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Chapter Text

“There will be a visitor later this evening,” von Karma says over breakfast. “A real estate lawyer. He will live in the manor for a while and take care of some paperwork for me, and then you will kill him.”

He is, of course, not talking to Miles, but to Franziska. Von Karma would never do him that kind of courtesy. Franziska is just four weeks shy of turning eighteen years old, and for old family bloodlines like the von Karmas, a first kill matters. It is a ritual to be carefully orchestrated, relished, celebrated with pride and dignity – a true coming of age.

In contrast, a week before Miles' eighteenth birthday, von Karma ordered all of the servants to stop letting him feed on them, then waited seven days until he was weak and delirious with hunger, and locked him in one of the basement cells with a frightened woman whom Miles had never seen before. There was not much left to see when he was done with her, either.

“Like an animal,” von Karma had observed with disgust and mild amusement, enjoying the show from behind the cell's silver-coated bars.

“Of course, papa,” Franziska says now, briefly looking up from her governess' wrist to flash her father an elegant yet excited smile, canines glistening. As a von Karma, she has never been human; questions about the morality of killing are trivial to her.

As they should be to Miles, of course. For all intents and purposes, he has never been human, either.

“It might raise suspicion in the village if one of your guests suddenly disappears,” he carefully remarks, already done with his meal. He rarely drinks much, out of politeness: unlike Sister Bikini to Franziska, Iris is not in any way Miles' subordinate, only von Karma's. She never complains, of course – then again, like all members of the household, she doesn't have much room to.

Von Karma waves his concerns away without even looking at him. “Who do you take me for? Of course I made a careful selection. He's an orphan, and a Californian. His grandparents were immigrants. A mediocre lawyer, at best, just good enough for the menial tasks I need him to perform. Nobody will mourn his passing.” He smiles at his daughter in encouragement, a genuine, alien twist of the mouth. “I daresay the world may even be better off without him.”

There is really nothing Miles can say to that. The von Karmas have survived in the shadows for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Only very few humans know anything about them beyond the fact that they exist; one of them had been Gregory Edgeworth, and that mistake had been swiftly and efficiently rectified. Of course Manfred von Karma would never act recklessly.

Miles spares a pitying thought for the poor lawyer, and does his best to forget about the affair.

Forgetting about the affair, of course, proves difficult when Miles runs into their guest the very next evening, just after waking up from his daily unrest in the crypt.

Quite literally runs into him, that is. Miles rounds a corner on the second floor and there he is, startling at Miles' sudden presence, the stack of paper in his arms fluttering to the ground. His eyes are round and guileless like a deer's, his face still somewhat soft with youth although he must be Miles' age; his mouth is slightly open with surprise, lips full and rosy. Immediately, Miles can see why von Karma picked him – everything about him screams prey.

“Apologies,” Miles says, crouching down both to pick up the papers and to have an excuse to not look at him.

Unfortunately, the man scrambles to help him, getting right back into Miles' field of vision. “Oh no, it's alright. Really, it was my fault for getting lost in the first place – so big, this manor, not at all what I'm used to – excuse me, have we met before?”

Miles pauses, gathering the papers to his chest. The man's eyes are still round and guileless on him, with nothing but gentle curiosity. For a moment, he irrationally wishes they had met before, just so he could watch them light up with recognition, familiarity – but that's impossible. Miles may have forgotten everything from before he was turned, but he was still a child then; the rest of his memories are starkly and depressingly intact.

“I'm afraid not,” he says, rising.

The lawyer rises as well. “Funny. I could have sworn – but that doesn't matter. I don't believe we were introduced yesterday, were we? I'm Phoenix Wright, attorney at Grossberg Law Offices. Not that I expect you to know who – I mean, it's just a small firm over in LA – well, anyway, a pleasure to meet you.”

He holds out a hand. Instead of shaking it, Miles hands him his lost papers.

“Miles Edgeworth,” he says nonetheless, because he may be a monster but he isn't a monster. “I'm a busy man, so don't expect to see me around much.”

To his surprise, Wright laughs, joyful like a ringing bell on a pet's collar. “Not one for false pleasantries, are you? That's fine with me, Mr. Edgeworth. I'll look forward to running into you by chance, should it happen again. Although, now that I think about it, uh …”

He peers around the corridor. Miles sighs inwardly. “You have no idea where you are, do you?”

Wright's face falls. “Pretty much, yeah. Mr. von Karma had me working really late into the night yesterday, and I slept in so long that I barely had any time to get familiar with the place. I thought I'd get some work done before sunset, but … guess it's going to be another long night for me. Anyway, could you show me to the library? There's supposed to be some files there he wants me to look at.”

Miles raises his eyebrows. “It's right the way you came from. Don't tell me you managed to miss it. You're a lawyer, aren't you? Are you this unobservant when you stand in court, too?”

Again, inexplicably, Wright laughs. “Wow, you really don't mince your words. Guess I deserve that one. Thanks for the help, Mr. Edgeworth.” He turns on his heel.

“I am headed to the library, as well,” Miles says. “Walk with me, or you might miss it again.”

He's not sure why he says it, considering that he is not, in fact, headed to the library. Before he can question his own intentions, Wright turns back to him, smile blinding.

“Oh, really? And here I thought my luck was going to be bad today.”

Miles pushes aside his second thoughts and starts walking.

Alright, so the lawyer is cute. This means nothing. All manners of animals are cute and it does not stop them from ending up on a dinner plate; children are cute and it does not protect them from ending up in the care of people who treat them with cruelty. There is no contradiction. Miles will enjoy looking at the man for four weeks, and then Franziska will kill him.

However, it seems like Phoenix Wright is intent on making this as complicated for Miles as possible.

“So, funny story,” he says on his third evening at the manor, running into Miles in a similar fashion as the day before. It is not difficult to guess as to what this funny story is.

“You got lost again,” Miles observes.

Wright winces. “Uh. That obvious?”

It becomes ridiculous by day five, which is when Miles decides to take matters into his own hands. If the man must die, at least he will die with a little bit of dignity intact.

“Since apparently, everyone else has been neglecting their duties,” he announces, “I'm taking you on a tour of the manor.”

“Really?” Wright says, face lighting up. “I mean – it's already so late in the evening. Aren't we going to disturb people by walking around?”

“That's quite alright,” Miles says. “If anything, seeing as everyone is already asleep, we'll disturb fewer people than we would during the day.”

The logic doesn't quite hold up, especially given that not everyone is, in fact, already asleep. But von Karma has done a good enough job messing with their guest's time perception that Wright doesn't argue.

So Miles shows him around, opening doors and getting ready to explain what the different chambers, studies, lounges and parlors are used for. He thinks of dropping some names of illustrious people who have frequented these halls, perhaps mentioning some of the important decisions that have been made in this place. The manor's rich history has been drilled into Miles since the day he woke up here, effectively reborn; he might get some interesting tales out of it for their guest.

However, he doesn't make it very far in his elaborations. It seems that he was unaware of one crucial detail: Wright, as a person, is completely irreverent.

“Wow, that's the ugliest couch I've ever seen,” he says in the first room, before Miles can even utter five words. “Hm, I'm pretty sure that painting is upside-down,” in the next room. “Pretty bold choice of tapestry there, and by bold, I mean terrible.” “You call that a rug? I call it a crime.” “Jesus, how much bigger can a chandelier get? Who even has that many candles? Someone is compensating, that's for sure.” And finally: “Oh God, is that a garden gnome? Why would someone put a garden gnome in the middle of a parlor?”

Miles bites his lip, trying very hard and failing about equally as hard to not be completely charmed. “That is a miniature likeness of your generous and most esteemed host Mr. von Karma, actually.”

Wright narrows his eyes and walks up to the statue to examine it more closely. “Oh. Okay, now that you say it, I see the resemblance.” He looks over his shoulder at Miles with a sheepish smile. “Uh. Don't tell him I said that, okay?”

Miles swallows. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska accuses, cornering him in his study. “It is bad form to play with someone else's food.”

Miles has been expecting this. As intimately as he knows that von Karma will never see him as anything even remotely comparable to his daughter, Franziska never really got the memo, and she's very territorial.

“I am not playing with anything,” he says. “I am being polite to a guest.”

And he is, technically. He is also ogling a guest, and having some very vivid fantasies about a guest. Not that Franziska needs to know that.

“He is not a guest,” Franziska snarls. “He is an employee, and a fool. It is beneath you to associate with him, not to mention a waste of time.”

He doesn't expect her to understand. She is full of contempt for everyone around her even on the best days; he loves her anyway. Franziska is the principal reason Miles has not yet attempted to escape the manor – the other ones being that he would not know how to feed himself without the servants, and would be hunted down by von Karma within days anyway. That's not to say that he has never entertained the fantasy. Then again, the chances of eventually being discovered by a vampire hunting clan such as the Feys or the Gavins are enough to dissuade the imagination. He would wish for a better end than a stake through his heart or a poisonous needle in his neck.

Either way, the point is moot: he does not want to abandon Franziska. She puts up an impressive facade, but Miles can tell how terrified she is of her father. He can't leave her alone with this kind of fear, even if he can't help her, either.

