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The courtroom was drawn to something of a lull as the second witness of the case began their testimony. This was not uncommon. Usually, those in the gallery gave rapt attention to the testimonies. Not to brag, or anything, y’know, but Phoenix’s fame as a defence attorney was skyrocketing after he had finally managed to put the DL-6 incident to bed. The press pounced on such news. Corruption! screamed the headlines. Prosecutor not guilty! Defence lawyer hailed a hero!
Suddenly the courthouse was filled with excited observers, wanting to test their mettle and see if they could unravel the truth before Wright himself.
This time, though, something was different. Edgeworth was the prosecutor for this case.
…That… wasn’t the different thing. Phoenix quite liked facing Edgeworth compared to fuddy Payne or the dreaded Franziska.
(Why was she allowed a whip in the courtroom, anyway? Either she and the Judge had something skeevy going on or he was terrified of her.)
But… Edgeworth was… different somehow, this time. Usually, he had something sharp to say. They could, y’know, verbally spar off against one another. Today it was lacking, and a part of Phoenix missed it. Another part wondered if there was something wrong.
~
Goddamn the parking meter. Goddamn it to hell. Goddamn his tea, goddamn this trial, goddamn it all, Edgeworth thought to himself, as he shifted his weight onto his right leg. When this did little to alleviate the pressure in his lower abdomen, he shifted to his left and bit back a sigh. His gaze breezed over the witness he had selected, to Wright, there on the defence podium. Hurry up, Wright, he willed.
Whatever bullshit Wright was going to conjure up, Edgeworth just wanted it over and done with. Then the trial would be over, and Edgeworth… could… could perhaps…
He swallowed hard. The thought made a shiver jolt within him.
He was a man who liked routine, was Miles Edgeworth. He would wake up, he would drink his tea, he would drive to the courthouse to arrive promptly. He would take care of the needs he had neglected at home—there was a bathroom nestled in the corner of the courthouse, you see—and then he would be ready for the day ahead.
Imagine his surprise when he had marched to that bathroom—with a great need—to find it locked. “..Hm?”
Access denied! read a sign on the door. Enter valid code.
(In smaller, ballpoint pen scrawl were the words: and registration plate).
Ludicrous. But no matter. Back he had marched to where he kept his car. Indeed–he had not noticed it this morning in favour of focusing on his… other more important needs–there was a sleek parking meter sitting in the parking garage. A piece of paper was hastily stuck to its screen; ‘Enter registration for bathroom access code!’.
He punched in his registration plate.
Error. Mm? “E… error?” No. That couldn’t be right. That— that must have been wrong. It needed to be wrong; he needed it to be so. There was something muted in his midriff, a tingle, the sort of tingle that morphed into pressure if he thought about it for too long— and he needed it gone so he could carry out the trial.
And so, determined, he punched the plate in again.
Error.
He groaned loudly and hit the machine with his hand. His sleeve slipped to reveal his Rolex allowing for him to notice it was close to nine and the trial would be commencing in a few minutes. He would simply have to wait.
Waiting had led him to the distinctly uncomfortable position he was currently standing in. The muted tingling had become an incessant pressure, the sort that required him to rub his legs together, to shift foot to foot in an attempt to alleviate the need. The desk before him gave a thin veneer of privacy, so when the inevitable pressure started up, those annoying ripples and the tensing of his legs went unnoticed.
He was still, thankfully, able to push away the need if distracted thoroughly. He reeled over the case once more in his head. The victim, an English university student by the name of Anita Drinkwater, was found deceased at the PR firm she was interning at. There were four individuals in court today; defendant Mac Speed (the victim’s boyfriend); Primrose Parkes, Drinkwater’s colleague and purported rival— and witnesses Dot Dimms and Will Moone.
Edgeworth was not often a betting man but he could place a comfortable bet on the boyfriend being guilty.
…Of course, that was until he learned that Phoenix Wright was defending. Phoenix Wright! The man had stepped up for him in his time of need, yes, something which Edgeworth was eternally grateful for, but— what an infuriating defence! Oh, usually trials were a breeze. Gavel down. A guilty verdict by day two at the latest. Aha, not Wright! Wright squeezed every last dr— eh, ahem Wright, Wright made use of every moment he had. Four day trials were common, cut right to the wire, as Wright bumbled his way through an argument, tossed a coin and got it right. Every time. Oh, Edgeworth admired him for it. Justice was to be served. But perhaps, just— just this once justice could be served a little quicker…?
