Work Text:
Yes there’s a chance that I’ve fallen quite hard over you
~~
The little shop at the corner of 8th and Green has the worst coffee in the city, and that’s saying something. Phoenix Wright is the kind of guy who dumps three spoonfuls of instant into an inch of hot water, gives it a swirl, then adds just enough tap water to make it lukewarm. He chugs down the result in seconds flat and puts the mug to the side after, successfully coffee-ed. Apollo threatened to quit, the first time he saw it. Point is, if Phoenix says it sucks - it sucks.
At Soir Brew, the chairs are uncomfortable, and the tables too small to do any work. The windows face the alley across the way, so people watching is impossible. There’s a painting of a sad clown smoking hung up behind the coffee bar. The decor is all dark furniture and bare hanging bulbs in a way that Edgeworth calls chic but Phoenix just thinks is gloomy. A cup of coffee is four dollars - four dollars, and no refills.
And yet.
And yet.
Here he is, without fail, every Wednesday at six pm, meeting Edgeworth for coffee.
When he steps inside, Edgeworth is already there because he always comes exactly ten minutes early to any social occasion. He used to sit in the car down to the minute, till Phoenix started knocking on the window and getting fingerprints on the glass. Now Edgeworth waits inside. It also means that Edgeworth orders first for them both to save the barista the trouble of a staggered order - because Edgeworth is polite to nearly everyone except Phoenix. But hey, if it saves him four bucks a week, he’s not going to complain.
It’s not as though this is the only time they see each other. There’s court, of course, and Trucy’s shows and the occasional trip out for dinner or drinks, but that time is shared. There is always someone or something else pulling their attention. This is the time, once a week, that Edgeworth belongs to Phoenix.
They talk about work, the unimportant details of office life. Here it is too public for confidentiality; they work through the small, precious and mundane. Phoenix talks about Athena leaving a half eaten protein bar in her desk last weekend, inviting in a line of near-immortal sugar ants. In turn, he learns about the debate that lead to Klavier’s reluctant agreement that no, Herr Edgeworth, a giant speaker is not technically an OSHA approved working surface.
“What about a piano top? I’ve got one to spare,” Phoenix suggests and Edgeworth smiles too brightly for the joke.
“Giving it up, then?”
“You know I have,” Phoenix says seriously. That would have been a wound once, but now it’s scarred. Edgeworth is gentle, checking that it’s healing properly.
“Yes,” Edgeworth agrees, subdued. His smile dims and his brow scrunches in a way it does not usually, here. “I think about that sometimes.”
“What do you mean? Oop!” Phoenix leans forward, so intent that he does not notice his elbow against the coffee cup. He catches it before it can slide off the table, but it tilts at an angle; the liquid spills onto the floor. A flurry of paper towels and borrowed rags later, they settle back into place.
“We’ll get you another,” Edgeworth offers, raising his hand to gesture. Phoenix unthinkingly catches him, pulling his arm back down.
“It’s alright,” he says. “I don’t really like it anyway.”
“...pardon?”
Phoenix winces. “I mean… I wasn’t in the mood?”
“Don’t amend your statement. You don’t like the coffee. Why do you drink it then?”
“It’s fine, seriously-”
“It’s not,” Edgeworth interrupts. “We’ve been coming here for months. You mean to say you’ve never enjoyed it? Why wouldn’t you say something? What have we been coming here for?”
“An excellent London Fog,” Phoenix suggests weakly. Edgeworth glares.
“Because it’s ten minutes from the courthouse, and five minutes from the doggie daycare where you board Pess. Plus there’s free parking, I know that’s a bitch to find downtown. Look, I know you’re a busy guy. If you’re making time to see me, I want to make it easy for you. And you like it, right? So it’s fine.”
“Making time to see you… is that what you think this is?” Edgeworth asks softly.
Abruptly, Phoenix realizes he is still holding on to Edgeworth, resting against the table. He looks down, at hands clasped, sleeves layered blue on red. Phoenix doesn’t move away and Edgeworth doesn’t shake free. Instead, he reaches to take Phoenix by the wrist with his other hand, just holding gently - as if Edgeworth wants Phoenix near, as if he’s afraid Phoenix might let go. Phoenix leans in closer.
“Sometimes I think you might just be going along with me. You’re like that, you know. The coffee shop, in a small way. Retaking the bar in another… Tell me, how much did you want it? How much was getting carried on by someone else’s will? I confess it weighs on me.”
Phoenix raises his eyes slowly. “You think I wanted to play poker in a bar the rest of my life?”
“I think you wanted what I wanted,” Edgeworth admits. “And that scares me sometimes.”
“Why?” Phoenix asks, puzzled. “That’s always been the case.”
“Even in this?” Edgeworth asks, sweeping his thumb across Phoenix’s inner wrist. He shivers slightly. “You’d go along if I asked you?”
“Turn your thinking around,” Phoenix says, smile breaking through the shock. “This is why in the first place.”
Edgeworth leans in first, the most unimaginable part of this impossible thing that is happening in a coffee shop on an ordinary Wednesday. Their knees bump together; the kiss is brief. It would be nothing to anyone who didn’t know Miles Edgeworth, who didn’t see this for what it was: a declaration that his feelings for Phoenix are too encompassing to resist for even a moment longer. Phoenix blinks, overwhelmed.
“Next week,” Edgeworth tells him, “you choose where we go.”
”Anywhere,” Phoenix says, in a daze. “Everywhere.”
Edgeworth laughs, then kisses him again.