“Franziska,” he says, conciliatory. “I know you do not consider basic courtesy very important, but I do. Let me waste my time as I see fit. I won't neglect you, I promise.”

She glares at him. “You dare insinuate that I could be jealous over this – this fool of a lawyer?”

Since she clearly is, Miles chooses not to answer that. “I won't monopolize his time, either. You'll have enough opportunity to familiarize yourself with your, ah. Your food.”

“As is my right, as a true von Karma,” she nods. “You are dismissed.”

“This is my study,” Miles points out.

She glares at him once more, then huffs and strides out of the room.

There’s a definite possibility, of course, that Miles simply needs to get laid. He used to have a sort of – informal agreement with their chief of security, but then Gumshoe went and got himself married just last month, and Miles is neither interested in making him a disloyal husband nor in humiliating his wife. Maybe the groundskeeper will be open to advances – Lang usually works shirtless, which Miles enjoys to look at, and he has caught him looking back more than once.

It goes without saying that he cannot touch Wright. A vampire’s body is not cold, strictly speaking, but neither is it warm – it’s usually of ambient temperature, slightly cooler right after waking up and slightly warmer right after drinking blood. Any human being would notice immediately; it’s a gamble for Miles to lay even a hand on Wright’s elbow through two layers of clothing.

That being said, it's a gamble he takes often. They are now regularly going on evening walks around the manor and the estate together, and every time Miles points something out, his hand brushes Wright's arm almost automatically.

“There is a secret passage right here,” he explains one day when they're down in the garden, “behind the rose bushes. If you were to take it, you'd end up quite close to the guest rooms, actually.”

Wright grins, excited. “Wow, that's so cool. The manor must be full of secrets like that.”

“It is,” Miles confirms. “There are secret passages to the kitchens, different parts of the garden, all the way down to the basement. While I was growing up, I spent a long time trying to discover all of them. Finding a new one truly felt like a great accomplishment every time.”

He isn't quite certain why he's divulging this kind of personal information about himself. Wright hasn't asked him about it, and it's not like their guest has been particularly forthcoming about his own childhood. Still, it feels right to share this with him now, this joyful little memory of which Miles has so few.

Wright's face softens. Miles remembers suddenly that their guest is also an orphan: he more than anyone must understand the significance of good childhood memories. “So you've lived here since you were young?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

He looks out over the rose bushes, their usually vibrant colors washed out in the soft lamplight. “Sounds a little lonely.”

“It – was, sometimes,” Miles admits. “For the most part, I did not mind.”

That's a blatant lie, but he is not about to spill his guts to this man he's known for not even two weeks and who will only be alive for another two.

Wright turns to him and smiles. “Well, at any rate, you have a friend in me now. Careful though, I'm pretty hard to get rid of.”

Miles feels his own mouth soften. “I can live with that.”

Iris catches him in the hallway right before breakfast.

“I wondered if you might … drink from someone else this supper,” she says, twisting her hands and averting her eyes as she usually does. “I already asked Sister Bikini, she says it would be alright with her, since you never need much anyway.”

It's not the first time she's making this request, and it wouldn't be the first time Miles grants it. Iris doesn't have the strongest constitution, and even the little blood she loses to Miles often has her lying down and resting for an hour or two. It's one of the reasons she was assigned to him in the first place – Franziska's drinking habits might accidentally kill her. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her wanting to take care of herself once in a while.

Still, Miles can't help but ask. “What's the occasion?”

Iris blushes a bright red. Another reason she was assigned to Miles: her blood is always close to the surface. There's never a need to bite very hard.

“Well, it's just, you know how I'm always exhausted after supper, and I don't usually mind much, but … Mr. Wright, the lawyer.” She looks up at Miles, eyelashes fluttering. “He asked to take me on a morning walk tomorrow.”

Generally speaking, vampires are of ambient temperature; in this moment, Miles could swear he feels cold. “I see. How very kind of him.”

“Isn't he?” Iris agrees, bursting with excitement, bright and alive. Next to Wright, they'd look like the perfect little couple. “And such a handsome man, as well! Oh, I can hardly wait, Mr. Edgeworth!”

Miles inclines his head, teeth itching. “Then I hope the time you'll spend together will be worth the wait.”

For evening's breakfast, he drinks what little he always does.

For midnight's lunch a few hours later, he drinks until Iris passes out.

It takes her the whole morning and until late afternoon to recover, or so Miles hears later from a worried Phoenix Wright.

“I was going to take her on a walk and all, but no,” he sighs. “She just had to get sick at the last moment. I guess it wasn't meant to be, was it?”

He eyes Miles like he expects an actual answer from him. “I don't believe in destiny.”

That's enough to make him smile fondly. He must not be that heartbroken over Iris after all. “Not a romantic, are you? Watch out, Edgeworth, I might yet change your mind.”

“About destiny?” Miles snorts. “I doubt it. I prefer taking matters into my own hands.”

“Oh, I'm with you on that,” Wright agrees cheerfully, the topic of Iris safely forgotten. Miles can't bring himself to feel too bad about it.

“I have to say,” Lang says, stretching languidly on the garden shed's narrow bed, “I'm not sure about the whole vampire thing, but there is something comforting in sleeping with a man so obviously in love with someone else.”

Miles makes a face and tries to figure out where his cravat has ended up. “I'm not even going to begin unpacking any of that.”

“Maybe you should. Lang Zi says: A wolf remains a wolf no matter how many times you call him a dog.”

“I'm not going to unpack that, either.”

“You're no fun, Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang sighs. He fishes around underneath the bed for a bit, then tosses Miles the cravat.

Earlier tonight, Miles went for another walk with Wright. He counted a total of eight times where he managed to make the man laugh, or smile very widely, so demonstrably yes, Miles can be 'fun'.

The realization catches up with him just a second later.

“Oh Christ,” he groans. No way around it: he is in love. Lang must see the epiphany on his face, given how loudly he laughs him out of the shed.

Miles decides to take the long route through the garden to clear his head. To nobody's surprise, he ends up underneath Wright's guest room window. It's nearly four in the morning, and the man is no doubt sleeping soundly, so Miles can try to deal with his little crisis in peace.

The chances that anything will come of this are – slim, to say the least. Miles has never been in this situation before: the important people in his life have always been aware of what he is. He never had to tell Franziska or Iris or Gumshoe or Sister Bikini about his nature. Even with Lang, a concise heads up to not worry about the difference in body temperature and to please take off any silver jewelry was enough. He wouldn't even know how to begin explaining to Wright just what he is, not without risking the man recoiling in unbridled horror. But it's not exactly the kind of secret he can keep from a lover.

It's not the kind of secret he wants to keep from a lover, either. Miles rarely admits it to himself, but he longs to be known down to his bones, to be desired for who he is. He longs for someone to see him, and want him, and keep him. He longs for it to be Phoenix Wright, apparently.

In a way, it might be worth it. The man will die in less than two weeks, anyway; if Miles were brave, he could just tell him, and damn the consequences.

Unfortunate, then, that he has always been a bit of a coward.

He tries, a few times, to hint at the truth, in the hopes that Wright may figure it out himself. Never more than half-heartedly.

“Have you ever felt,” he says during one of their evening strolls, “that sometimes, things aren't quite as they seem?”

Wright looks at him curiously. It feels precious, the way he's always willing to listen to Miles' thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Someone might pretend to be one thing, and later turn out to be another.”

“Hm,” Wright says. “Not particularly? Sure, people can be duplicitous, but – well, in my experience, they usually only are because they have a good reason to be. Nobody lies just for fun.”

He says it so earnestly, Miles has to smile even as it makes him feel terribly guilty. “I envy your faith in humanity.”

“Come on, don't make fun of me,” Wright complains, smiling back. “You're just being pessimistic. Humans aren't fundamentally bad.”

In this, Wright is correct – humans aren't fundamentally bad. That's rather the entire problem.

As the days pass, Miles grows more and more nervous.

For one, his feelings for Wright do not lessen. What's worse, he's starting to suspect they may be reciprocated. He does not miss the fond looks, the casual touches, the way Wright seeks out his company under pretexts that grow flimsier by the day. He also does not miss the lingering eyes, the flirtatious smiles, the way Wright's hands run through his own hair or flutter to the side of his neck. He isn't certain what Wright is waiting for, given that Miles himself must not be particularly subtle; the man hasn't made any kind of move so far. Of course, he may just be shy, although that seems unlikely given his irreverence. Miles finds that there is much more to Wright than first meets the eye. It's captivating. It makes Miles want to spend even more time with him, which is very much part of the problem.

Because Miles hasn't made any kind of move so far, either. And the more he considers it, the clearer it becomes that he shouldn't.

Nevermind explaining the vampires, or the first kill ritual. None of that matters, in the end. Perhaps there would be a chance - if he could convince Franziska to ask her father for another victim, if he could somehow hide Wright away in the manor, keep him for himself. Unless he finds a way to make that happen, the point is moot. The simple truth is that Wright is going to die, and therefore Miles should tell him to leave the estate immediately, and never come back. If Miles truly is in love, he should do everything he could to protect him from harm. Even if that means letting him go. It's what any moral man would do.

