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With a final shaky sigh, Miles turned off the shower.
He took several deep, fortifying breaths to savor the steam, and then opened the shower door. A colder eddy of airflow immediately crept its way into the heated shower space, and he hurriedly wrapped a fluffy, magenta towel around his waist, before more sedately reaching for the second towel with which to rub the excess water from his hair.
That complete, he leaned one hand on the shower wall while he lifted one leg and meticulously dried it with the towel. He stepped his dried foot onto the bathroom mat outside the shower, and then balanced crane-like on it while he awkwardly dried the remaining leg.
Finally, with a little hop, he settled his second foot on the plush mat outside the shower. Not so much as a drop of water had fallen upon the pristine white mat or floor. Perfect.
From that point on, he had a rigorous, set routine that prioritized the most time-sensitive tasks first. Step one, he combed his hair back while it was still wet, applying just the right hint of product to the front to give his bangs a little extra lift when they dried. With his hair slicked back, his face looked odd to him in the fogged mirror, paler and more exposed.
More like my father… He banished the thought immediately. In any case, his bone structure was finer, his face narrower, cheekbones sharper, and chin more pointed. Prettier all around, he’d been told often enough. Ah well, that could only serve him well tonight.
He turned next to shaving. His beard was not exceptionally thick nor fast-growing, but he wanted his skin as smooth as possible tonight. The razor he’d spent good money on claimed that it somehow cut the follicle below the skin line; Miles remained highly skeptical of this claim, but after a clean shave, he could neither see nor feel any traces of stubble, so that was good enough for him.
He’d tried once – in a weak moment during a particularly frantic bout of travel – a common-brand aftershave, and had suffered for several hours smelling (apparently intentionally!) like a sweaty gym-bag doused in alcohol. His own product, special-ordered from Cohdopia, was clean, crisp, and properly subtle.
By the time he was done, his hair was beginning to dry, and his bangs were starting to curve along his temples again. Best not to dilly-dally further, then. He applied deep-cleanser to his face and began scouring his pores in an entirely necessary exercise that he’d been horrified to discover that few of his colleagues performed (except, of course, Prosecutor Gavin, who had very wrong opinions about exfoliants). This, no doubt, was why so many prosecutors had inferior skin. Yet bafflingly, individuals such as Payne and Blackquill repeatedly ignored his grooming advice. (Wright didn’t even bear mentioning.)
Miles’ pores, however, were small and clean and even, just as they should be, not a hint of unsightly blemishes. Satisfied at last with that, Miles set about to moisturizing.
He’d taken issue with his usual moisturizer of late. While it had served him well for decades now, he’d noticed a disturbing trend the last few years where it didn’t quite smooth out the wrinkle of his brow. He’d been experimenting with others, but it seemed that that groove was only growing deeper with time, noticeable enough that even Wright had commented on it. Miles was starting to worry that middle-age was catching up with him on this point; he seemed doomed to have a permanent scowl imprinted upon his face before long. A tragic side-effect of his chosen profession, no doubt.
Otherwise, however, his face behaved itself. He had pale skin, but he’d protected it religiously from the sun and moisturized daily. He felt confident that he had the skin, at least, of a man a decade younger. Perfect enough.
That settled, Miles moved on to more intimate grooming. His chest hair was sparse, and he’d had a wax recently enough that there were only a few disobedient hairs that needed plucking. His privates were a different story. He’d once tried wax there, long ago, and had thought the result looked rather like a scrawny, uncooked Christmas goose – absolutely dreadful. Instead, he shaved along the edges to tidy up the sides, and then used the beard-length setting in an electric razor he’d purchased specifically for this purpose to keep everything evenly trimmed.
He generally kept himself neat enough that retouching only took a few minutes, and then he was able to begin applying body lotion. With the dry air, his legs and back and arms generally needed regular lotion to keep the skin supple. It wouldn’t do to flake, after all. Upon finishing up, he rolled on antiperspirant in all the appropriate places and then tidied the items in his toilette into perfect rows.
Finally, Miles took stock of himself in the mirror. He looked clean, ordered, prepared. His hair had fallen nicely into place now, and he swept one lock over the crease between his brows to hide it. He eyed his body calculatingly. It was true that he no longer had the sleek musculature of a 20-year-old, but over the last few weeks – since he’d been given advance warning of tonight’s impending encounter – he’d been more regular about working out and more disciplined about not snatching up the calorie-laden treats left out to share in the Prosecutor’s Office breakroom.
