?" Phoenix's question sounded positively pained.
"No. Because I rocketed through those salary tiers as von Karma's protégé, giving Los Angeles the politically pleasing appearance of safety by disregarding all innocence. The city made me rich as a reward for acting like him, and his death made me even richer. I have more money than I know what to do with, all thanks to the man who ruined my life." Miles found himself smiling again. "And one of my favorite things to do is to spend it on things I know that he would absolutely hate."
Phoenix barked a laugh. "Like founding a scholarship fund for Dick Gumshoe?"
"Exactly." The words echoed and Miles repeated thoughtfully, "Founding a scholarship fund?" Two bank accounts for the Gumshoe boys hardly counted as such, but he liked the sound of what Phoenix had said. He'd taught at universities and he'd seen the young minds that needed to be cultivated. How many more potential Wrights or Feys were out there? "Now that you put it that way, how does this sound: the Manfred von Karma Scholarship... for Defense Attorneys."
"Oh my god," Phoenix wheezed. If the railing weren't there to support him, he'd likely double over even further. "You are going to get haunted, you know that?" He allowed himself another good, long laugh, during which even Miles chuckled. But by the end, his head was shaking. "You can't, Edgeworth, you can't."
"Oh, why not?" Miles asked. "Really, I don't have enough to spend it on. That's why I paid for the pizza; I hope you didn't mind."
A tiny bit of tension in Phoenix's shoulders eased. Before it left, Miles hadn't known it was there. "That makes sense. I didn't want you thinking that I couldn't even pay for that much, now; I do have my old job back. But if it was to stick it to ol' Manny, well...."
"I'll let you pay for next week's dinner."
It had been the right thing to say. Phoenix straightened, delighted, and asked, "You're coming next time, too?"
"You did imply that this would be a weekly event. It'd be a shame to split up a winning team."
"That's...." Beaming, Phoenix said, "I didn't want to ask because it was such a pain to get you for even one night, but if you're seriously offering? Yes. Yes, absolutely, Trucy is going to be so happy. But you still can't name the scholarship after von Karma, no matter how much he'd hate it."
"Hmph." Miles folded his arms. "Why not?"
"Because you don't want to have would-be lawyers applying for a scholarship that even remotely implies they should be honoring and imitating Manfred von Karma, Edgeworth." Ugh, he's right. That would be the last thing the world needs. Phoenix nodded at Miles' sour reaction, and continued meaningfully, "But if you want to spit on von Karma's memory with his own money, and give the next generation someone that they should really look up to...."
"The Gregory Edgeworth Legal Scholarship," Miles finished softly. "For students seeking education centered upon social justice and the ethical practice of law. It's perfect."
"You are going to get seriously haunted."
"Well," Miles said in airy tones, "I suppose it's a good thing that the Master of Kurain is looking forward to meeting with me, then."
Phoenix bumped his shoulder against Miles' arm. When had they gotten so close? "You're still not sounding like someone who wants to explain away the magatama, you know." When Miles was unable to say anything in his defense, Phoenix bumped their shoulders again. It was rapidly becoming time to return to the apartment and put some space between them. The night was chilly, and yet Miles' thin sweater felt positively stifling. "Your office is closed tomorrow, right? Let's figure out what we'll need to do to set up the legal trust for the scholarship fund. We can spend all day doing paperwork, because I know you like that, you big dork."
"I would like to move forward with it," Miles agreed, "but you don't need to put yourself out on my account, Wright. If you need to go Christmas shopping, or...."
Phoenix waved him off. "I'll give Trucy some money, but I'll just shop online. ...Or wait until Christmas Eve and buy everything in a panic, more likely. Tomorrow is officially Christmas season and I want you thinking about something that makes you happy. New memories. New associations. Scars fading. Okay?"
"Thank you," Miles said with faint wonder. "You're... very good to me. You always have been, far more than I deserve."
"Nah, don't mention it. We're partners, right?" Miles blushed at the memory of his unfortunate wording to Gavin, and Phoenix blinked. "That's so weird. I just halfway saw your locks again, even though I don't have it on me. And one... shook. One day you have got to tell me what you're hiding, because you sure have me curious."
"Oh... oh?" Miles asked nervously. This was unfair; since when could Wright see lies even when he wasn't carrying the damned thing? "I didn't think it worked that way. Remotely, I mean."
"It usually doesn't." Phoenix scratched his head. "It's only happened once, when the magatama wanted me to find it. This one time someone stole it and... never mind. So which is it?" he asked with a grin. "Did you actually steal it, or does the magatama just really want me to grab it from my dresser?"
"I most certainly did not steal any of your possessions and I'm quite certain that I don't know what a rock 'wants' you to do."
"You sure?" Phoenix asked teasingly. "It's only two locks left, right? Why not just tell me?"
"You told me that the secret was mine to keep and I expect you to hold to that promise, Wright," Miles snapped, harder than he meant to. As the connection between them splintered, he sighed and looked away. "I apologize."
Thankfully, Phoenix didn't just leave, though Miles wouldn't have blamed him if he had. "No. No, I'm sorry. You're right; I told you I'd leave well enough alone and I didn't."
Miles managed to smile. "You never did know when to quit. Looking at that behavior in total, I must say that I'm indebted to your thick-headedness."
"Stop," Phoenix drawled. "You'll make me blush."
Wanting to make sure that Phoenix had truly accepted his apology, Miles fought back his discomfort and very deliberately met Phoenix's eyes. They stood like that for a good five seconds, maybe ten, studying the other man in the evening darkness. Though he tried to do nothing more than impart his sincerity, Miles couldn't help but appraise Phoenix's face and marvel on how it had changed since their first meeting. He bit his lip, just for a second before he got himself back under control, and was startled to see Phoenix's face darken like he'd joked about. I've made things uncomfortable, Miles thought, and took a deliberate step back before he ruined everything. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Wright, but I should be getting Franziska back to the hotel. Between the food, drink, and her jetlag I don't know how much longer she'll last."
"Right," Phoenix said as he fiddled with a loose piece of hair. "Good plan. I'll see you tomorrow." Then he looked at Miles' sweater again, just to rub the awkwardness in one last time.
"Come on, Franziska," Miles said as he roused her. Her excitement over the television had crashed abruptly into a nap. "You can listen to the game on the way home." She let herself be guided, yawning, and the duo soon reached his car in the lot. I'm glad that I needed to keep a clear head, Miles thought as he slid into the driver's seat. Two glasses of wine over several hours was like drinking water; if he'd been free to indulge, he might have said something truly foolish, and he'd already come dangerously close a few times. If tomorrow was going to be anything like today, they needed to return to the hotel quickly so that he had the maximum possible time to relax, rejuvenate, and focus.
As Franziska began to quietly snore in the seat next to him, Miles pulled out onto the road, careful to take the driveway dip slowly. He gave the same care to stopping at lights. And, most of all, he resolved to wear a damned suit tomorrow.