But then, Miles isn't a moral man. He isn't a man at all.

He finds Franziska in the garden, amongst the rose bushes. One of the family dogs is curled at her feet. Even though Miles knows she physically can't, she looks like she's been crying.

“Franziska,” he says, crisp and clear, in order to alert her of his presence and give her a chance to gather herself, should she wish to do so.

Ostensibly, she doesn't. Her face is crumpled when she looks up at him. “I – I can't do it.” She gestures at the dog, whose ears are twitching peacefully. “I tried to practice, but I just – nobody told me they would be so warm.”

Miles' heart has been dead in his chest for fifteen years; it breaks all the same.

“It's normal to have doubts,” he tries to soothe her. “It's a big step for you, and – ”

“I keep thinking of Sister Bikini,” she interrupts him. “She used to hold me all the time when I was a child – even now, she still embraces me almost every morning before bed, when papa's back is turned. She's always so warm, too. How – just how could I possibly – ”

“You don't know the lawyer,” Miles points out. “This won't be an issue. He is not Sister Bikini; you don't like him.”

“That doesn't mean I'll be able to kill him!” she yells, desperately. “You don't understand, Miles Edgeworth! I cannot fail in this. Papa would never forgive me if I do.”

It seems, then, that Miles has drastically underestimated her ability for compassion. He's been – distracted, lately; only now does he see how much her approaching ritual has been eating at her. It's wearing her out, crushing her under the weight of her own legacy.

And there is an opportunity here, one that Miles will readily admit is not entirely unselfish. It would be the perfect solution for everyone involved, in a way. Everyone except for von Karma, that is. All Miles needs to do is convince the sobbing girl in front of him.

He swallows, hard.

“Would that really be so bad?”

She recoils from him, startled. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying that in a mere four days, you will be of age, capable of making your own decisions. You need not kill if you do not want to. You need not live in your father's shadow for the rest of your life. You – you could leave. Create your own family legacy, abide by your own rules.” He pauses. “If you did, I would come with you. I am certain Sister Bikini would, as well. Just consider the possibility,” he hurries to add. “That's all I'm asking. You – you can make a choice, Franziska.”

And maybe he himself needs to hear this, as well.

She's staring at him, processing his words. He is about to leave her to it, but an aborted hand gesture from her stops him.

“What is it?”

“How – ” She clears her throat. “How was it for you? Your own ritual. Papa wouldn't let me watch, and none of the servants have ever said a word about it.”

Miles thinks of the woman, then. He still sees her face in his sleep more often than not, wide-eyed and frightened, glossy black hair falling heavily over her shoulders. He sees her lifeless corpse, too, completely drained of blood. He doesn't particularly remember the taste, or rather: it had tasted exactly as it usually did. If von Karma hadn't starved him beforehand, he might just as well have eaten a normal meal from one of the servants. Her death was completely pointless.

“It doesn't matter,” he says. “I'm certain yours will be much different.”

Franziska nods, composing herself. “Naturally. I am a true von Karma, after all.” And then, quietly: “I will think about what you said.”

She leaves Miles standing among the rose bushes, dog on her heels. A flurry of peacock moths is fluttering from one flower to another. Miles feels like some of them have found their way into his stomach.

Hope, he realizes. He's hopeful.

It's making him reckless, bold. He makes sure to drink his fill for breakfast, and again for lunch at one o'clock – not overdoing it, of course, Iris hasn't done anything wrong this time – just so that his body will be warm with it. He crosses the corridors in confident strides until he's in front of the guest rooms' door.

He knocks. It doesn't take long to open; Wright wasn't yet asleep, then.

“Edgeworth,” he says, pleasantly surprised. He may not have been sleeping, but he's already dressed down, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. “Didn't expect you. What can I do for you?”

Just like that, every smart word in Miles' throat dies a quick and painless death. He takes a step forward, cautiously puts his hands on Phoenix' face, and kisses him.

He braces for rejection, of course. It doesn't come. Instead, after barely a second of stunned immobility, Phoenix welcomes him with something like – abandon. He tilts his head, opens his mouth, grabs Miles' waist, his back, fingers digging into the waistcoat. Quickly, it gets too much, too overwhelming; Miles has to draw back even though he wants to keep going.

There's a smile on Phoenix' face, wider and more brilliant than Miles has ever seen before, almost manic in its intensity. Regrettably, it immediately tempers into something softer, more shy.

“Oh,” Phoenix murmurs. “We, uh, we really shouldn't – well, not out here, anyway – ”

He peers down the corridor. Miles gets the picture and walks them into the guest room, closing the door behind him.

Before today, he hesitated so much; in retrospect, he cannot for the life of him remember why. It's obvious now how much Phoenix wants this, wants him. He undresses, touches, gives himself over to Miles like he's done it a thousand times before, like there's not the slightest room for doubt in his feelings. Miles has no idea how he does it; he can only try to match him in this certainty.

“Miles, you're so good,” Phoenix gasps, and the first name sends a shiver down Miles' spine even as he knows the sentiment to be misplaced. He isn't good, he's a monster. Right now, he feels a little less like one.

He kisses down Phoenix' neck, follows the line of his blood.

“I love you,” Phoenix sobs.

Startled, Miles looks up at him.

His first impulse is to rationalize it away – a thoughtless phrase said in a moment of passion, nothing more. They haven't known each other for that long. Phoenix can't possibly mean it.

But then, what about Miles? He was drawn to Phoenix from the moment they met, and he's enjoyed every minute spent in his company. Phoenix is witty and clever and steadfast, and so kind to Miles, not to mention handsome, and endlessly fascinating. Miles honestly cannot imagine growing tired of him, not within a lifetime. He doesn't want Phoenix to be with anyone else, to look at anyone else; he'd lock him away just to stop him from leaving. If there is a chance for them to stay together, he wants to take it. He wants to see what will become of them. There really is only one word for that.

“I love you, too,” Miles says quietly.

Phoenix exhales, pushing his face into Miles' neck. Miles has never been this hopeful about the future. Maybe it'll all turn out well, in the end.

“Papa,” Franziska announces after breakfast, twenty-four hours before Phoenix Wright is scheduled to die. “I – I refuse to kill the lawyer.”

Her head is held high when she says it; she looks regal, radiant, even with nervousness permeating her posture. Miles holds his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sister Bikini and Iris tensing up.

“Of course,” von Karma says. “Now Franziska, if you could go with your governess? You still haven't chosen a dress for the ceremony.”

Immediately, Franziska falters. “What?”

“I understand perfectly. You do not want to kill the lawyer, as he is not a worthy first kill for you. I feared you would come to that conclusion, but it is not surprising. I have, of course, prepared an alternate selection; you may accompany me down to the basement cells after lunch. The lawyer I will kill myself. It is of no consequence.”

Franziska stares at her father, at a loss. “No – no, I mean – I am not going to kill anyone!”

“Yes, you are,” he says, dismissively. “You're having second thoughts now – that is not surprising, either. I raised you to be smart, after all. But I promise you, once the ritual has begun, you will have no trouble to follow the calling. It is in our family line, all of your ancestors have heeded it. It is part of who we are, of what makes you my daughter.”

“But – papa – ”

Von Karma silences her with a pointed look, his eyes cold and stony. “Franziska. Please, I understand your fears, but do not try my patience. There is still time for you to miss out on lunch and supper, and then you will be so hungry by tomorrow evening that you will not have a choice as to what happens.” He glances at Miles. “I'm sure Edgeworth can tell you all about what that feels like.”

Horrified, Franziska turns to look at him, too. “Is – is he referring to – ”

Miles knows that he should say something. He can't. His tongue feels as though it were made of silver, burning in his mouth. This is it, then: his hopes dashed even more swiftly than they had risen.

He looks away. That is answer enough for Franziska. She may not want to go through with it; she wants to go through starvation and pain even less. Perhaps with more time, her resolve would have strengthened enough, but it is too late to find out now.

She sags in her chair, lowers her eyes. “I see. I'm sorry for speaking out of turn, papa. I won't disappoint you.”

Von Karma smiles magnanimously, hideous and genuine. “I forgive you, my daughter. I know you will make me proud.”

“Let's just stay like this forever,” Phoenix tells him shortly before dawn on Franziska's birthday, and Miles can't delay it any longer.

“Phoenix, you must leave immediately,” he spits out, hating every word.

Phoenix looks up at him with confusion, curled in Miles' arms. “I – why would I do that? Why would I ever leave you?”

It's music to Miles' ears, but he has to resist. “Your life is in grave danger. It has been ever since you came here. Von Karma and Franziska – they are planning to kill you; they are going to kill you.”

“What? What are you talking about, what's going on?”

“I know I must sound like a madman to you, but please – ”

“Hey,” Phoenix cuts him off gently, like he's soothing a spooked horse. “Hey. Calm down. It's okay.”

“It's not,” Miles insists. “I'm begging you, you have to leave. Get as far away from this place as possible. If not for your sake, then for mine – I can't bear to let you die – ”

He breaks off, heaving with dry sobs. Phoenix untangles himself from his arms and rubs his back. He's silent for a long time.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay. I have no idea what brought this on, but – I'll do as you say. I trust you.”