—Hmmm. Edgeworth stretched, curving over his desk slightly. A wave of need crept up on him, branched out, shuddered down his spine, and he thought with a frown that perhaps he was not doing the best at distracting himself from his situation. He frowned, tapping the desk, and wished that he could… lean against it, or- or perhaps, not quite… hold himself, but, press away the need… somehow…?
He shifted again. No, there was no way to do such a thing without it being noticeable. Perhaps the shifting was a little more inconspicuous, he reassured himself.
Inconspicuous it might have been, but Edgeworth was fast approaching the realisation it was not helpful in the slightest.
Dorothy Dimms was on the stand. Second witness. Some distant ancient relative of Wendy Oldbag, he would assume, judging by her penchant for trailing off into inane ramblings and squeezing parts of his body that he did not want to be squeezed thank-you-very-much. The pre-trial interview had been a slow descent into senility, but Edgeworth thanked every existing deity there was that the pre-trial interview had been carried out yesterday. It was hell enough to be stooped over the prosecutors' bench listening to this drib—ah, to this, um, stupidity, never mind to have been writhing in full view of the woman— and he felt a pang again and cleared his throat. This was perhaps not as great a distraction as he thought. He shifted again, frustrated that his tense thighs were not enough to quell the sensation of need vibrating over his middle. Perhaps actually listening to the trial proceedings was wise…
“The— the victim, you say?”
“Yes,” Phoenix said with a thinning veneer of patience in his voice, “You mentioned you knew the victim personally, can you expand on that?”
“Ah, um, yes,” said doddery Dorothy Dimms. She rubbed at her turkey-wattle chin, staring off into the distance of the courtroom as if it was melting away around her and something else was taking its place. “She… she looked very like my granddaughter, yes… such a beautiful girl… her brown hair… so shiny… and those big blue eyes… Yes, she— she would, be quite a good match for you, Mr Attorney, yes…!”
Phoenix startled. He took a moment to compose himself. “The— the deceased, Mrs Dimms?”
(…That would be impossible on account of her being, you know, dead.)
“My granddaughter!” she said indignantly.
Oh. Phoenix cleared his throat. “I am not here to matchmake,” he said quietly. For the merest second his gaze shot up to meet Edgeworth’s and his brows lifted high.
(What graveyard did you drag this one from?)
Edgeworth bit his lip quite hard. His insides were practically vibrating but still, considering his attention span was presently sitting anywhere but inside this courtroom on this trial he was quite pleased to have something else to occupy his mind with. Namely, the look on Phoenix’s face, which made him want to laugh.
Phoenix shook his head. “…Right- so- did you see the victim at the time of death, Mrs Dimms?”
~
Time moved slowly. Like wading through treacle. But miraculously Wright was nearing the end of his second cross-examination.
Edgeworth was bent over the desk again, trying to ignore the trembling in his hands that threatened to consume his entire body. He glanced at the Judge. He considered telepathy. Call for a recess! He willed. It was okay for anyone else to do such things, but not he!
His gaze went to Wright instead. Oh, Wright, where were your fantastical bluffs? Where was the piece of evidence that demanded a recess for extra investigation time?! By some miracle that meant Edgeworth could go home. Oh, he might even consider breaking the speeding laws just to get there if he had to. His bladder pulsed beneath the waistband of his suit trousers, tight and urgent and indignant at his train of thought. The violence of it surprised him enough to let out a choked breath that he wrangled into a cough.
“Prosecutor Edgeworth?”
Edgeworth flinched, snapping himself straight. His legs rubbed against each other like he was a keyed-up cricket. “Yes, your Honor!”
…Why, maybe he truly was telepathic after all.
“Your next witness please?”
Edgeworth nearly whined. He cleared his throat. Gah! How his brain felt like sand. Third witness. Penultimate witness. The finish line was in sight. Edgeworth knew exactly the details of the case but as he stood there, willing his mouth to reconnect to his brain, all he could think of was that it was nearly, thankfully, blessedly, over.
The Judge ‘hem’ed into the silence. He cast Edgeworth a look.
