To say that Miles was uncomfortable would be akin to saying that Wright was slightly unbalanced.

This discomfort was prompted by a combination of several factors: one considerable factor was sitting across the café table – Phoenix Wright: guileless madman, coldblooded murderer of at least several people, and old friend. Another factor, strongly linked to the first, was the vague nausea that was restricting him to chamomile tea while Wright polished off a generously-packed sandwich, despite Wright's insistence that it was going to be super awkward if he was the only one eating. (Wright didn't seem to mind now, what with his attention focused almost exclusively on his lunch.) The third factor was that there was what seemed to be an endless horde of children running underfoot. Miles Edgeworth did not like children.

But most of all, the discomfort was generated by the gnawing question of whether or not this was supposed to be a date.

Phoenix noticed him staring and turned his ketchup-smeared face face from his enthusiastic consumption of the grilled-chicken-sandwich-with-all-the-trimmings-extra-ketchup-extra-barbecue-sauce-extra-ranch-hold-the-napkin. "Lookin' kinda broody there, Edgeworth. You okay?"

"Excuse me if I find it rather strange that a psychopathic murderer has a preference for homestyle restaurants," he said, sounding far calmer than he felt, thankfully.

Phoenix licked a spot of ketchup off the corner of his mouth and said mildly, "Everyone likes homestyle restaurants."

And because what could possibly be said in response to that overt confession, Miles said instead, "You seem to be recovering…nicely from the Engarde case."

"Sure am," Phoenix said, brightening. "Engarde was fun! He was probably my favorite defendant so far – aside from you, of course," he added diplomatically.

Miles consciously kept himself from fidgeting with the napkin in his lap.

"But man, that twisted mind of his…" The defense attorney sighed in a nostalgic sort of way, even though the case had only been finished two days ago. "There were so many factors to make this case interesting – Engarde himself, of course, and Shelly de Killer, and the whole hostage thing…and you, showing up out of the blue like that…" Phoenix gave him a smile that was halfway between 'I-missed-you' and 'I-am-going-to-eat-you-alive.' Miles swallowed.

"So yeah, it was fun," Phoenix concluded. Then he took another bite, so the next words were in a garbled mess of chewing and swallowing and speaking: "Until it wasn't anymore, but that's easy enough to take care of, you know?"

Edgeworth did know. When the case became "not fun anymore" (that is, Miles had realized, when the threat against Maya's life became a very clear and present danger), Matt Engarde had been suddenly and brutally murdered, Shelly de Killer's calling card laying on top of the star's broken body. Few people (read: Miles) noticed that this murder lacked any sort of finesse, the style completely different from de Killer's usual polished assassinations; Engarde had been beaten to death with a microphone stand meant to be used for an interview with the victim only a few hours later. There had been blood everywhere. He could still smell it.

"One might almost think," Miles began, before he could really calculate whether it was wise to voice this aloud, "that the murderer had a particular protectiveness of Maya Fey."

"Well, yeah," said Phoenix the final mouthful of his sandwich.

Miles spluttered. "What do you mean, 'well, yeah'? You're supposed to be a psychopath!" he accused.

"Listen, I'll admit I may not be the sanest guy in the world." Phoenix paused to laugh – his lighthearted, who-me? laugh that never failed to at once disarm and unsettle Miles – at his own comment. "But that doesn't mean I don't care! There are some people I would do anything, but anything, to protect…"

The defense attorney's happy-go-lucky tone had faded, his gaze sharpening to a look that devoured Miles with far too much intensity to be comfortable. Or even appropriate for a family-friendly environment, really. He swallowed again nervously, licked his lips, and managed, "Wright, I – I can take care of mys—"

—And found himself silenced by Wright's finger against his lips. "Shhhh."

His gaze followed the finger to the arm to the Phoenix with his unreasonably dazzling smile and his soft eyes and his steady voice saying, "You were magnificent. Have I told you that yet?"

Despite everything Miles was blushing, even as he mentally unfolded his (surprisingly extensive, due to the several languages under his belt) collection of curses on himself for it.

Suddenly the smile turned predatory. "Especially when – and let me tell you, I appreciated the subtlety, I really did! – when I came with Maya to the hospital to make sure she was okay and one of the psychiatrists 'randomly' pulled me aside to conduct a 'routine' psychological assessment. That was really clever!"

Miles stared back, wavering between fear and chagrin. The psychiatrist had reported that one Phoenix Wright had been found to be perfectly sane, if a bit tired and worn from his traumatizing experience. And such a charming young man, she had gushed. God.

"You know," Phoenix said suddenly, conversationally, "Mia had a lot of books. She liked learning for the learning, you know? Her library is full of books on every subject you could think of. Interesting ones, too."

Another non sequitur. Or was it? A thought hit him as a cold feeling settled in his gut. "She didn't –" He faltered, then tried again. "Ms. Fey didn't have psychology books in her collection, did she?"

"Why, I imagine she did," Phoenix purred. Good Lord, the defense attorney was batting his eyelashes at him.

"I could still very well turn you in, you know," Miles said, helplessly.

Phoenix hummed in agreement, like he was trying to make Miles feel better about that fact that both of them knew he never would.

"Well, if you're done making threats, I have one of my own."

Miles had a very bad feeling about this. He nodded warily, indicating for Wright to go on.

"I'm all about soul-searching, an' taking well-earned breaks an' all that jazz, but Edgeworth?" –Miles leaned in closer without fully meaning to— "If you dare – ever – to leave without warning like that again, I promise you, you will live to regret it. You'll regret it more than you've ever regretted anything in your life."

Then Phoenix smiled that dazzling, genuine smile again. "Well, this has been really fun. I have to get back to the office, but let's do this again sometime! 'Kay?"

Luckily he didn't seem to require an answer to that, simply straightening and tossing some bills on the table between them. Then Phoenix grabbed the suit jacket he'd draped over the back of his chair, waved goodbye to Miles, and left the restaurant in no particular hurry, whistling tunelessly all the way.

Miles waited until he was well gone before counting the wad of cash and finding that Wright had left enough money to cover both of their bills (not that Miles had eaten much) and a generous tip. A very generous tip.

So it had been a date! Or had it?

Hadn't it?

Miles shivered, not out of fear but from the more than slightly disturbing fact that a part of him hoped it had been.