Relief floods Miles; disappointment follows soon after. “Thank you.”

“I'm just going to – gather my things,” Phoenix says and disappears into the bathroom.

It's better this way, Miles reasons. This was never sustainable to begin with. From the very start, they were unbalanced: Miles wants, needs Phoenix much more than Phoenix wants or needs Miles. Miles has nobody, while Phoenix must be beloved by many. At least like this, he gets to live – gets a chance at a good, normal life. A human life, without any monsters. Without Miles.

God, how badly Miles wants to keep him, even now.

He finishes getting himself dressed just as Phoenix comes out of the bathroom. His face is set, determined as he walks over, sits next to Miles, and kisses him like his life depends on it; Miles kisses back the same way. Phoenix' tongue is in his mouth, warm and blood-filled. Briefly, Miles wonders why Phoenix never recoils in disgust at Miles' too-low temperature, why he never even mentions it, but the thought is chased away quickly. When it comes to Phoenix, Miles has never been in his right mind. They kiss until Miles' lips are numb with it.

He must be forgiven, then, that it takes him a moment to realize that they literally are.

“What,” he says, drawing back, and then stops.

Phoenix is looking at Miles with an expression he has never seen before. Fond, loving, familiar. Calm. Calculating.

“Good,” he says, “it's working.”

He kisses Miles' numb lips again, and only now does the faintly bitter aftertaste register.

“I'm sorry,” Phoenix says. “Miles, I love you. So much.”

Miles can't say anything back before blacking out.

Chapter Text

“And you're sure he'll buy the act?” Phoenix says, three months earlier, sitting across from Mia Fey in her secret tiny back room at Grossberg Law Offices.

Mia snorts. “Von Karma is an arrogant idiot who thinks he's better than us mortals and chronically underestimates us. He'll take one look at your backstory and puppy eyes – hook, line and sinker.”

It's borderline impossible to gather information on a vampire family as old as the von Karmas. Only someone with an unhealthy obsession and too much time on their hands would ever be able to find out enough about them to hatch a murder plot against the family's head. Luckily for Phoenix, Mia has both of those things.

“The more important question is,” she continues, “how's your law degree doing?”

Not an actual law degree, obviously. Only as much knowledge as he needs to comfortably pass for a real estate expert, and maybe redistribute some of von Karma's wealth without anyone noticing.

He shrugs, confident. “Pretty well, honestly. I'm a quick study, and whatever I don't know, I'll bluff my way through.”

Mia sighs; it's not her way of doing things at all, but she knows he's right. “Don't come crying to me if he finds you out.”

“I won't,” Phoenix promises. That's the deal, after all: he gets all of Mia's resources in preparation, but as soon as he steps over the manor's threshold, he's on his own. He'll communicate through Mia's little sister, and only in coded messages. No rescue missions either – Mia can't risk von Karma knowing that the Fey family is actively after him. The only moment she'll show up is when the stake is safely lodged in his heart.

Well – in von Karma's heart, and in Miles Edgeworth's. That's part of the deal, as well. Mia has a very strict policy of not killing underage vampires, so Franziska is off-limits (even though, Phoenix likes to remind Mia, it's her goddamn butchering ritual he'll be playing bait for). Every other vampire in that manor needs to die.

“One of them killed my mother,” Mia told him, bluntly. “I don't care that he was Gregory Edgeworth's son. I'm not going to risk a murderer getting away.”

Phoenix agreed to her terms, of course – not like he had much choice. Still, he made sure to keep a little bit of room to manoeuvre.

After all, Mia is confident that his act will work on von Karma. She's only forgetting that it works on her, too.

Phoenix was seven years old when one day, he padded into the living room late at night because he couldn't sleep and found both of his parents dead on the carpet.

There was a man standing over them, a dramatic red coat on his shoulders, protective goggles over his eyes, a long beard down his chest. When he spotted Phoenix, he leaned down to peer at him curiously. His mouth was messy with blood.

“Aw, what a tragedy,” he sniffled with what seemed like genuine sorrow. “Leaving a son behind. But I really can't drink any more. Let's see what you grow up into, hm?”

Phoenix wasn't exactly in a position to reply anything, then. He assumed he was dreaming, already asleep after all, and went back to bed.

The next morning, the living room was clean, the bedroom empty. It was as though his parents had simply disappeared – as though they had never existed.

Phoenix wasn't quite sure what to do with this situation; he eventually rang his neighbor's doorbell, who called social services. A very friendly lady came and helped him pack his things, and before he knew it, Phoenix was an orphan. It had gone pretty smoothly, all things considered.

The next two years, Phoenix spent not being wanted. He was cared for, yes, and everyone at the orphanage was just as friendly as the lady who brought him there, but it was obvious that he was a guest, to be pawned off to whichever family would have him. Only that none of them did. Maybe there was something wrong with him, the way other children kept getting picked and he didn't; he would have given anything to know. He tried so hard to change himself, too, be nicer, sweeter, more desirable. To no avail. Nothing worked to alter the fundamental truth of the matter: he just wasn't wanted, and he would have to accept that.

It all changed, of course, when he met Miles Edgeworth.

Miles wanted him. Miles stood up for him, looked at him, picked him, him, out of all of their other classmates. Not anyone else. It was the best six months of Phoenix' life, definitely since his parents' death, maybe ever, and he could tell that Miles felt the same way.

And then one day, Miles too disappeared – as though he had never existed. Phoenix stared at the empty seat in their classroom and thought of a mouth, messy with blood.

“Did you know that Pearly has a sister?” Maya Fey says, in the middle of coming up with their secret code together.

Phoenix looks up from his sheet of paper, still trying to puzzle out why Maya thinks he would need to communicate ideas such as 'the von Karmas have a cute family dog' or 'there's a really good burger place two towns over'. “I thought you were her sister?”

“I'm her cousin,” Maya groans. “Jeez, Nick, pay attention! You're never gonna survive a manor full of vampires like this!”

“Hey, no need to be so harsh.” Though she's not wrong, of course. He'll have to be on his guard at all times; fuck, just thinking about it is exhausting. All for Miles, he reminds himself. “What about her sister?”

“Um. They're two sisters, actually, twins, but one of them is super mean so we don't talk about her. The nice one is called Iris. Well, everyone says she's nice, I've never actually met her. She, uh – disappeared.”

Something about the way she says it reminds him of the way Miles disappeared. “But you think there's more to it?”

“Excuse you,” Maya says, angrily puffing out her cheeks. “I'm not the only one who thinks so. Mia agrees with me! She thinks – she thinks Aunt Morgan – or maybe Morgan's husband – doesn't matter – she thinks one of them, uh. Sold her.”

“That's illegal,” Phoenix says, stupidly.

“Duh! Not like, literally sold her. But like – they handed her over. For money. A lot of money.”

Phoenix doesn't know a lot of people with a lot of money who would be specifically interested in getting a human trophy from the Fey family. He knows exactly one, in fact. “To von Karma, you mean.”

Maya blinks at him. “How did you – ?!”

Nick winks at her. “I'm paying attention.”

“S-sure,” Maya says. “Yeah, Mia thinks so too. It's one of the reasons this mission is so important. You could figure out if she's there, tell her we're looking for her. And if you succeed, we – Pearly could have her sister back.” She looks a little wobbly, but hits the desk with renewed fervor before Phoenix can even try to offer comfort. “Anyway! Be nice to her when you meet her, okay!”

Phoenix smiles, hoping that it looks acquiescent enough without him having to make a promise he might not be able to keep. “Manfred von Karma has a daughter your age. Did you know that?”

“Oh, of course! Franziska.” Abruptly, Maya's entire demeanor changes; she melts into her seat, a dreamy expression on her face. “Mia made me do a ton of research on her. I'm the one who figured out when her birthday is, you know. She's so pretty! I didn't know girls could be so pretty! She looks a little evil, too, but I bet she's really nice deep down. She probably had no friends growing up. I could be her friend, though, and then she'll change her mind and stop being evil. You'll see.”

Phoenix doesn't particularly care what happens to Franziska von Karma – after all, should his plan not work somehow, she'll be the one to kill him for her coming-of-age ritual thing, which already puts a damper on any kind of hypothetical friendship. Still, he can't help but relate to the innocent hope on Maya's face. He probably looked like that, too, before he'd processed all the implications of what he was going to have to do for Miles. It would be hypocritical to discourage her.

“That's the spirit,” he says, going back to their code sheets.

Thanks to incessantly pestering his teachers for the rest of the school year, Phoenix was eventually told that Miles' dad had died, and he had been adopted by a certain Mr. von Karma.

The name sounded distinct enough that Phoenix thought he would have no trouble finding an address, but it soon proved to be impossible. He found some information on the von Karmas, all superficial stuff: a generational-wealth family who preferred to keep to themselves. He couldn't even figure out what part of the country they lived in.