Edgeworth reddened. He blinked long and slow. “Third- third… witness…”
His heart hammered in his chest. He whirred through his notes, caught a glimpse of the letter ‘W’ and something inside him reset. “Yes.” He shivered. “Prosecution calls Will Moone to the stand…”
Wright was a fool, thought Edgeworth dourly. A fool for letting this sham continue. Moone was wittering on, and on, and oh Edgeworth did not consider himself violent but how he wanted to seize the pair of them and scream at them to stop and to leave him alone. Not just Wright, not just Moone, either, no. Everyone in this room, how he wanted them gone. His knees trembled and he kneaded with his free hand in his pocket, reminded painfully of his need to relieve himself so. His mind drifted, saw shaking hands unzipping, the stark white bathroom… the tiles on the wall…
“…Is it possible that Fluffy was involved in the murder, perhaps?”
The… the… podgy white cat…?
Edgeworth’s daydream shattered. Interrupted. By a podgy white cat. Because of course. A man could not relieve himself in peace, nor could he imagine blissfully doing so.
He felt a vein bulge in his forehead so hard it almost hurt, gingerly rubbing at his temple.
(Please, please do not make the cat testify.)
“She’s a cat, Mr Wright,” said Will Moone.
“But how do you explain this?”
Phoenix presented a photo and a teeny tiny baggie of fine white cat hair tipped with red. “The cat has bloodstains on it!”
“Objection!”
Every letter rolled agonisingly slowly around his mouth. His pointer finger shook as he swung it in Wright’s face. He stood rooted to the spot like a particularly juvenile tree, sometimes swaying. The shout brought with it that familiar electrical excitement it tended to do… but with it, something new. Something warm.
The first dribble. Seeping into his boxers somehow fast and slow at the same time. Miles froze in place. His bones went to stone. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move other than to clench desperately against the sputtering stream threatening to spill out of him. When his cement-filled body finally cracked, the only noise he let out was a short sharp ‘a-ah?’.
Then time seemed to come back to him again. The Judge was staring at him. The Court Bailiff was staring at him. Fey was staring at him. Phoenix.
Yes. Well. Yes, of course, they were staring at him. When he Objected, he had to have a reason why.
Miles swallowed, somehow hyper-aware of the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. He shifted his weight. “That is… the most ridiculous statement I have ever… heard in my entire life.”
The Judge considered. “Objection sustained.” he said carefully, “…unless, Mr Wright, you can prove this piece of evidence is key…”
~
“…You’re acting kinda weird, Nick,” Maya whispered.
“I’m acting weird? Huh. Why’d you say?”
“You’re staring at Mr Edgeworth.”
“Is that uncommon? I mean, he’s right there.” He waved his hand towards the Prosecutor’s desk.
Maya hesitated. “…well, no, but you’re really staring. And, um. I know you’re good at bluffing and all, but… you’re acting like you didn’t pass the bar.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! Are you trying to psyche Mr Edgeworth out?” She looked excited. “Is it working?” He had been kinda quiet today.
“I don’t… I don’t really know?” Phoenix whispered. “Um, and don’t you think he’s acting kinda weird, too?”
Maya shrugged. She hadn’t noticed, aside from the unusually uncharacteristic silence, but now Nick had planted that seed in her head she was keeping watch. “Well, you’ll have to think of something,” Maya whispered, thoughtfully tapping her cheek. “Or this trial is going to, um, go down the toilet.”
She laughed, but Phoenix’s eyes widened. “Maya. Say that again.”
“Um… you’ll have to think of something?”
“No! The, the other thing.”
“This trial is going to go down the toilet?”
Phoenix eyed Edgeworth. For the first time, he really saw him. Saw the flushed face and the trembles that went all the way down his body.
“He wishes…” Phoenix murmured. Interesting.
Edgeworth could see them on the other side of the room, watching, mumbling, incessantly grinning at one another. Phoenix had made it plain that he held some concern for his predicament— but did he know? Now he and Fey were whispering to themselves. Did they know? Were they— were they laughing at him?
He dug his nails into the wood grooves of the bench as though that would help him cling on - to his bladder and to his sanity.
Curse this— he was reduced to a paranoid wreck by the demands of his own body! But— but he could feel it, the desperation, the urge to go. It permeated every inch of his body. It prickled his skin. Now, he must go now, it said. At this rate he would be completely unsurprised if the desperation was coming off of his body in waves, the pointing kind, the sort that told Phoenix exactly what was wrong, what he was thinking—borderline fantasising—of doing. But he could not. He was not moving from this courtroom. He tensed his thighs so tightly they cramped, and let out a huff of air from between his teeth that tailed off into a grunt as if to assert to his body - no - he was going to wait.
