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“You, Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska says, voice dripping with contempt, “are such a cliché.”
It cuts him to the quick. He thinks about it the rest of their evening over a stilted, uninspired roast duck l'orange. It follows him throughout the rest of the week, bleeding into his work days at EdgeCorp Marketing.
He broods during Gavin’s abysmal excuse for a sales pitch on the Blue Badger Berry Crunch Cereal campaign. He sulks during Ema Skye’s lab report explaining that the fabric they approved last quarter for the Pink Princess PlushKitty Toy Line has to be scrapped for flammability concerns. He positively seethes over the latest stack of ‘anonymized’ complaints about Cykes’ headphones and Justice’s phone manner and Blackquill’s general state of being, penned in Gaspen Payne’s obnoxious hand. In short, Company President Miles Edgeworth is a haunted man.
“Is the boss-man in?” A voice asks just outside.
“Technically? I’d steer clear if I were you, though, Mr. Payne. He’s in a mood.”
Miles bristles.
“How dare you speak to me like that! I’m a senior associate. President Von Karma never would have stood for it, you’d have been busted down to mailroom clerk so fast it’d make your head spin. Now step aside!” The insipid little man yells, pushing open the door to Miles’ office without even a cursory knock on the doorframe.
Miles feels the corner of his mouth turn up in satisfaction. He leans back in his leather swivel chair, in what Phoenix calls his supervillain pose.
“And what was it, precisely, that made you so certain of your welcome in my office? What could be so pressing as to demand my attention without even the common courtesy of having my secretary announce you first?” He asks pleasantly. Just because he’s annoyed at Phoenix doesn’t mean anyone else is allowed to mistreat him.
Gaspen Payne squeaks.
“Mr. Wright?” Miles says, not taking his eyes off his prey.
“President?”
“Close the door, please.”
“Sure thing.” The slowly closing door cuts off his smirk - and the last of Payne’s hopes for mercy.
Even this triumph is short lived, however. Halfway through his scathing speech, perfectly rehearsed and a long time coming, Miles gives up. He pages Security Officer Gumshoe to escort Payne out of his office and down to the basement with the box of his cubicle detritus. Gumshoe leaves the door open a crack because he is an untidy German Shepherd of a man who was raised in a field with wild goats, apparently.
“Busted him down to mail clerk,” Phoenix says, slipping inside and shaking his head. “Harsh.”
“It was the latest in a long line of incompetant behaviors.” Miles says defensively.
“You’re the boss, I just work here.” Phoenix holds up his hands, mock-innocently. Miles winces. Phoenix notices, of course.
“Huh. You… okay? I mean it’s been a while since we saw the old Demon President rear his ugly head. I’m pretty sure you made Klavier cry over his trite jingle set to ego and electric guitar.”
“Do you think I’m a cliché?” Miles asks without meaning to.
“A cliché?”
“It’s just that Franziska… well. Nevermind.” Miles waves him off. This is becoming dangerous territory. He’s not sure he’s ready to start that particular expedition.
Phoenix, of course, does not leave. “Franziska is mean,” he says frankly. “She’s always been mean and she’ll die mean. Don’t let her get to you.”
“You hardly know her,” Miles protests.
“She spat gum in my hair. Gum! Rubbed it right in the spikes. I got it out okay but I smelled like peanut butter for weeks. Pess wouldn’t leave me alone, remember that?”
“I do,” Miles admits. “But again, she was three.”
“Human nature is essential and unchanging, Pres.” Phoenix says sagely. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I wasn’t aware psychoanalysis was on your resume when I hired you.”
“It was,” Phoenix assures him. “Right alongside childhood friend willing to put up with your bullshit and mediocre skills with a french press.”
Miles unthaws a little at the memory. Phoenix had burst into the room on interview day in a cheap suit just a shade too blue for a neutral.
“Remember me?” He’d asked, grin bright.
