Disclaimer/Note: I do not own the Phoenix Wright games, or any of the characters mentioned in this story. They belong to the series' creator and Capcom. I am not making any money from this, so please do not sue me. These scenes were written solely for my own amusement and that of anyone choosing to read it. They take place at some point prior to Investigations. This is unbeta'd. Prompt for this involved Lang and Shih-na sharing a bed and sleeping together.

Intimacy

"If you can't sleep, you can always come see me. I'm in the next room over," he told her, tilting his head down and gesturing broadly. "Lang Zhi says: 'A pack that runs together stays together,' after all."

The first time he tells her that, she thanks him but shakes her head. The second time, she bares a toothy smile and tells him she will consider it. There is no third time.

He finds that he can't sleep on western beds. Too soft, he'll say. Agent Lang pulls all the blankets and pillows to the floor beside the bedframe, huddles in on himself for warmth and that vague sense of safety that he can't quite reach by himself. He is too suspicious of people from outside his self-made pack to try with anyone else.

When she joins him in the middle of the night, he is surprised. The sound of the door opening and gently closing wakes him, the rustle of cloth as her dress and gloves are removed causes him to raise his head and growl at her intrusion. He can feel her skin, cool and soft and smelling ever-so-faintly of perfume, when she slips under the covers. In the dark, he cannot read her expression.

"Shih-na?" he asks softly. She puts her arms around him, and leans their foreheads together. He can feel a heartbeat, not his but not entirely hers either, pounding against his chest. It occurs to him that it belongs to them, and will not exist once one of them pulls away. He does not want to be the first.

"Lang Zhi says: 'For some moments, there are no words,'" she whispers to him. He can feel her words on his skin, brushing across his cheek and jaw. Instinctively, he shifts to nuzzle her, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her to closer to him. "Don't ruin this one with yours."

They hold one another through the night, and for the first time in a long time, Lang does not feel anxious. He knows he is safe.

It becomes a regular occurrence when they are on the job: Shih-na stops booking two rooms, and his other subordinates simply turn a blind eye to their activities.

Lang sleeps with his clothes on because he respects her. Neither wants to discuss the reasons behind why Shih-na sleeps in the nude. He chooses to interpret it as a sign of trust.

Some nights, Shih-na is the one who trembles. She twists and turns, jerking back away from him as if, for the briefest of moments, she has forgotten where she is and who she is once. Once, she cries, and it is then that Lang steels his courage to ask her about her nightmares.

She admits to being afraid that she'll die alone.

"You're part of the pack now, Shih-na. You can't lose us."

"But I will," she tells him, and he doesn't need to see her face to know that it carries a depressive mockery of her normal features. "I always do. It's why we shouldn't ever be close; Lang Zhi knows that what is never had can never be lost."

"I will be there, even if no one else is."

"Those whose creed profess loyalty over all else die young," the warning is strange, foreign and cryptic. Agent Lang wrinkles up his nose in confusion.

"Lang Zhi never said that."

"He didn't have to," she replies, and settles herself down among the assortment of pillows, her head resting on the flat plane of his pectoral. Her white hair tickles his collar and shoulder, but he does not reach up to move it. "He lived it."

Some nights he is the rock, the pillar of stability and strength. Most nights, though, end with her petting back his hair and murmuring soothing sweet-nothings until the nightmares pass and his pained whimpering subsides. She says nothing in the morning to betray his evening insecurities.

It is not weakness that pulls them together, but it is strength and pride that drives them apart.

They return to Zheng Fa empty-handed for what seems like the hundredth time. The smuggling ring has the upper hand; they are always three or four or even ten steps behind, checking over old evidence that says some place used to be a base of operations. There are never prints. There are never witnesses. The ring is a ghost that torments Lang's every waking moment.

Shih-na waits for him at the door of the Interpol office, her sunglasses on and hiding her cold red eyes from view. She asks what his evening plans are. He can barely manage the tired, one-word response:

"Sleep."

They are silent for a moment, gauging each other's reactions. Shih-na removes her shades.

"May I join you?"

His apartment is clean and stark, all dark fabric bases with bright contrasts and hardwood floors. The furniture is traditional, arranged to promote health and peace of mind. He has a few well-managed plants. There is philosophical calligraphy carefully framed on the walls. His bed resides on the floor and consists of several large, fluffy pillows, a thick mattress pad and multiple blankets to burrow into.

It is a place to hide, a sanctuary of sorts.

Lang lets his subordinate pull him to the bed, lets her help him out of his jacket and shirt. Shih-na goes for his belt and he grabs her hands, shaking his head. She is confused for a moment, but it soon passes as he lays down, dragging her beneath the folds of his many blankets.

It is warm. They fall asleep holding one another.