It was somewhat terrifying how quickly he lost muscle mass these days (and only in his late 30s!), but in these last three weeks he’d gained a bit of it back in the chest, shoulders, and arms. His abs weren’t the tight six-pack they could’ve been, but his efforts had at least successfully fought back the ever-infringing ‘dad bod’ he’d fallen into of late. Most importantly, when he turned in the mirror, he could see that all those flights of stairs he climbed daily had paid off. He rather flattered himself that a pert behind was one of his best features: rounded and crisp.
Miles was forced to concede that his body wasn’t perfect, but for his age, it was currently (although likely unsustainably) excellent, and that would have to do. He did, alas, have dark circles under his eyes – short of ceasing to be Chief Prosecutor, there was no preventing that – but he touched those up with a bit of cover-up and then deemed himself thoroughly passable.
He strode out of the bathroom and into his bedroom in the nude. Here, matters became somewhat trickier. He’d refreshed his supply of intimate apparel this week, which left him unusually spoiled for choice. If he were a playful sort of man, he might go for the burgundy boxer-briefs, or if he were cocksure (and even a bit risqué!), there was that lovely royal-blue pair. However, alas, none of those things were his forte. He chose instead a dark gray that he thought paired well with his hair color.
His clothing options were equally perplexing. He toyed briefly with the idea of trying to be casual – perhaps some charcoal slacks, a button-up, and a tie? – but the thought of facing tonight of all nights without the protective and reassuring cover of his cravat sent him into a near panic. A court suit it was, then. He did own exactly one grey suit for heaven only knew what reason. That was…fun? And different, maybe?
Miles gulped. He quickly concluded that he was neither a ‘fun’ nor ‘different’ man, either.
That left him with magenta, fuchsia, burgundy, or maybe a maroon if he was feeling extra wild?
He put away the maroon. He was not feeling extra wild. He eyed the magenta. It was his favorite. It was what he wore 90% of the time, including on the previous two excursions. It was in no way special or unique. It was boring and predictable.
With a sigh, Miles picked out the magenta and put it on.
The suit felt comfortable and familiar and unchallenging. Miles had a sneaking suspicion that, in this particular circumstance, none of those things were an asset. Still, here he was, a dull creature of habit.
He put on his Friday wrist-watch – it was Friday, after all – and then tied his cravat perfectly in place. He gave it an extra fluff at the end for added volume. There, that was fancier than usual, wasn’t it? Surely, anyone could see that!
He’d debated long and hard about the merits of contacts versus his glasses. On the one hand, contacts allowed his eyes to stand out more, and there was no danger of them getting in the way. But, on the other hand, the glasses were more versatile, and could be easily removed for close-up examination of various objects, if needed. Perhaps inevitably, Miles went with the glasses the exact same way he had every other time.
Ensemble complete, Miles fidgeted somewhat uncomfortably in front of the vanity mirror in his bedroom. He looked like a man hell-bent for court, the same as every other day. In no way did his attire reflect this momentous and unique occasion.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out boldly for the cologne he’d purchased after lengthy assessment and consultation with several experts in the field. He spritzed the barest drop onto the soft skin of his neck just behind the ear. With a similar dab to the other side, the act was complete. Were someone exceptionally close to his personage and inclined to sniff out clues, then the scent should provide an adequate guide to the most sensitive exposed place on his body.
Miles found himself blushing embarrassingly at his own reflection in the mirror. It was too forward, wasn’t it? Should he wash it off? Did he have time?
He checked his watch and swore; he was only running fifteen minutes early, which might as well have been late!
Hurriedly, he put the items laid out on the vanity into his pockets one by one: wallet, keys, phone, glasses case, handkerchief, breath mints… And, finally, a small discreet silver case much like the design of an old-fashioned cigarette case but with fitted compartments inside, one designed to hold three wrapped prophylactics and the other a small travel tube of personal lubricant. Placing that last item in his inside jacket pocket did nothing to quell Miles’ blush.
There. Done. He was as prepared as he would ever be.
He scowled his blush into submission in the mirror and then, with a haughty, indifferent toss of his hair, was off.