Miles had not been amused. He’d been the lowest rung on the ladder, position precarious and grim. Anyone who worked for him would have to throw their lot in with his completely; if he failed, they would both be blacklisted. They’d never work in the business again. Manfred Von Karma had forced a hostile takeover of EdgeCorp when Miles was still a child; he would wrest control back or die trying. The risk far outweighed the reward. No one was foolish enough to trust an Edgeworth in business since his father died.
“Sounds cool, I’m in.” Phoenix shrugged. “And I type 122 wpm, so you’re not going to do much better than me. I’m hired, right?”
It had taken blood, sweat and sleepless nights to win back his father’s company, but Miles had succeeded. He had compensated Phoenix handsomely, of course, but all in all the man is still a secretary. He’s never asked for anything more. Phoenix seems to have no particular goals or ambitions, yet he’s as likely to stay late poring over financial statements as Miles is. All this, and for no particular personal gain. Perhaps Miles has taken too much already. With such loyalty, how can he dare to ask for still more?
There are advantages to having someone with such intimate knowledge of yourself as your closest confidant and right hand man. Phoenix knows Miles in and out - weaknesses, strengths, past and present. Miles is usually comforted by this fact, but at the moment it is slightly worrying.
“Are you a cliché?” Phoenix repeats slowly. “Maybe.”
Miles sighs. He gets up and comes around the desk with the last of today’s work. He hands half the stack to Phoenix and begins filing the rest himself.
“You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s my job. You can just… hang out and think big Presidential thoughts.” Phoenix reminds him.
“It’s what we’ve always done, no reason to change it now. Besides, the faster we finish, the faster you can head home. I’m sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your evening hanging around the office.”
“Hm… something about the way you said that makes me think you’re planning to spend the rest of your evening hanging around the office. Is it the Badger cereal thing? Because it’s gonna be fine, I put that new kid Apollo on it with Klavier. I think they’ll make a good team. But if you’re really worried about it, I can help you go through the client parameters tonight. We could order in dinner, make a night of it.”
“It isn’t that,” Miles admits. “I suppose I just don’t have a reason to rush home.”
Phoenix pauses over G.
“That’s sort of what I meant,” he says casually. “You’re a workaholic without much of a social life. That’s kind of a cliché. There’s other stuff too, but that might be kind of genre-specific.”
“Do tell.”
“Well, you’re rich and single and good looking or whatever. That’s pretty cliché.”
“Is it?” Miles asks, surprised into looking up. Phoenix has practically his entire face shoved into the cabinet, ears faintly pink.
“Yeah. For a Hallmark movie or a K-drama or something. You’d help out some beauty with her struggling cat cafe, or give it all up to start a Christmas tree farm with a gorgeous widower and his six kids. You’ve basically got a giant target on your back for Cinderella types.”
“I would never do either of those things, they are terrible investments,” Miles says, mildly offended. “M?”
“Oh, here, I have the rest of them.” Phoenix deftly files the last few folders. “Anyway, so long as you don’t fall for your secretary I think you’re safe from being marked an unforgivable cliche.” He looks up at Miles and promptly shuts his tie in the drawer.
“OW! Jesus, Uh-”
“Here, Phoenix, you fool-” Miles scrambles to help.
“W-What’s that face for? Why did Franziska call you a cliché, what did you tell her?” Phoenix asks, touching his throat gingerly.
“Something unforgivably cliche, apparently.” Miles straightens Phoenix’s tie.
“What’s that mean?”
Miles sighs. No need for further delays at this point. He reaches into his top drawer and hands Phoenix a single sheet of paper.
“This is an HR complaint.” Phoenix says. “Why are you giving me a, what’s this, a report on- inappropriate advances from a superior.” he reads, eyebrows raised. “Did you… do something?” His voice is perfectly neutral, but reading your childhood friend like a book goes both ways, sometimes.
Miles kisses him.
“You can file that now, if you like,” he says after. “It just needs your signature.”
Phoenix leans over to feed it into the paper shredder.
“Now,” he says, grabbing Miles by the lapel. “Where were we?”