He didn't give up, obviously. He tried writing 'Mr. von Karma, in a Very Big & Important Manor' on the envelope of his letter to Miles, hoping that the postal service had information he didn't and might be able to deliver the letter. It was sent back to the orphanage a few days later. He then tried writing a bunch of random addresses on different envelopes and sending them out all at once, just to see if one of them got close enough by chance to maybe be delivered by a next-door neighbor – again, they were all returned to sender. Maybe Mr. von Karma didn't like to receive letters; maybe he preferred phone calls. Phoenix snuck a phone book out of the orphanage's reception area and started calling up numbers that weren't in there. No call ever went through. At this point, any normal child would have thrown the towel.

But then, Phoenix already knew there was something wrong with him.

“Okay, so this is really neat,” Ema explains to him from behind comically large lab goggles. “When you look at it just as it is, it looks like a key, right?”

Phoenix eyes the object. “Uh, sorry, but that looks nothing like a key.”

Ema waves him away. “Details. Point is, it opens the lock I put on your suitcase, so you have a perfectly valid reason to keep it with you. But then, when you do this, and this and this and also this … ” She executes a series of small movements, pressing and twisting the 'key' this way and that. “Ta-da! Silver knife, baby.”

“Huh,” Phoenix has to admit. “That is actually really neat.”

“I figured von Karma probably won't let you bring any silver into his manor. Or a wooden stake, for that matter.” She tried to explain this one to him, that wooden stakes only work on vampires if they've been whittled with a silver knife. There's a scientific reason for it, supposedly. Something about silver burning a vampire's skin. Or maybe nobody's ever been insane enough to try using, say, a standard-issue pencil. Phoenix would, but he has a mission to fulfill here, so no unnecessary risks this time. “Got the idea for this baby from my girlfriend.”

“Is she a vampire hunter, as well?” Phoenix asks politely.

“Nah, she just steals things. Anyway, you need any more gadgets or potions, or just generally someone to complain to, let me know!”

Ema calls herself a scientist. Mia calls Ema a witch. Phoenix is not even going to attempt understanding paranormal politics.

“Thanks for the offer,” he says, grabbing the key and fleeing the lab-or-maybe-lair without looking back.

Since Miles' disappearance, Phoenix had felt wanted exactly one other time, and that was with Dahlia Hawthorne.

Turned out too good to be true, in the end.

That was the main thing running through Phoenix' head when she left him crying in front of the pharmacology building, after she'd emptied what little he had in his bank account and tried to poison him. Of course it was too good to be true. She'd said it herself – why would someone like her ever want someone like him? His own fault for believing her in the first place. For believing anyone other than Miles.

The message here couldn't have been clearer. Fuck the rest of them; won't cut it anyway. Miles, and nobody else.

Phoenix vowed, right there in front of that pharmacology building with its ugly brutalist architecture, that he'd always make Miles feel wanted.

He doubled down on his research on the elusive Mr. von Karma. Also on his research on vampires. No point in pretending like he ever got over the thing with his parents. Most of his time was spent on reading through boring archives, on browsing dubious websites, or on his acting classes, although he didn't need to work too hard for those since he was such a damn natural, apparently.

During the course of his research, he came across a blog run by a fedora weirdo called Raymond Shields. It was supposedly about vampire hunting. It had Gregory Edgeworth's name on it.

That was the entrance to the rabbit hole, right there. Three years later, Phoenix finally finds the exit.

He clutches the paper with Mia Fey's name in his hand, and rings the doorbell to Grossberg Law Offices. The rest unfolds from there.

“One dose will subdue them for about ten hours,” Kristoph says, handing over the dainty little vial, along with a much sturdier-looking injection needle. “Maybe a little longer if they have a habit of skipping meals. Atroquinine is effective on vampires, but it won't do the work for a sub-par hunter.”

As far as jabs at Phoenix' abilities go, this one isn't very subtle. Then again, Kristoph isn't a very subtle person, overall.

“Last time I saw you, you told me it could kill them,” Phoenix points out for the sake of it. Kristoph laughs in his face.

“Yes, if they were to drink a spoonful of it every morning for seventy years, it eventually would. Otherwise? Not a chance.”

Phoenix shrugs, not too eager to let Kristoph know what exactly he wants the stuff for. Maybe if he gives this vial to Ema as a sample, she'll be able to synthesize more for him. “So – it works if they ingest it? Or do I really have to use the needle?”

“Of course ingestion works,” Kristoph says. “Although, good luck getting a vampire to ingest anything that isn't blood.”

Some good news, at least. Phoenix isn't too squeamish, but stabbing someone with a needle isn't all that romantic. “I'll figure something out.”

“Ah well,” Kristoph says, clearly humoring him, “suit yourself. Your methods are none of my business.”

Indeed they aren't. Phoenix would like to leave immediately, but there's one more thing he needs. Mia had warned him about this – never a good position, needing things from Kristoph Gavin. He tries to be nonchalant about it.

“You have an antidote as well, don't you? Just in case.”

“I would be quite reckless not to,” Kristoph says, taking another vial out of his briefcase as though he expected the question.

Phoenix holds out his hand. Kristoph smiles sweetly.

“There is a price, of course.”

Kristoph, unlike Mia, is a mercenary. Mia cares for her family and the well-being of people in small towns; Kristoph cares for the highest bidder. He kills newly-turned children when the price is right, he lets two-hundred-year-old serial murderers walk when it isn't. He's predictable like that.

He's predictable in this, too, with the way he's been eyeing Phoenix. Phoenix bares his teeth. He's doing this for Miles, he reminds himself.

“Isn't there always,” he says breezily, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“The governess will show you to your rooms,” is the first thing von Karma says to Phoenix upon his arrival. “Then she will take you to my study, where I will give you instructions on what your tasks will be. There is no time to waste.”

Which okay, rude. Phoenix has been traveling the whole day to get here, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and sure, he knows vampires run on night time, but he's not supposed to know that. Offering him a meal or a moment of rest first should be a given. Fucking rich people.

He smiles nervously, channeling the eager-to-prove-himself rookie lawyer. “Of course not, Sir. Ah, pleased to be working for you.”

Von Karma nods dismissively and leaves him in the care of his staff. It doesn't get better when they meet again in his study fifteen minutes later, either. Phoenix is aware that he'll just be assigned some boring administrative stuff to do, that his true utility to von Karma is as a fancy birthday dinner for his daughter, but again, not supposed to know that. Regardless, von Karma treats him with casual contempt, like a kind of ugly flower vase that is unfortunately part of the décor, but not important enough to go through the trouble of removing. Not even worth a second thought.

Hook, line and sinker, indeed.

It's kind of hilarious how quickly Miles takes to Phoenix even without recognizing him at all. Just by looking behind the facade of frowns and frills for five seconds, any idiot can see how starved he is for affection, and the sweet clumsy lawyer persona really seems to do it for him. Phoenix can't decide if it's pathetic, or in fact deeply touching.

The whole vampire thing suits him, too. Despite von Karma's abysmal manners, Miles has grown into a real gentleman, holding open doors and speaking softly even when he's being snarky and touching Phoenix' elbow sometimes. Always through clothes, obviously, but Phoenix feels the lack of warmth anyway.

It's weird at first. Then less so. Before he knows it, Phoenix is craving it. Jesus, leave it to him to develop a thing for goddamn room temperature.

Not that it wasn't already hard to keep his hands to himself. He didn't realize just how good it would be to see Miles again before actually seeing him again, with the perspective he now has on the nature of his feelings, all the stuff he couldn't name when he was nine years old even though he already felt it. When Phoenix fakes getting lost for the fiftieth time and they walk side by side through the manor's frankly excessive amount of hallways, he has to put his hands in his pockets so he won't accidentally reach out; when they are in the library together so he can covertly look for family secrets, he has to carry at least three books at all times so he won't accidentally press Miles against a shelf and like, kiss him senseless or something.

It's love, is what it is. Pure and simple. It's bleeding out of him, and it just won't stop. Phoenix doesn't intend to make it stop.

If Mia had her way, he would be flying solo for the whole mission, but after five days in the manor, Phoenix knows that it's just not realistic. The staff is absurdly loyal to the family even though von Karma treats them like dirt in a grave he'll never have; there must be a good reason why nobody's been snitching. Phoenix won't be able to create an opportunity all on his own. He needs allies, and he'll have to pick them wisely.

He observes, for a while. He watches the fond smile on Governess Sister Bikini's face when she mentions the Lady Franziska, watches the way Iris Fey relaxes when Miles is around. (Also watches the groundskeeper undress Miles with his eyes, which is considerably more annoying.)

Very quickly, it becomes clear to him that von Karma is only alive because none of his staff members could bear to see his children harmed. Phoenix wonders whether von Karma knows this, wonders if he keeps them around as deliberate life insurance or if he truly fancies himself invincible. Neither option is very flattering.

He waits until morning, when he knows Sister Bikini and Iris will be tired from staying up all night, then calls them both to his room and says, “Von Karma is a vampire. I'm here to kill him.”

Iris looks at him like he's insane. Sister Bikini frowns with worry. Pretty solid piece of acting, if a little predictable.

“Oh dear,” the governess says. “Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Wright?”

“Just peachy,” he replies. “You can save your breath, by the way. I'm going to kill him with or without your help, but I believe you stand something to gain, too.”