This assertion was met by a sharp drill of urgency within his bladder. Perhaps you cannot wait…
The thought taunted him.
Phoenix caught his eye, and dragged his gaze deliberately down his body. (What’s your deal?)
Silence.
Even without speech, Miles knew what Phoenix was saying and he was hardly going to regale him with a response.
(If you need a break, you should really just… request one…?)
Phoenix’s gaze swivelled from the Judge, back to him. Was— was he suggesting what… Miles thought he was suggesting? To— to request a recess? He imagined it now, the Judge requesting a reason, the searing hot shame of admitting he needed to relieve himself, that he could wait no longer than he had already. Not just to the Judge. To everyone in this room.
The thought was enough to make him want to bend in half, but he settled for a tight, quiet exhale and squeezed his fist so hard his nails scratched his palms.
Nasty. It was nasty to think of such things when he was an adult and he would simply wait, as he was supposed to do, and was p-perfectly capable of doing. What… what other option did he have, anyway? The bathroom was off-limits since he didn’t have a ticket. Potentially every bathroom in the courthouse was off-limits. Rather than find out, Miles would much prefer the privacy of his own home, should… the unthinkable… happen.
He caught Phoenix’s gaze again, holding him there for a fraction of a second and subtly shook his head.
~
“…Well,” grinned Phoenix, speaking aloud again as he broke the tension in the room. “Gotta say, Edgeworth, this trial is a walk in the park…”
Edgeworth’s brow furrowed. He made a little ‘mmph’ of acknowledgement. Anything more and the water vessel inside of him would push and prod, as if— as if thinking of anything other than this banal, basic need, was prohibited. He fidgeted instead.
“I mean, you’ve hardly objected to anything I’ve got to say.”
(Honestly, he wished more trials would be like this. What a breeze.) “…How many further witnesses does the prosecution have, again?”
“O- one.”
It came out so quietly that Phoenix had to crane right over his desk to hear (although Edgeworth thought it an exaggeration). “What?”
Was Wright quite well? Was he doing this to tease? Something else flooded his body this time, every neuron alight, masking the pressing urges from his midriff.
“One!” Edgeworth snapped, leaning over his podium in return. Except the momentary loss of rigidity had the liquid in his bladder nudging forward again. Not quite out, but it rested there, stinging and hot and pleading. He hissed through his teeth with shock and urgency, standing straight once more. Thankfully the podium he was standing behind concealed the fact that he had jammed his legs together with some force. He slung his hands in his pockets, hoping this looked not too out of the ordinary for a man like him.
“The defence and the prosecution shall refrain from petty squabbling!” The Judge snapped. “One more irrelevant word and I shall have to penalise you both.”
Miles shivered, a cool tingle making its way right down his back. He resisted the urge to shout like a child, that it was Wright’s damned fault. What was he doing? If- if they were penalised… would he have to… explain? Ah, yes, you see I was reticent during this trial because I was focused on not soaking myself.
He blanched at the thought. His voice was cowed and his face marbled with shame. “Yes, Your Honor.”
As the fourth and final witness headed to the stand, Phoenix shuffled. Perhaps he could call a recess himself? Although that meant bluffing to the Judge, coming up with a suitable reason to recess. He had been bluffing his way through the trial so far, and he was quickly running out of both ideas and dumb luck. He glanced at Edgeworth again, those fine features of his contorted into a look of discomfort. Yes, the prosecutor looked as though he longed to be anywhere other than inside the courtroom. But if that was the case, why was he just standing there?
Maybe— maybe he could— annoy him into a recess? Or— or the Judge, maybe? Well— well, it wasn’t the most foolproof of plans, but— but it was the only plan he could think of that could, feasibly, work, if Edgeworth wasn’t going to give in.
His gaze swivelled. Come on, Parkes, he thought. His jaw set. Give me something to work with here. As much as Phoenix enjoyed ribbing Edgeworth, Edgeworth had seemed much more his usual self when he was objecting earlier on.
Hmm. Maybe he had gone too early with the cat thing. Or maybe— maybe— he hadn’t been outlandish enough…
“Miss Parkes, could I see your hands, please?” said Phoenix Wright.
“I got them freshly manicured,” she said quietly, holding out thin pale fingers with lines of green on her fingertips. The gallery ‘ooh’ed and murmured in a suitably excited manner.