The entire drive to the restaurant was a blur, facilitated by the fluttering butterflies in Miles’ stomach and the weight of the case in Miles’ inside breast pocket. He trusted he didn’t hit anything or anyone. He would probably have noticed that.
The street outside the restaurant was busy. It was a Friday night, after all. Date night. Miles felt the sudden impulse to book a flight to another hemisphere. He’d never been more grateful for his antiperspirant.
However, he was the Chief Prosecutor, and he’d faced serial killers, mobsters, and assassins unflinchingly. He could bear a simple restaurant.
There was one couple ahead of him to be seated, which gave him just enough time to panic that there would be something wrong with his reservation. There wasn’t. He was seated immediately, politely, and given a wine menu. The restaurant light was dim and intimate, with a lit candle at the center of the tabletop. Miles’ table itself was quiet and discreet, settled into one cozy corner of the restaurant. The place was clean, the staff impeccable, and the wine list as sophisticated as he’d been promised. Everything was perfect.
He ordered a Bordeaux for the table.
It arrived…while he waited. He debated whether to pour himself a glass…while he waited. He finally concluded that, if he didn’t have a glass, he’d go insane…while he waited.
Drink was generally a poor idea because it led to unwanted trains of thought. The knowing look he’d gotten from his secretary this morning. Detective Gumshoe’s wide grin that afternoon when he’d said, “Tonight’s the big night, isn’t it, sir? Date number three?” Prosecutor Blackquill’s entirely undisguised smirk when Miles had said he was leaving early (well, technically, on time) for the day.
Despite himself, Miles fidgeted nervously. Checked his watch. Poured himself a second glass of wine.
It was officially two whole minutes past the appointed hour. This was far too much time to think. To reflect on all his own personal flaws. Here he was, unfashionably early, already drinking out of anxiety, dressed in the exact same suit he wore every day, and with a growing frown no doubt furrowing itself straight through the center of his forehead. He had no idea what to do with himself as he waited, but likewise he dreaded the impending arrival of his partner, as he had equally little clue what to do, say, or think then. He was a 37-year-old man who was somehow still pathetically inexperienced in matters d’amour, and if they were forced to discuss them, he felt confident he would die of embarrassment.
What positive aspects he did possess – mostly an aesthetically pleasing face and body, all tricks of genetics, nothing to do with his own initiative – were dwarfed by his at-times comically dysfunctional personality with anything involving any sort of social or emotional interaction whatsoever.
He was, to put it plainly, a dismal lover before he’d even tried, possessed of zero charm, tenderness, or desirability. Was it any wonder, then, that he had been stood up? What had he even been thinking in the first place, that anyone could want someone like him? Anyone, let alone a treasure like that man?
He was about to rise to flee the restaurant when a tornado of blue suddenly fell upon the table with a desperate gasp for air. “I’m here! Don’t freak out!” Wright exclaimed, hands banging on the table on either side of Miles, panting, out of breath, disheveled…
Beautiful.
Miles scowled at him and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re late.” Ah, there was that old Miles Edgeworth charm at work already!
“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Wright said, and then leaned across the table to steal a long, slow, sensual kiss from Miles’ lips.
Miles’ brain, blissfully, stopped. “Mmm?” he said dumbly.
“You taste good,” Wright said softly. Ah yes, that would be the wine Miles had been imbibing excessively. “And,” Wright leaned in closer and sniffed his way back to the spot behind Miles’ ear where he’d hidden the cologne, “you smell good.” He nipped the exact spot Miles had secretly been hoping for, and Miles began tingling in all sorts of places where his body was not used to tingling. “And you look incredible.” Wright pulled back just enough to rake his eyes up and down Miles in a way that left Miles feeling warm and happy and liquid. “Did you do something with the cravat?”
“Yes, I did,” Miles agreed, in nothing short of awed disbelief that Wright could actually tell. Miles could prepare in intricate detail for countless lifetimes and still not possess one ounce of the charm that Wright radiated innately.
Wright’s lips lingered against his for another moment, and then he pulled back with a nervous laugh. “I can’t believe we’re here. Date three, am I right? After all this time!” His expression softened as he sat down across from Miles. “You had me the moment you first indicted me, you old charmer.” He raised his glass in a toast.
Miles’ face flamed. That was the strange thing about charm, Miles concluded as he raised his glass in turn, and they toasted this latest progression of their partnership. It was, fortunately for him, entirely in the eye of the beholder.