Sister Bikini draws away from him, frown deepening. “I don't know what you mean, but this – this is traitorous. If – if you continue saying these things, I will have to call the Master – ”

Ema's weird key gadget works perfectly. Within an instant, Phoenix has the blade in his hand; within another, it's at Iris' throat. Welp, there goes that not-promise. Sorry Maya.

“I don't think so,” he says. “Please, have a seat.”

Iris is shaking a little in his arm. Phoenix rubs his thumb soothingly across her skin; putting a knife to an innocent woman's neck might be more difficult to pull off if Iris weren't the spitting image of Dahlia Hawthorne. That's that mystery solved, at least. Small world, huh.

Sister Bikini sits at the small table in his study. He lets go of Iris; she rushes to collapse next to her.

“You realize,” the older woman says, barely repressed anger in her voice, “that this isn't making me any more inclined to trust you.”

Phoenix rubs the back of his neck. “I know. Sorry. If it's any help, I was totally bluffing. I just really need you to hear me out.” He doesn't wait for permission to continue – wouldn't come, anyway. “I was sent here by Mia Fey.”

Iris gasps. “Cousin Mia,” she repeats quietly.

Phoenix turns to her, eyes gentle. “They're looking for you, you know. They never stopped. I want to help you get back.” As far as priorities go, of course, a Fey family reunion is not very high on his personal list, but they don't need to know that. “And that's only going to happen if I kill von Karma. I'm not asking you to assist me,” he quickly adds. “I'll do the dirty work myself, promise. All I need is for the crypt's door to be open, and for the staff to be out of the way.”

Sister Bikini's mouth is pressed into a hard line, wrinkles stark on her face. Iris looks down at the table.

“I – I'm afraid we can't help you, Mr. Wright,” she says meekly.

More or less what he expected. Phoenix sits down as well, infusing as much gravitas into his voice as he can. He looks at Iris first, then at Bikini. This bit is important.

“I swear to you,” he says, “that I am here for von Karma, and von Karma only. No harm will come to the Lady Franziska, or Miles Edgeworth. You have my word.”

“And what is your word worth?” Sister Bikini asks, eyes flinty.

Phoenix shrugs. “Honestly? Not much. But still way more than anything else I have to offer.” He looks out of the window, then decides it's time to throw his cards on the table. “I knew Mr. Edgeworth, before. We were childhood friends. I spent a lot of time looking for him. If anyone lays a hand on him again, it's over my dead body.”

Sister Bikini still doesn't look convinced, but Iris' eyes are shining. She's probably a romantic; might help his case a little.

“We'll consider it,” Sister Bikini says, rising. “Come along, Iris.”

Iris trails behind her with a last glance at Phoenix. “Bye, Mr. Wright.”

When they're gone, Phoenix drops his head on the table, enjoying some of the morning's soft light on his face. Could have gone better. Then again, could also have gone a lot worse.

“Your sister is going to kill me,” Phoenix whines, then regrets it an instant later when Miles freezes in his spot on the ugly little library armchair. Jesus Christ, phrasing. “She makes me carry her books for her although that's definitely not what her father hired me for, and then she yells at me because apparently I'm messing up the order. Not that she explains to me what that order even is, mind you.”

Miles relaxes again. Wow, nice save, Wright. “Franziska is very particular about her books.”

That's one way to put it. “You say that like you aren't orders of magnitude worse. Bet she got that from you. At least you clean them up yourself; I see how you shuffle things around every time I've even so much as touched a shelf.”

“I am doing no such thing,” Miles protests, which, oh God, he's so cute when he's flustered. “Anyway, I don't see how she would have gotten it from me. We aren't blood-related.”

“Ah yes, book organizing preferences,” Phoenix nods sagely. “You know, that thing that is famously passed down through genetics.”

Miles raises his eyebrows. “Can you prove it isn't? Do you have any data to support your hypothesis? I'm waiting, Wright.”

“Hold on a second. Why is the burden of proof on me now?”

“You started this,” Miles points out. “I'm sure you'll find some kind of study on the subject, right here in this very logically and systematically organized library.”

Okay, so Phoenix loves Miles. Deeply, unchangeably, until the end of time, and so on and so forth, he's gone over this, old news by now. Here's the actual kicker though: he also really, really likes Miles. Like, as a person. If they'd never met as kids, he'd probably be in love by now anyway.

“Guess I better start looking,” he says, smiling. “You got a stepladder for me? Not that rickety thing that slides around the walls.”

“That's … also a ladder,” Miles says, confused. Phoenix waves him away. Miles doesn't get it; whatever. Small disagreements keep things fresh, after all.

He goes down to the crypt during the day, just once. The doors are locked, obviously; he has to beg Sister Bikini to open them for him. The woman still doesn't trust him, but she eventually agrees, with the caveat that she'll be supervising.

It's – honestly not that creepy. Just a big dark room in the basement with some dramatic marble statues of devils and angels here and there, and three black coffins in the middle. Von Karma's idea of a tasteful and restrained décor, no doubt. Phoenix can't help noticing that one of the coffins looks cheaper than the other two, not as solid and well-crafted, no ornate carvings in the wood. That's gotta be where Miles is sleeping. God, Phoenix can't wait to kill von Karma.

With Sister Bikini's watchful eyes on him, he walks across the room and pushes the lid to Miles' coffin open. It makes an unholy shrieking noise, but nobody even so much as stirs. They really do sleep like the dead, apparently: Mia told him that she once took a phone call in the middle of staking a vampire and nothing happened. (Reception was pretty bad though, she added.)

Phoenix looks down at his friend. Miles does look dead like this. Feels dead, as well, when Phoenix carefully lays a hand on his cheek – not actively cold, but not warm like a living thing should be. Just ambient. It's sweet, kind of: taking whatever temperature he's given. Lizards are like that, too, and frogs. Phoenix just hopes he won't freeze in the winter. He moves his thumb – still no reaction, not even a twitch of an eyelid. Completely vulnerable. Phoenix doesn't get why Kristoph talks a big game about how to poison vampires into submission, when they're that easy to kill.

He's very tempted to touch Miles some more while he can, but that would be creepy, especially with Sister Bikini watching. He leans down, kisses his cheeks and his forehead, and pushes the lid back onto the coffin.

Sister Bikini locks the crypt's heavy doors, eyeing him with a thoughtful expression. He shrugs, smiles at her, and goes back to his room.

“Sister Bikini and I are going to help you,” Iris says, when they finally do manage to go on their morning walk. Phoenix feels a little sorry for her whole passing-out-from-blood-loss-thing, but fuck, Miles being jealous over that the other day was pretty hot. “She will open the crypt for you, and I will keep the rest of the staff out of the way. Groundskeeper Lang is offering his help, as well.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And, uh, sorry again for the knife thing,” he adds, to show his good will. “I was desperate – I acted without thinking. I didn't want to scare you.”

Iris averts her eyes, hands twisting together. “It's alright. My parents handed me over to von Karma when I was nine, I'm used to being a bargaining chip. You haven't done anything wrong.”

On anyone else, that would sound bitter and definitely sarcastic, but Phoenix can tell she means it. Hoo boy. If the Feys really want to get their little family back together, they have their work cut out for them. “So you grew up here with Edgeworth?”

“We're the same age,” she confirms. “Sister Bikini told me that I was brought here just two weeks after he was.”

“He, uh.” Phoenix licks his lips. “He feeds on you, right?”

Iris blushes a little. “Ah. Yes, he does.”

“Must be weird.”

“It's not that strange. They drink from the wrist, so it's not all too – intimate. And he's very gentle. Well, usually,” she amends.

“But isn't it dangerous for you?”

“Not if I take care of myself. I rest a lot during the night, and Sister Bikini makes sure I eat well. It's important for the blood to be – rich in nutrients.”

Duly noted. “Sounds like it could be worse, then.”

Iris is silent for a moment. They walk around the garden some more, the rose bushes in full bloom.

“I often wonder,” she eventually says, “if, had he not found Mr. Edgeworth first, Mr. von Karma would have turned me instead.”

Phoenix thinks about it. “Seems like something that would amuse him. A Fey vampire.”

“Exactly. But maybe this is even more amusing to him: a Fey, feeding a vampire. At any rate, I suppose he didn't want three vampire children running around his manor.”

“Would you have preferred that?” Phoenix says. “Being turned, I mean. Being a vampire.”

Iris smiles. “Oh God, no. I like being human; I enjoy the sunlight, and eating actual meals. And I can't even imagine what it would be like to live for hundreds of years! I wouldn't know what to do with that kind of time. Besides, if I were a vampire, who would Mr. Edgeworth feed on?”

Yeah. Pretty much his thoughts exactly.

As they come to stand in front of the manor, Iris leans over and kisses Phoenix. He lets her, although he's careful not to encourage anything. He hasn't forgotten for one second that she looks exactly like Dahlia.

“Sorry,” she says afterwards, blushing. “I thought it was worth a try. I should have known better.”

She really should have. Phoenix isn't making the same mistake twice.

