Work Text:
Phoenix untangled himself from the blankets, pushed himself upright and brushed a hand through his hair.
He glanced at his lover, at the pale skin and straight planes of lean muscles under the soft edges of the sheets. The faintest hint of moonlight chased shadows across the room and Phoenix could just make out Miles’ breathing – soft, slow and peaceful.
Phoenix didn’t know when he formed the habit, whether it truly was a habit or just some instinct rousing within him. But since they moved in together almost a year ago, Phoenix found himself waking in the dead of the night, quietly and suddenly, once every two or so weeks. He stroked at silver hair when Miles shifted, disturbed, eyes flickering under his eyelids, until the sound of Miles’soft breathing calmed some part of him and he slipped back into slumber.
Miles said the nightmares didn’t bother him anymore, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have them.
Phoenix ghosted fingers against his lover’s cheek when Miles turned, breathing a quiet murmur. He watched the furrows smooth out before tracing a line down the curve of Miles’ throat, along unblemished skin.
Unmarked. Like a perfect, porcelain doll.
Phoenix had his share of scars. Little nicks marred the palm of his hand from his art school days when he dabbled in carving. There was a silvery line of a cut just under his hairline and a scab on his left knee after skidding off his bicycle. A long graze clawed down the inside of his elbow, an little memento from his second stage production when he had scratched himself on a nail sticking out from a backdrop in his rush to make his cue (he wasn’t sure if the front row audience was more afraid or awe by the blood dripping down his forearm – then again, he was playing Hamlet at that time).
Then there were the tiny twin bite marks the taser left. Phoenix glided over the subject whenever Miles ran light fingers over the faint blemishes, curious.
Phoenix was a veritable map of scars, one that told the stories and mistakes of his life if one cared to piece it together, but Miles’ skin was uncharted territory. The prosecutor bore his scars on his heart instead, each and every deep cut.
That was why even when they fucked, Phoenix was careful. He left love bites blooming across the white canvas of Miles’ body, trailing a line of purple-blue from his neck down to his shoulders. He scored scratches on Miles’ forearms, perfect parallel lines and when they wrestled for dominance, sometimes an over-enthusiastic bite drew blood from Miles’ kiss-swollen lips. And afterwards, there was always time to treat the wounds, either with stinging antiseptic that left Miles swearing at him under his breath or with gentle, trailing fingers to chase the pain away.
And when they made love, Phoenix wrapped his arms tightly around Miles’ shoulders and kissed Miles’ closed eyelids and stole the breath from those panting lips. He curled his form around Miles and held on or if he topped, he nuzzled his nose into Miles’ hair and neck and muttered indecipherable nonsense that consisted mostly of Miles’ name. And when they lay in a mess of tangled limbs and sweat-slicked sheets, Phoenix kept hold of one of Miles’ hands and wondered if it was stupid to promise that no scar would ever touch Miles again, inside or out.
Phoenix brushed fingers through Miles’ silver bangs and smiled ruefully when Miles stirred.
"–Phoenix?” Sleepy grey eyes gazed up at Phoenix. “What are you doing?”
"Thinking about you,” Phoenix answered truthfully and smiled when Miles growled, low and throaty.
"Please. I just got used to your stifling cuddles. I don’t need the cliché endearments.” The patented Edgeworth glare didn’t quite work with Miles’ sleepy eyes and drooping eyelids, but it was a combination Phoenix found endearing anyway.
"Then I suppose you won’t mind if I gave you one of my ‘stifling cuddles,’ then?” Phoenix joked, shifting back under the sheets.
"You can do whatever you wish as long as it doesn’t disturb my sleep.”
"Need your beauty sleep, huh?” Phoenix said and chuckled when Miles made a grumbling noise in his throat and turned pointedly around.
"Go to sleep, Phoenix.” Miles’ voice was fond under the stern tone.
Phoenix was quick to take the hint, curling his arms around Miles’ waist and pressing himself up against Miles’ back.
And instead of the usual playful bites, Phoenix made light, butterfly kisses along Miles’ exposed neck, at the faint line between slightly tanned skin and white, carefully, carefully. He nuzzled promises into the hollow of Miles’ throat, murmured a vow every time his lips move, stroking one hand against Miles’ chest, over his heart.
Miles hummed appreciatively under his breath, his body relaxing under Phoenix’s touch before he turned sharply within the circle of Phoenix’s arms. The not-quite-glare Miles directed at Phoenix is not unlike the one he used in court, except worse – Miles never stared at his witnesses mere inches away from their faces.
If eyes were windows to the soul, Phoenix was sure Miles read him entirely, front to back.
"For a man who survives solely on faith and impeccable talent for illogical reasoning in the courtroom, you harbor a remarkable amount of uncertainty.”
Phoenix gazed at him, loosening his hold only when Miles gave an impatient huff. Perhaps Miles could read minds, because he frowned down at Phoenix’s hands for a long moment before something behind Miles’ eyes sharpened and he wrapped his arms around Phoenix’s neck.
"I’m not going anywhere, you idiot,” Miles whispered, as if it was a secret between the two of them they couldn’t allow the world to hear. “I’m staying right here if I have any say about it.”
As he spoke, Miles stroked fingers through Phoenix’s hair, still spiky and as unruly as ever, curving to fit against the contours of his skull and pulled Phoenix forward until their foreheads touched. Miles stared at him, his eyes dark and dilated in the darkness, and Phoenix thought of painting them, those grey eyes that looked so cold and distant in the courtroom but softened just for him. His heart jolted as recognition hit him: Miles mirrored Phoenix’s actions, the same voiceless vows, except in his own way.
"I know,” Phoenix whispered back, and thought that, in the months since they’ve been together, Miles’ nightmares grew less and less frequent to the point where Phoenix would wake and simply watch him sleep. “I know, Miles.”
"Good, because I’m not repeating myself.”
They stayed like that, impossibly and uncomfortably tangled, arms thrown over waists, hands tucked into the curve of the neck, legs entwined. Miles’s fingers are curled possessively around Phoenix’s wrist, but there’s something in the curve of the not-quite-smile that’s vulnerable, tender.
The unsettling snarl of restlessness Phoenix never quite noticed he harbored is tranquil.