For once Edgeworth thought he did not care. But when his reputation was at stake… Grudgingly he raised his rasping voice: “What relevance does the witness’ manicure have on the case?”
“I raise it to the court,” Phoenix said, although felt he was speaking primarily for Edgeworth, as theatrical as possible, “that Miss Parkes’ fingernails look like they do not because of a manicure, but because of— him!”
Not that cat again. Not that cat again. Not that cat again…
Edgeworth felt his entire body tense—as for the first time all afternoon something else flooded his synapses: pure, undiluted irritation. He let it wash over him, relishing in it, the first instance of not worrying about his bladder—even if its fullness, in part, was contributing to his irritation. His head filled with TV static, that fuzziness. Phoenix’s voice faded in and out of his ears:
“I propose to you, that Miss Parkes encouraged Fluffy the Cat to harm the victim, luring him via catnip!”
That cat, again! Edgeworth was yelling before his brain fully connected.
“O- objectiohhhh!”
The Judge paused.
The defence paused.
The gallery paused.
Time moved in slow, leaking movements. Big leaking moments, that hissed noisily.
“Ah!”
No-!
Edgeworth froze, his outstretched arm retracting and retreating between his legs. The force of the shout, the total lack of restraint, had, at last, become his undoing— dragging with it this great hot streak that burst against the front of his trousers and an unwinding mewl that was unlike anything Edgeworth had ever vocalised before. “N- no!” He choked, ducking to not meet what he knew were horrified stares as he realised the dribbling had picked up, dots-and-dashes into hissed streams. No, no, he couldn’t do this here!
He bounced slightly, like a child, his hand groping and squeezing to stop the impending flow. This could not be happening!
And yet— and yet his body had decided for him that yes, it was happening, and it was to happen right here, right now, and his hand was a pathetic barrier. A wet patch began to spread, a great and deadly torrent of liquid catching in the silken creases of his trouser legs, star-shaped and hot and glistening. The accompanying hiss was so violent!
Miles breathed tight, ragged breaths. Stop! He pleaded, clenching those aching muscles. Stop, stop!
Somewhere under the sickening embarrassment of it all he could feel the wooziness of relief, the kind of relief that dug into his arms and his legs and made him weak, made him want to unravel and cry out. But he did not, for that would show everyone that a part of him (however small) was pleased that the battle with his own body had finally ended. He couldn’t stop. He needed this.
The gushing stream could soon no longer be contained within his trousers and gushed past his fingers before it began to pitter-patter onto the wooden floor. First quiet, and then loud. The unmistakable sound of relief.
The noise was amplified a shameful amount in the otherwise silent and oddly enthralled courtroom. It ran, it bounced in every corner of the room, and it curved in and out of ears. All whilst Miles choked through gritted teeth and tried not to have himself sink to the floor and cry, or to pull an obscene face of bliss. Every inch of him was on fire, face streaked red-pink, pulse throbbing as his body gorged itself on the feeling of emptiness at last.
Then there was silence.
The Gallery punctured the silence first:
“Has he— really?”
“Right here?!”
“Oh, poor Prosecutor Edgeworth!”
“No wonder he was so quiet today.”
“But why didn’t he just ask to stop…?”
Edgeworth heard it all, as the splattering symphony came to a spectacular end. At least, he thought he did. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Blood bubbled through his veins, blood and shame— and yet he was rooted to the floor, unable to speak or to move. His eyes burned with tears that sprung up without his permission, although he refused to let them fall.
(…Oh man.)
Phoenix knew, somehow, that this outcome was possible, and yet he didn’t quite imagine it was actually going to happen. He nibbled his lip. He’d only meant to push Miles a little, assumed he’d have given in and requested a recess before carrying through his argument. And yet there he was, suit plastered to his shaking legs, still not.
(Are you insane?!)
He stared at Miles.
Time seemed to catch up to them both and with Miles frozen it was he who swivelled wide-eyed toward the Judge. “The— the defence demands a recess, now!”
Not a beat passed. “Recess granted. Court adjourned.”
~
“Miles!”
Miles had made a quick exit from the courtroom once the Judge had adjourned court. Phoenix guessed he was in the bathroom or his office, and had given him time to collect himself. But time had passed and Miles had not returned, so Phoenix’s concern had grown.
Phoenix stepped into the High Prosecutor’s Office, peering through the open doorway. Miles was inside, dressed in an identical, albeit dry, suit and he looked like he was rummaging around for items. Phoenix got a bad feeling. “Miles?” He repeated, softer.
