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Miles woke as he usually did, disoriented by dreams, and glanced at the clock beside his bed. It was six fifty-three in the morning. It was Wednesday. It might as well be time to get up. He slid himself out of bed and pulled off his nightshirt, folding it casually before placing it under his pillow as usual. Another piece of orienting information surfaced in his mind as he made his way to the shower. Wright got his badge back yesterday.

He turned on the shower and began shaving as he waited for the water temperature to rise. Miles hadn't actually seen Wright in person since their meeting a few months back. Wright had insisted on meeting face-to-face at least once, when Miles had first made the request for his old friend to come back to the law again, and Miles had complied. He'd wanted to see Phoenix, too. But it was really safer to communicate by phone. Bringing about an end to the Dark Age of the Law would require care, especially since they had at least one completely unknown target to pin down. So he hadn't seen the new badge, no doubt already pinned to Wright's blue lapel. He'd only seen the paperwork.

Miles gave his now-smooth chin one last check in the mirror before stepping into the shower. He relaxed a little as the water hit his chest, running down the grey-brown hairs there to spill around his half-hard cock. He put his head under the stream, scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair to pull it off his face as he reached for the soap. The smell of lemongrass filled the shower air as Miles slid the soap over his skin, thinking as he did about Phoenix Wright, ace attorney, perpetually unprepared but wholeheartedly committed, every time. He chuckled. There was no predicting the man. The first time he'd lost a case to Phoenix Wright … he could barely remember the details, now, only how confused he'd been at losing, how frustrated. He'd spent the better part of their second trial alternating between a determined prosecution of his own case, and a frown as he tried to work out what on Earth his opponent was planning. But Wright wasn't planning anything, and by the time Miles had worked that out, it was too late.

Miles began to wash the soap off his body, remembering, with shallow breaths, that first moment in the second trial when he had realized that he, himself, was becoming convinced by the defense he was witnessing. That feeling should have been a violation of everything that Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth was, and yet it had stolen into his brain quite artlessly. It felt natural, and yet it could hardly have been more startling than if Wright himself had reached out and put a hand around his …

Miles wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, letting out a sigh as he slowly dragged his hand up the hard length. He arched his neck into the warm water and continued to palm himself. He remembered the way Wright's eyes would widen with undisguised shock when Miles sprung a trap, the way he'd smile desperately when cornered and then suddenly, brilliantly, come out with some completely unexpected possible truth. It was maddening. It was beautiful. He missed it. He wanted it. “Wright, Wright, Wright, Wright, Wright …” he muttered, desperately, jerking his hand with each repetition of the name as his jaw tightened and his cock became still harder. He wanted to come. He wanted to be able to just walk right across some imagined courtroom, and watch Wright's mouth widen in shock as he knelt at his feet, undid the man's belt, slid a hand into his pants and claimed his cock. Miles opened his mouth and imagined himself sliding his lips over the head of it, imagined Wright's suddenly completely unguarded sigh of pleasure, imagined his tongue running across the smooth ridge, teasing, reducing Wright's breath to short gasps.

Miles's own breath was catching in his throat, now, as his hand brushed over his swollen cock in soft, delicate strokes, extending his aching desire for as long as possible. What would he do next? He imagined the defense attorney writhing under his mouth, begging for something more, as Miles's lips teased him mercilessly, and then imagined himself slowly, deliberately sliding a finger into the man's ass as he groaned and started thrusting uncontrollably into Miles's mouth, completely at Miles's mercy (When had Phoenix become completely unclothed, in this fantasy? Never mind). Miles imagined Phoenix jerking uncontrollably over his fingers – no, not over his fingers, over his cock, yes, his cock, sliding forcefully and deliberately into Phoenix's ass as Phoenix gasped and moaned with pleasure and called his name, his first name, Miles, like that, god, yes.

Miles groaned as he came, sweaty and gasping under the hot water.  He slumped against the wall of the shower, exhausted, and leaned there for a while, as the blood flowed back from his cock and the semen slowly drifted down the drain. His breaths became calmer, slower, deeper, until he sighed and quickly rinsed himself off.

Miles turned the shower knob back and reached for a towel, stepping carefully onto the bath mat as he dried himself and turned his mind back to reality. Wright, yes. He owed the man a lot. Perhaps they could meet up, some time, after all of this was over, for dinner or something. Platonically, of course. He scrubbed at his hair with the towel and then glanced at the mirror, suppressed a laugh, and picked up his comb.

How had Miles ever thought he'd be able to repay Wright for what the defense attorney had taught him? He'd tried, sort of, when he'd finally returned from that year of disappearance after the Skye trial. Miles had felt as though he had finally sorted everything out. I learned something! I learned it from you. Let me show you. Miles tilted his head and ran the comb under those front strands, pulling them away from his face.

When his hair was arranged in its normal state, Miles went to the wardrobe. Shirt, socks, underpants. Okay, so Wright hadn't exactly been welcoming, when Miles had finally returned to California. He'd been hurt. He hadn't understood, at least not at first. But they'd learned to trust each other in the courtroom, for all that. They'd become friends, and after all these years, with all their struggles, that friendship was still something Miles could call on. Miles quietly buttoned up his shirt. He put on his pants. He closed his belt, and reached for his waistcoat.

Miles had never told Wright about the other thing he'd sorted out for himself in that year away. Coming back to his old life, born anew into some composite of the person he'd been and the things he'd learned, his revelation about the purpose of the courtroom had been easy to incorporate. That other thing – not so much. If there was a way to be (Chief) Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth and a sexual being, well, that was a puzzle that the man himself had yet to figure out.

The courtroom mattered more, anyway. Miles buttoned his waistcoat. He folded the knot of his silk cravat expertly around his neck and then put on his jacket, checking that his spectacles were in their usual pocket. He stopped just once in front of the mirror before leaving his room, and found a small smile. Phoenix Wright was an attorney again, and all was right with the world.