“Has Mr. Edgeworth ever killed anyone?” Phoenix asks Sister Bikini one afternoon, when it’s just the two of them and a bottle of wine he swiped from the kitchen. It’s mildly strategic on his part – he knows she would never answer this kind of question with Iris present.

Even now, Sister Bikini eyes him with suspicion. “It’s not my place to discuss what Mr. Edgeworth has or hasn’t done.”

“Of course not,” Phoenix says hurriedly, “I’m so sorry. I just thought – he seems so sad all the time, like he’s carrying a great burden. I wondered – but you’re right, it’s not our place.”

It has the desired effect: her face softens, and she pours them both another drink.

“You gave us your word that you wouldn’t harm him or the Lady Franziska,” she reminds him.

“And I won’t,” Phoenix says, meaning it. “I swear it on my grave.”

“Good.” She sighs, deeply. “He killed once, as far as I know. Von Karma forced him to, mind you – starved him for a week, the poor boy, then let him loose on … well. For all we know, she was just an innocent woman from the village, but – there are rumors.”

Phoenix washes down his heartache for Miles with a sip of wine. “There always are,” he says diplomatically.

“These ones are a little more persistent than usual.” Sister Bikini leans forward. “Oh, I don’t know that I should even say this, but if anyone, you will understand what it means. The woman – they say that she was Misty Fey.”

“Oh God,” Phoenix says. “That’s horrifying.”

“So, you see why I hesitate,” Bikini continues. “If Mia Fey ever knew – but it’s only a rumor, of course.”

“Of course,” Phoenix agrees. “I won’t tell a soul.”

In his next coded letter to Maya, he writes: Miles Edgeworth killed your mother.

“I'm taking Edgeworth with me,” Phoenix tells Groundskeeper Lang, who is watching him whittle the stake to a sharp point.

Lang looks at him like he's joking, until he realizes that he's not. He laughs, three loud, distinct barks. Sounds kind of dumb, to be honest.

Phoenix raises his eyebrows. “What? Think I can't do it?”

“Oh, far from it,” Lang says. “If anyone can, it's you. Lang Zi says: Never get between a starved wolf and his first meal.”

Phoenix would very much like to know who is the wolf and who is the meal in this analogy.

“Who the fuck is Lang Zi,” he says instead.

Three days before Phoenix' expiration date, Miles finally, finally kisses him, takes him to bed, even. (To Phoenix' bed, that is; not like Miles has one.) Phoenix can't believe his luck. He feels gutted, cut open: he can't help it that things just – fall out of him.

“Miles, you're so good,” he says, and, much more damning, “I love you.”

Well. Maybe not the smartest thing to say, after not even four weeks of knowing each other. Miles slows down, pauses. He stares at Phoenix, then looks away, then back again, like he can't decide where to put his eyes. Phoenix thinks about what he could say to backtrack and comes up short. It's true, after all.

Still, he's about to make some kind of good-natured joke of it when quietly, Miles says, “I love you, too.”

The smile that appears on Phoenix's face, then, is probably really unhinged; he buries his face in Miles' shoulder to hide it. So Miles wants him. Even after all this time, Miles still wants him, him, nobody else. The thought eats him alive until there's nothing left of him.

Miles is dozing in Phoenix' bed when dawn approaches. His skin tonight was a little warmer than usual (though not by much), so he must have eaten right before coming to Phoenix, but that means he skipped dinner. Not bad for Phoenix' immediate plans, but maybe a little worrying in the long run – Phoenix doesn't want Miles to hurt himself. He'll have to make sure he drinks enough, after. At any rate, Miles needs to get into the crypt before sunrise.

Regretfully, Phoenix runs a thumb over Miles' cheek to wake him.

“It's almost dawn,” he whispers. “I thought you might want to – return to your own rooms. Before any of the servants see you here.”

That's a good enough excuse, right? Miles at least seems willing to take the plausible deniability. Before he leaves, he kisses Phoenix one last time, long and lingering.

Phoenix watches him leave, which is something he hopefully soon won't have to do anymore. The vial of atroquinine is safely hidden in the bathroom cabinet.

Yeah, this might all just work out.

After making sure Miles is well and truly out of commission, Phoenix rushes back into the bathroom and quickly swallows the antidote. Atroquinine works right away on vampires but is slow-acting on humans; he'd have fifteen minutes, Kristoph said, telling the truth for once. Granted, the guy probably didn't expect Phoenix to go ahead and put the poison right into his own mouth, but personally Phoenix thinks it was a pretty neat idea. Most exciting kiss of his life so far, for sure.

He waits until he can safely say that he's not going to die from poison today, then he waits some more until the sun has well and truly risen. With a last kiss on Miles' room temperature forehead, he slips his wooden stake into his jacket's inner pocket, steps into the corridor and locks the door to the guest rooms behind him.

Down by the rose bushes, Groundskeeper Lang is already waiting.

“Let's get our pretty boy out of here,” he says with a sharp smile. Phoenix smiles back even though the nickname is grating and the possessive pronoun borderline unbearable. Miles is not 'our'; Miles is his, and his only.

Still, he needs Lang's help. Together they cover Miles in a sun-proof blanket and carry him out of the manor, through one of the many secret passages he pointed out to Phoenix during their evening walks, into the passenger seat of the car Phoenix had hidden between some trees on the estate at the beginning of his stay.

“I still can't believe von Karma never noticed this old thing just standing on his own property,” he says, gently arranging Miles into a sitting position and making sure the blanket is firmly in place.

Lang barks out a laugh. “That's rich people for you! Never aware of what they actually own, unless someone tries to take it from them.”

They get back into the manor through another secret passage. While Lang goes to collect Phoenix' luggage and gather some of Miles' belongings in a bag, Phoenix goes to commit a murder.

Iris has kept her end of their bargain: he doesn't run into any staff members on his way to the crypt. Sister Bikini is there, ostensibly to unlock the door for him, but actually to make sure that no harm comes to the Lady Franziska. Phoenix hopes that one day, the girl will understand how loved she is by the people she's been hurting.

And no need to mince words: Sister Bikini is also there to watch von Karma die.

“Sure you don't want to do the honors?” Phoenix says, standing over the imposing coffin and wiggling the stake invitingly. She shakes her head.

“Go ahead,” she whispers with a gleeful smile. It's pretty adorable. Phoenix buries the stake in von Kama's heart.

There's really not much more to it. Already his skin is starting to grey; by sundown, he will have turned to ash. Phoenix takes a page out of Mia's book and calls her right there, next to Franziska's sleeping body, with the cell phone that Lang smuggled in for him yesterday. (The reception is indeed pretty bad.) She tells him to stay at the manor, she'll be there by the end of the day, oh and congratulations on the double kill. Just hang tight, okay? Phoenix agrees and hangs up. He lets Sister Bikini squeeze him in her arms one last time, tells her to give Iris his best wishes, and leaves the manor, not looking back.

Phoenix drives for the rest of the day, only stopping once in a small town to stock up on as much food and water as he can fit in the car. He doesn't usually care much about his own health, but now he kind of has to, if only to make sure his blood is nutritious enough. Maybe having a vampire boyfriend should count as a form of self-care, actually.

He glances at Miles, still sleeping underneath the blanket.

“I even learned to drive for you, you know,” he says. “In LA traffic! Seriously, you don't want to know what that was like. The things I do for love.”

They're pretty close to their destination when the sun starts to set. Phoenix considers continuing for a little while longer, but he's getting tired from all the running around and lack of sleep, and it would be really stupid to have come all this way only to accidentally drive them into a lake or something.

He parks the car in the middle of the forest, grabs another protein bar to nibble on, and waits for Miles to wake up.

Chapter Text

When Miles comes to, he is in the passenger seat of a car he's never seen before.

Reflexively, he scrambles to open the door in an attempt to escape, but a hand on his arm stops him before he can even touch the handle.

“Hey, no, don't do that,” Phoenix says. “I painted the handles with a silver compound, it would hurt you.”

Miles sinks into his seat, trying to sort the myriad of questions on his mind into some kind of priority list.

“Is Franziska alright?”

Phoenix breaks out into a bright smile. “Oh my God.”

“What,” Miles snaps, unsure what there is to smile about.

“Nothing, just – fuck, it's so sweet of you to think of her first. You're so sweet. And yeah, Franziska is fine. Mia Fey should be at the manor by now, and she has a strict policy about not hurting underage vampires.”

“Franziska turned eighteen today,” Miles points out, alarmed.

Phoenix laughs at him. “Then you're damn lucky that Mia isn't as much of a pedant as you are.”

Some of the tension leaves Miles. Now that that's out of the way, another question has just slipped to the top of the priority list. “So – you're working for Mia Fey?”

“I'm working with her,” Phoenix corrects, and who is the pedant now? “Or rather, I was working with her until, hm, about nine o'clock this morning? Now I'm all yours though.”

He says it so off-handedly, Miles can't even begin to process the implications. “Manfred von Karma is dead, I presume.”

“As dead as a pile of ashes,” Phoenix confirms. “Which he should literally be by now, actually. Staked him right through his empty heart. I'm sorry, I – shouldn't make fun of that. Is it upsetting you?”

Miles thinks about it.