“Leave me alone, Wright.”
“Are— are you..? What are you doing?”
It looked like he was preparing to leave or to run away.
Miles sniffed but didn’t answer. His back still stubbornly turned away.
“Please… please don’t leave, Miles,” Phoenix whispered. He reached out to touch the man, his fingers ever so slightly brushing the fabric of his suit jacket. His voice wobbled as he tried to comprehend this, though he felt selfish and clamped those feelings down.
Miles stiffened, twisted around, acknowledged Phoenix but then turned away again before he could let himself sink into the comfort. He sniffed. “I am a humiliation. To myself, and to this court. It only seems the natural option. How can I—” His voice cracked, and oh, he hated it for doing so. He looked down. Eyes watering. “How can I go on after such a… humiliating display?!”
Phoenix bit his lip. Miles’ instinct was always to run away from the smallest slight, and once - just once! - Phoenix wanted to protect him from it. “I don’t think so,” he said, voice as soft as velvet. “Besides, think of all the people you should stay here for.”
“Like?”
(…Ouch. Phoenix tried not to pay attention to the deflating feeling in his chest.) “Well… if you leave now, what are people going to remember of you?” he pointed out. “They’ll remember this.”
He gestured around. “…that you pissed yourself in court and ran away.” Miles flinched at the word, reddening, and Phoenix felt bad but continued regardless. “Or, you could hold your head high and go right back into court tomorrow. Justice can’t be served if you’re not around, and, well. Then people will see how dedicated you are. Right? I mean… if you carry on, this will be forgotten by next week.”
Miles made a non-committal noise. Turned around. His eyes were glimmering. Phoenix wanted to hug him but on the other hand he also wanted to breathe and he was sure Edgeworth would bop him on the nose before they got that close. “What would you do?”
“Mm…?”
“What would you do? If it was you?”
Miles was standing facing him now.
“Well… I would be embarrassed. I bike to work, so it’d be an uncomfortable ride home.” Phoenix ‘heh heh’ed, shrugging. “But… it’s not that big a deal, and I have so many people to help. So I’d be right back to work the next day.”
Miles didn’t answer right away but he looked to be ruminating over Phoenix’s response somewhat. After a little while, lost in thought, he piped up: “You bike to work…”
“Yeah…?” Phoenix ‘heh heh’ed again. “Haven’t quite got the salary for a car just yet…”
“Does your bike have a registration plate?”
Phoenix frowned. (What?!) “Um, no…?”
(Were bikes supposed to?) “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason!” Miles said.
“Sh— should it have one?”
(…Was he breaking some sort of law? How ironic.)
Miles swept around him, making it obvious he wanted out of the office. “Oh… trust me, Wright. You’ll see, eventually.” He was smiling now, but it looked a little half-hearted.
Phoenix mumbled. After court, he wasn’t sure he had the mental energy to even work out what Miles was talking about. He turned to face the Prosecutor. “So, it’s settled then? I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Miles sighed. “…I suppose. Now, look, I really must leave.” Suits that expensive didn’t clean themselves, after all. His stomach squirmed with shame at the thought of bringing it to the dry cleaner. The dry cleaner ruminating over the soiled fabric, horrified— not just at the damage but at who it had come from.
…He still seemed a little sad. Phoenix didn’t really blame him, but nor did he want him to wallow. “Wait— wait. Why don’t you come over? My place?”
Miles fidgeted. He looked taken aback. “I- I shouldn’t. I have— the— dry cleaning…?” His voice trailed off to a lame whine.
Phoenix made a rude noise. “You can do laundry at my place. I do own a washing machine, you know.”
Geez, not that he should be surprised but Edgeworth was such a tough nut to crack. But the thought of him alone in his apartment stewing away in shame was too pitiful. He thought. “C’mooon. We can— we can watch some Steel Samurai or something. And there’s that takeout place. Eggdrop soup? Eggdrop soup and the Steel Samurai. Eggdrop soup, the Steel Samurai and not having to pay for cleaning. Pretty good deal to me.”
There was a flicker. The tiniest sign of life, the curving of a lip. Phoenix grinned. “You know you want to.”
What Miles wanted to say was ‘You think your pitiful little washing machine will take the stain out of a luxury suit?’
He saw the words slice through Phoenix even though he hadn’t spoken them aloud. He sighed.
“…fine. Lead the way, Wright.”