Disclaimer/Notes: I do not own any of the Phoenix Wright games, or either of the characters here. They belong to Capcom, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story contains fluff, some angst, and is unbeta'd. Enjoy.

Kiss You Awake

Mr. Armando was asleep.

A soft sigh escaped her as Mia put her hands on her hips with a rueful shake of her head. Really now: was this necessary? She would be the first to admit that it had been a long day at the Grossberg Law Offices, but even though she was sure that he had been working just as hard as—if not harder than—herself, the young attorney could not help but feel that this was very unprofessional. Not that Mr. Armando usually cared for that kind of trivial technicality. Mia surveyed the messy work station that he was currently using as an impromptu bed with a small frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Papers and case files, old affidavits and crime scene photographs, littered the desk's surface beneath him. There was a coffee cup still gripped tightly in his hand, though what was left of the dark liquid inside had long since cooled. It was a miracle that he had not spilled it when he slumped forward in his seat. She smiled and resisted the urge to laugh.

She did not want to wake him, after all.

Mia glanced around the office in search of something to cover him with. Mr. Grossberg had turned off the heat in the offices for the night, and while California never really got that cold, it seemed like the right thing to do. Mr. Armando was like a mentor to her, albeit an obnoxious and rather sexist one, but still and none the less. Just because he was a skirt-chaser did not mean that she could not be nice to him. She took his overcoat down from where he had hung it by the door that morning. Carefully, Mia draped it over his shoulders, her fingers curling around his shoulders and giving him the lightest little squeeze. Tomorrow, she would have to bring a blanket in from her apartment and hide it away in her office, just in case Mr. Armando decided to attempt another all-nighter.

Honestly, she had not thought that Mr. Armando ever slept. He drank that disgustingly strong coffee of his by the pot instead of the cup—three to five pots on a slow day, at least—and would probably bleed black if cut. Mia could never drink like that; she had tried half a cup of one of his specialty blends once, and then swore the substance off for good. It was thick, and no amount of creamer or sugar could sweeten it. It had given her the worst migraine she had ever had outside of her menstrual cycle, and made her so jittery that she could not even hold a pen long enough to sign her own name. With that much caffeine in his system, it was amazing he could sit still at all.

She had not lifted her hands from his shoulders yet. Mia blushed at the realization and quickly retracted them, running her palms down the front of her suit as if smoothing the creases would help regain her composure. Still, she could not shake the knowledge that he had been warm and felt strong, comforting even, beneath the soft red fabric. She wanted to touch him again, to let her fingers slip down the back of his vest and trace the lines of musculature that she knew would lie beneath. Mia wished that he was not her coworker, that she was not in a male-dominant field, that she did not have to worry about keeping her new life as far from her past as possible. Getting involved with Mr. Armando would have been a mistake. Mia needed to focus, needed to keep her priorities straight and keep searching for her mother and for evidence of BlueCorps' involvement in DL-6. Her thoughts should have still been on Fawles' death and her disastrous first trial.

But he was sleeping so soundly, and he had been so kind and helpful to her over the last week and a half. . . She wished that she could thank him for everything, but the words always failed her when he was awake and could flash her that dreamy smile just over the rim of his coffee mug as he brought it to his lips. If he was awake right now, he would call her affectionate pet names and brush her bangs back when the tips fell into her eyes. He would stand too close and ask her what she was thinking, or what she was doing right now. It made Mia nervous when he did that, because for a moment, she would wonder what it would be like to be with him, to kiss him, touch him, have his hands on her naked skin. She would wonder if it would be too forward to take his cup from him and set it aside, to push him onto the desk and find out just how soundproof these offices really were. And then he would ask if she would let him make her a cup of coffee and talk over a case with him, and the moment would be over.

"Thank you for everything. Sweet dreams, Mr. Armando," Mia murmured, leaning down to lightly press her lips to his forehead. She never would have done this if he had been awake, because she would not know what to do or say afterwards. They kept a professional distance, like they should. She did not mix business and pleasure. There were enough complications in life without bringing a man like Mr. Armando into it. Still, she lingered, not wanting to pull away. Her hand was on the desk to balance her, fingers splayed over a photo of a girl in a white dress, and something warm and rough moved to cover it with the barest trace of pressure. Mia froze, uncertain of what would come next.

His eyes were still closed, but she knew that he was smiling even if she could not see it. He squeezed her hand again before letting go and breaking the tense silence that had settled between them as he whispered: "I know that I'm still sleeping, kitten. Don't worry about tomorrow. I've had this dream before."

She left his office as quickly as she could.

Diego was sleeping.

Mia slumped into the plastic seat next to him that had been left for her, her tired gaze drifting over his figure. He was lying on his back with a blanket pulled up to the bottom of his ribcage, two pillows beneath his head and empty hands at his sides. She wished that she had thought to grab his coffee mug from the office, but she had been in a hurry and it had slipped her mind. He looked strange without it. She looked away sharply when she noticed how pale he was, checking the room for anything of interest. No coffee machine here, either; everything was white and clean and neatly tucked away into its place. It reeked of bleach and disinfectant. He would have hated this room if he was awake right now.

"Mr. Armando?" she said his name softly, taking his hand as she did so. He did not answer. Her eyes dropped as she wove their fingers together, trying to focus on the contrast of their skin tones, but could not. She kept stealing glances at the IV sticking out of his arm, at the ugly machines that monitored his vital signs. Mia squeezed his fingers, and nothing happened. If it had not been for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, she might have thought that he was dead. She bit her lower lip and tried not to think about that. "Di-. . .Diego, please. . ."

Please wake up. Please tell me it's going to be okay. Please laugh, and call me 'kitten,' and ask me if I need a cup of coffee because it looks like I'm having a bad day. Please—

She did not know what she had been going to say, and so left it at that empty plea. Mia leaned over the railing on the edge of the hospital bed and pressed her lips to his forehead. She closed her eyes and waited, but he did not respond. Her mouth traveled down along the ridge of his brow and over his prominent cheekbone, continuing to his unshaven jaw line. She brushed by the skin at the corner of his mouth and prayed for his smile. She tried to tell herself that he was only sleeping.

Mia tasted salt when she kissed him for the first and last time, his lips wet with her tears.