#I didn't think gumshoe would have the heart to arrest phoenix after he and Miles started dating

[metaphorical-goblin]

How about #2 with nrmt

“Phoenix?!”

His head shoots up, his shoulders strain from the officer’s grasp. “Miles!” He screams it, tugging against his cuffs, as he watches Miles fly down the courthouse stairs, Gumshoe’s coat wrapped around his shoulders and billowing all around him. Miles nearly crashes into him, sending them both careening against the squad car (and they would have, if this blonde jackass wasn’t holding on to Phoenix like he was actually going to try and run away). The man’s grip on his shoulders tightens, even as Miles’ hands scrabble for purchase on his suit jacket.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, knotting his fingers in Phoenix’s hair. “Oh God, oh God, I thought you died.” It stings, the way he pulls, but it’s good because he’s here and he knows Miles is alive, knows his fingers are real and his arms are real and that this is all real. “I thought you were dead.” His voice shakes with every trembling breath, and Phoenix just wants to scoop him up and carry him home.

“Edgeworth.” The cop’s voice is tense, terse, but somehow almost regretful. 

Miles doesn’t remove his arms. “A moment, Lang,” he spits, hot and furious, his nails digging into Phoenix’s back like claws. “Give me a single damn moment.”

And he sighs, irritated, but he relents. Phoenix feels his cuffed hands fall slack behind him, and he leans against Miles, legs trembling. “Miles,” he croaks, voice weak. He nudges Miles’ head aside as gently as he can and dips his head, pressing a single, soft kiss to his lips, no longer than a heartbeat or two. Miles draws back, silent, simply staring at him, mouth ever-so-slightly open. 

Phoenix leans forward, then, pressing their clammy foreheads together. “I thought I lost you,” he says, lips barely moving. 

That body, in his office—Miles’ office—wearing his coat, slumped over his desk.

His fingerprints were all over the scene. The victim’s blood, all over his hands.

Who could blame him?

There’re fingers curled around the nape of his neck, again, fingers curled in the front of his shirt, and Miles is kissing him, hard, first a gentle press of the lips and then a nip, a bite, an invasion of tongue as he drinks Phoenix down. Phoenix runs his tongue along Miles’ lower lip, groans at the way Miles goes limp against him, at the way he presses their bodies impossibly closer—

It’s all over before he can even open his eyes. “Edgeworth, come on.” The cop—Lang, apparently—interrupts, eyes averted but his hand now firmly clasped between Phoenix’s shoulder blades.

Miles pulls away, pupils blown, hands fisted in the front of Phoenix’s shirt. “I’ll figure this out,” he whispers. “I’ll— Gumshoe’s here, we’ll investigate right now, we’ll figure this whole thing out, and you’ll be out of there before they can even finish checking you in, I promise.”

“Don’t you dare go back in there, Miles. It’s not safe, who knows what—”

One hand lays soft on his cheek; the other tightens on his shoulder, gripping to the point of painful. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Miles says again, pulling his other hand close to his chest. “I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”

His back hits the ancient seats of the police cruiser, the door slams behind him, and all he can do is watch in horror as Miles stands on the sidewalk, coat billowing in the wind. The flames swallowing the prosecutors’ office lick ever higher, and the sound of approaching fire department sirens are Phoenix’s only comfort as Miles turns and marches himself back up those marble stairs as the sea of fleeing people parted around him.

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