“The only thing upsetting me is that my belongings are still at the manor,” he says truthfully.

“Oh, don't worry about that. Groundskeeper Lang threw together a travel bag for you. I don't know if he got all of your favorite stuff, but he seemed to know what he was doing.”

That, on the other hand, is – something else. “Lang was in on it?!”

“Iris and Sister Bikini, too,” Phoenix says. “They were all very helpful. They really love you, you know.”

Miles did not, strictly speaking, know. It's so much at once, far too much.

“So you came to the manor,” he says, talking more to himself than to Phoenix, “in order to kill von Karma.”

“Among other things, yeah. Mostly, I came to get you.”

Miles thinks back to their first encounter. Excuse me, have we met before?

He groans. “Oh Christ. We have met before, haven't we.”

At that, Phoenix looks a little sheepish. Nervous, even. “Yeah, we, um. We were friends at school for half a year. It's silly, and I know you don't remember, but – Miles, I do. I remember.”

“If – if you knew I wouldn't remember, why would you ask – ”

“I don't know, okay! I thought it might cut something loose. And if you had remembered me, I would have had to change the whole plan, so I had to be sure you didn't.”

The whole plan. Because there had been a plan, all this time. “So, everything you said – every conversation we had – ”

“No, come on, don't go down that road,” Phoenix cuts him off, voice firm. “I never lied to you, not when it counted. Everything I said, I meant it.”

“Still, you made me believe you were – a victim, caught in von Karma's trap – ”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Sure, I did. I had to. It says something about you that it worked so well, doesn't it? You saw what you wanted to see, or at least what you expected.”

The truth of it stings, even though it is said free of judgment, maybe even fondly.

“You poisoned me,” Miles says, because he can't not say it.

“Oh,” Phoenix says. “Yeah, there wasn't really a way around that. I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, an expert gave me his word it wouldn't actually harm you.”

There's a slight glint in his eyes – a challenge to Miles, perhaps. Go on. Let's see if you figure this one out.

Miles lets his thoughts run. So Phoenix has been working with the Fey clan; it stands to reason that he may have connections to other established vampire hunter families, as well. He can think of a number of them who would like to see the von Karma line fall. He can only think of one whose trademark is a poison slow-acting enough that a human could keep it in his mouth for, say, a very long and intimate kiss.

“Atroquinine,” he says. “You went to Kristoph Gavin.”

“Wow,” Phoenix says with admiration. “Uh, I mean. Yes, I did. It was so annoying, I can't even tell you. That guy fucking sucks.”

Of course Phoenix Wright would say that Kristoph Gavin fucking sucks. Miles cannot believe he is having this conversation. It's still far too much.

“I need to – leave,” he says, without having any kind of plan beyond that. He should – get back to the manor, for one. Mia Fey may be reasoned with; he might work out a deal, get to keep custody of Franziska. He needs to make sure Iris will be okay, as well, and he should thank Sister Bikini and Lang, maybe get some of his things – “Open the door for me, would you?”

“Not really,” Phoenix says.

Miles stops, halfway out of his seat. “Hm?”

“You asked if I would open the door for you,” Phoenix explains patiently. “And I'm saying, not really. By which I mean no.”

“Oh,” Miles says, sinking back down.

He could open the door himself, of course. It would burn the palm of his hand, but he has sustained far worse injuries; that is not the point. The point is that Phoenix, it seems, is willing to hurt him in order to stop him from escaping. More than anything, that's what roots Miles to the spot.

“I told Mia Fey that you killed her mother,” Phoenix says eventually, tone casual.

That eliminates any chance of striking a deal with her, then. Miles gets the distinct impression of a trap closing on him.

“There's no proof of that,” he says, even though he immediately knows it's true. Misty Fey – finally, a name he can put to his one and only victim.

“You think Mia's going to wait for proof? After all the lengths she's gone to already? She wanted me to murder you, you know.” Phoenix cracks a wry smile. “Didn't do that, obviously.”

“Instead, you kidnapped me and locked me in your car,” Miles points out with a nonchalance he doesn't feel. “A little selfish of you, don't you think?”

Phoenix smiles. “Like you waiting until the last minute to warn me that I'm about to be killed? Let's not argue over who has the moral high ground here.”

Truth be told, Miles is getting a little uneasy as he tries to put the pieces together. Phoenix went through all of the trouble to take him here, apparently against Mia Fey's express orders, but he also told her the one thing that would ensure she never stopped looking for Miles. It just doesn't make any sense, not yet.

“Do you – resent me that much for the murder?” he ventures. “Did you perhaps – take me out here to be executed away from the estate, for whatever reason – ”

Phoenix stares at him like he's grown a second head. “What? No, of course not. Why would I care that you killed Misty Fey?”

Because that's what any human being would do. “Then why tell her daughter about it?”

“To keep you, obviously.”

Miles hears the words, repeats them in his head, lets them sink in. When Phoenix says it like that, it does indeed seem obvious.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again when he finds that he does not know what to say.

“So really, you have two options now,” Phoenix explains into the silence. “Either you kill me, walk out of here, and spend the rest of your existence being hunted down by Mia, which – considering her track record – won't be all that long. Or – or you stay here, with me, where I can make sure she won't find us. And we make a life together.”

Before Miles can react in any way, he barrels on. “I've got it all figured out, you know. There's an empty house in the woods not far from here, right next to a lake, with a town nearby that has everything we need. It gets really dark at night, too, there are stars all over the sky. We might not even need that much lamplight. You can feed on me, obviously. I asked Iris, she said you're very gentle about it, but honestly I don't care, make me as weak as you want to. I just think – Miles, I think we could be happy.”

Miles swallows around the rising tangle of emotion in his throat. He's having a lot of trouble parsing Phoenix' words. “That … does not sound like much of a choice at all.”

Phoenix grins crookedly. “Hey, I never said both of the options were equal.”

“Why – ” He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. “Why would I need to kill you if I wanted to walk out of here?”

At that, Phoenix' entire demeanor softens. He takes both of Miles' hands in his. “Come on, give me some credit. Do you really think I'd go through all this trouble, only to just let you leave again?”

A foreboding shiver runs down Miles' spine.

“There is a third option,” he points out, desperately. “I could kill myself.”

“I don't think you heard me,” Phoenix says. “I just said I'm not going to let you leave again.” He tilts his head towards the car's trunk. “There's a crate full of atroquinine vials in there, in doses that would make you sleepy and that would make me dead. No antidote left, either. You kill yourself, fine, then so do I.”

It's the kind of bluff that gives Miles vertigo, because he doesn't think it actually is one, and either way he has already proven to both of them that he will not risk Phoenix Wright's life. The trap isn't just closing on him now – he fell into it long before he even knew it was there.

“So I stay with you,” he says, helplessly scrambling for purchase. “What then? Vampires live much longer than humans. You will die, and I will outlive you, and then you will have no choice but to let me leave.”

“That's what the atroquinine is actually for,” Phoenix explains, running a thumb over the back of Miles' hand. “I have a friend who'll synthesize as much of it as I want. For me, the lethal dose is one vial – for you, it's one teaspoon, every morning before you go to sleep, for seventy years. That gives us until we're, what, ninety-five? I can get to ninety-five, no problem. Maybe you'll have a year or two without me at the end there, but it won't matter at that point.”

Miles' thoughts are racing; so would his heart, if it were beating at all. His throat is dry, scratchy. If Phoenix weren't still holding onto his hands, they would be shaking.

So this is it. It's not at all about hurting Miles – it never was. This is just how badly Phoenix wants to have him; this is the length he will go to keep him. He really has it all planned out, every piece in place, every possibility considered. The only way out for Miles is over his dead body.

These are not the actions of a moral man, or indeed, any man at all. It's not human. More than anything, it's – it's –

“Monstrous,” Miles whispers, awed.

And Phoenix smiles at him, full of love. “You and me both.”

There is no point in holding back any longer. Miles frees his hands and pulls Phoenix in, kisses him softly, reverently. It would be an insult to say something like I would have chosen to stay with you anyway, when Phoenix has so artfully robbed him of that choice, so Miles really can't do anything other than kiss him, and keep kissing him. Phoenix melts under his hands. With all that's happened today, he hasn't had time to shave; his stubble catches on Miles' skin, draws what little warmth he has left to the surface. The sensation is so intense, Miles blacks out for a second.

“You – ” Phoenix says when he comes back. “Shit, you haven't eaten in ages. Here, come on – ”

And Miles doesn't even bother with a wrist, he just goes for Phoenix' neck, intent on putting his earlier blanket permission to the test. Phoenix inhales sharply but stays quiet otherwise, just grabs a fistful of Miles' hair and hangs on for dear life. Once Miles feels the fingers loosen a little, he stops, gently licking over the puncture wounds.

“Iris, uh. Iris didn't mention it would be this hot,” Phoenix says, face very red despite the blood loss. He looks dazed, disoriented – Miles could do anything to him right now. Nobody has ever trusted him like this. Miles rolls his eyes to cover up how touched he is.

“How novel for you to be into that. I never would have guessed. Truly groundbreaking.”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

Seventy years together, give or take. Miles can't wait.