Title: Anchor at Fifteen Stories
Rating: PG
Pairing: Wright x Edgeworth
Word Count: 1,579
Description: Edgeworth slips away to indulge a smoke, but Phoenix sees more in it than just vice.
Author's Note: An exercise in atmospheric writing, mostly. Takes place before the last day of the GS1-5 trial. The stress smoking was drawn from a short drabble I read; Miles always struck me as someone who would have a secret vice that went against his pristine image.

The last sun-touched rays of evening faded from the granite rooftop, glistening like rain slicked across a windblown bubble. Pearl clouds lay bruised the color of February dusk, their sanded surfaces unraveling across the city nightscape, creamy and fine. The air stood still; anticipating a sea wave, it received but an icy chill of smoke carried upon the waxen skies above Los Angeles.

A thin orange flare burned ashes into the breeze.

Miles exhaled slowly, deliberately, grey eyes slitted as his neck tilted back, silk fabric caressing the pale skin of his throat as he savored the nicotine rush. One. Two. Breathe. Inhale. A forefinger slid across the end of his cigarette, barely brushing the tip before sliding it once more between wet lips, wet tongue, rolling the burn rings until they were damp and bitterness seeped into his mouth from the crackling leaves beneath. He'd stripped off the filter when he'd gotten here.

A short laugh, irony. Thirty detectives, officers, prosecutors in one room, and not a single carton between them. Perhaps it was true, then, how the guilty hid their vices...

H-Hey, Mr. Edgeworth!

What is it?

Here's the evidence you wanted on the Skye case.

Good. Leave it on my desk.

Yes, Sir! Um, is there somethin' else you were lookin' for?

...No. Nothing. I have some business to attend to outside.

Oh, okay. Wait, if you're going out then...you sure you don't need a coat, Sir? It's real cold right now.

That won't be nec -

Here, you can borrow mine! I got it at the police department sale. Might be a little long, but there's this thick lining all around, and what with Chief Gant in court, I don't think...I mean, Mr. Wright got us -

That won't be necessary, Detective. I'm merely stepping out for some air.

Now that he was outside, on the prosecutor's office rooftop with nothing but a flimsy court jacket to beat back the winter chill, he regretted turning down Gumshoe's offer.

"Edgeworth!" A voice cracked, warm and over-eager, through the quietude of his thoughts. "What're you doing up here?"

"What does it look like, Wright?"

Hiding. And not doing a good job of it.

Aloud, Phoenix said, "I guess we all need a break, huh?" He slowed to a trot, false smile stretched too widely across an already pallid face.

"Hmph," was Edgeworth's only reply.

Silence, once again. His eyes drifted from the rain-flushed sunset, canvas dipped in a river of gold, to the few stark buildings pitting the cobalt horizon (a flower shop, a restaurant, a Holiday Inn flashing VACANCY in neon red letters), and then back down, trailing the street lamp watch lined up like tin soldiers marching one-two, one-two, all goose steps without rhythm. He sensed apprehension in Wright's gaze, brought the cigarette to his lips without looking.

Inhale. One. Two. Let the breath out slowly. Exhale.

"I didn't know you smoked," the other finally broke the silence.

"I didn't think it was relevant."

He could almost hear Wright flinch at the misstep.

"That's not how I meant it."

A glance over revealed ruffled hair, a slept-in suit, dark brow furrowed in concern. Disappointment.

"You're concern for my health is touching, Wright, but I believe I can manage one cigarette without dying." He took another long drag for emphasis, letting the smoke curl lazily around the fog of his own breath. Light swirls clung to his skin like caresses.

That can't be your first one of the day, Edgeworth.

His movements were too practiced, too fluid, for this to be a one-time indulgence. Phoenix wondered what else his friend had been hiding from him over this past year. After DL-6, they'd grown a little...closer, if you could call it that, the long nights spent in silent, heated embrace. But, still. Edgeworth had his pride to protect, and there were times when he'd simply disappear without a word to some far-out place, brooding darkly.

Like now. Phoenix glanced back at the slim, silver-haired man shivering in the icy air. Still too proud to ask for anything, even when it was right in front of him.

"...Gumshoe wanted me to bring this to you. He said you'd be cold."

Something approaching surprise crossed Edgeworth's face at the peace offering – thrust out like a piece of evidence on the courtroom floor – to be replaced by a thin smile, nod as his eyes fell on the proffered trenchcoat. Tan, battered, with the police department lettering faded almost to white on the back. But warm. Miles balanced the cigarette between his lips, lifted his arms out in one fluid motion, and without thinking Phoenix slid the coat over broad shoulders clad in burgundy and wool, the smooth whisper of cotton sending a shiver up his spine. Knots of muscle eased when he kneaded his fingers through them, tensions unseen on that tilted face, pale skin. The crescent of dove grey hair feathering across too-sharp cheekbones.

Miles' exhale this time was slower, shakier, as if reluctant to release its clutch on his lungs.

"Did the...inquiry committee decide on its penalties yet?" Phoenix asked hesitantly after a few minutes of gazing at his lover, trying to read the other man's carefully fixed expression.

"No." Edgeworth flicked a speck of ash off the end of his cigarette. His own eyes were on the fifteen-story drop below him. "Document retrieval is getting stalled, with the Chief Prosecutor on trial and the second homicide at the police department. There won't be a final decision until Thursday." A chill breeze blew his hair back like an invitation, and when he leaned forward, he could see the ground careening up, parked cars deceptively toy-like in their miniature brigade across the rain-damp pavement.

They say there was an incident here once...

Phoenix stepped beside him on the rooftop, fingers closing around the chipped metal railing that snaked the perimeter of the ledge.

"I'm sorry it came to this," he whispered, soft, genuine. Eyes warm and wide as he drew near the other man.

The hands that slid tentatively over Edgeworth's shoulders pressed him close, reminded him of how little rest he'd gotten these past few days, how little...ease. Not the sleep, per say – he'd weathered far worse in the first years of his career, toiling under the unforgiving eye of von Karma – but the sense of place. That rare comfort he'd only first truly felt on the night DL-6 was closed, a night without screams, without guilt, a night wrapped solidly in slumber with Phoenix's chest pressed into the curve of his spine and Phoenix's lips brushing lightly against the shell of his ear, whispering...whispering his name as he did now.

...Miles...

Miles drew away abruptly, arm clenched close to his side.

"That's no longer important." His voice came out thick and uneven. Broken, almost. Stiff fingers brought the nicotine back to his lips, inhaling that toxic warmth, as he drew a hitched breath of smoke and ashes. One-two. One-two. His count thudded erratically, fluttering like the pulse in his throat.

Only after the thin exhale did he regain his composure again, remarked, "In any case, I've more pressing business to attend to downstairs, so..." He pivoted a little too sharply, his gaze lingering a little too long on that part of the railing that sheered downward to the edge. Fifteen stories, they said. Fifteen stories, and the only unshattered part of his body was the attorney's badge pinned to his navy suit. With something not unlike a shudder, Edgeworth made his way toward the exit, tan trenchcoat still draped heavily across his shoulders like a cloak.

"One last thing, Miles!"

He might not have turned, if that voice wasn't followed by a quick-step tug.

"Mm?"

The arm that looped around his back was stronger this time, more forceful, but it was the kiss that threw him off balance; Edgeworth's eyes widened as warm lips closed around his own, a half-open mouth parted against his tongue, a hand caught, just barely, his wrist above the open sleeve collar and traced two fingers along his upswept palm. Breath glided silkily, Phoenix tilting his neck to seal their mouths together. Perhaps it was the cold, but a small noise found its way up Miles' throat, something he didn't know was buried there, catching on disquiet, lingering on greed, before finally – just a gentle brush of lace on skin – exhaled in a muted quaver.

Phoenix broke off first with a grin. His hand still held the other's arched wrist, cigarette smoldering between them. "There're better things to be addicted to," he murmured, face flushed, borrowing Edgeworth's smirk.

"Hmph." For a moment, a flicker of genuine emotion skimmed across Miles' features, softening steel eyes into pebbles on a lucite pond. "...That may be true."

It was only after Wright had left, as the last rays of sunset painted the L.A. sky, that he found himself thumbing the burnt stub of ember once more between his fingertips...and, like an anchor, letting it drop.