Chapter Text
Miles stubbornly refuses to check for the cat the next day.
Since it’s Sunday, he doesn’t have to open the bookstore, but as Miles stands at his kitchen counter and waits for the teakettle to boil he finds himself making all sorts of excuses in his head for a reason to go downstairs anyway. Perhaps he should get some restocking done, he thinks, as he measures out a cup’s worth of loose leaf, or sweep the floor, or wash the windows or make sure that Kay hasn’t stolen any money from the register for her enamel pin obsession. And, if he’s already downstairs, he might as well check the alley for the cat, right?
The teakettle whistles, and Miles exhales. He won’t, of course, do any of those things. He’ll simply shove all his excuses deep down, sit in the armchair in his living room (which is a very comfortable chair, perfect for hours spent with a book) and force himself to read. It’s the best perk of living above a bookstore, in his opinion: he has unlimited access to books. Franziska and Kay might think him a recluse or hermit for reading rather than talking to people and making friends, but what kind of bookseller would Miles be if he hasn’t personally read a book he might recommend? Books are far easier to read than people, so Miles is content with his perfect little excuse to sit in the quiet of his apartment in a morning streaked with gold, a cup of tea (earl gray, usually, or pu-erh if he’s feeling especially adventurous) in one hand and a book in the other.
It’s the only appointment in his planner for today: read, read, read. And, as noon rolls around, Miles is halfway through not only his second cup of tea but his latest acquisition from the bookstore as well, taken from the new arrivals display just yesterday. He’s always liked books that make him think, and he’s fairly confident he’s got the end of Anxious People all figured out (upon finishing the book, he’ll realize he was completely wrong, and be rather annoyed by it. But, in his defense, he hadn’t been expecting a rabbit in the bathroom, or overly sympathetic police officers). Anxious People is an excellent read, and Miles expected nothing less from the author, which is exactly why he finds himself so irritated that he can’t keep his mind off that damned stray cat.
Miles’s want to check for the stray bothers him; he sternly reminds himself that he is a dog person ; cats, no matter how bedraggled and pitiful they may look, are not, and never have been, his preferred choice of companion. The cat outside his bookstore is not his responsibility, no matter if it’s trespassing on his property or not. It’ll likely give Miles fleas or rabies or whatever diseases an old, dirty cat might carry around anyway, or, worse, it’ll bite Pess.
It’s best if he just leaves it alone.
He turns back to the book, where Jim is running out of patience with a policeman who happens to be a bit of a magician in his spare time.
Magicians, Miles thinks sardonically, and turns the page.
And yet, despite all the logic laid before him clear as day, Miles still finds his gaze wandering off the page to the window in his kitchen, which overlooks the back alley. He taps his finger on the edge of the book, takes a sip from his tea. It’s gone a bit lukewarm.
Miles is embarrassed to admit that, only a few minutes later when Pess paws at the door to go outside, he nearly pulls a muscle with how fast he gets up from the chair. He’s lucky he has such a sweet and non-judgmental dog; Pess merely thumps her tail on the floor at the prospect of getting outside that much quicker.
After taking Pess out for a romp through the bookstore’s flowerbeds and skillfully avoiding any eye contact with Mia Fey across the street, Miles decides he’ll do some restocking after all. If he’s too distracted to read, he might as well do something useful with his time. New book shipments come in on Tuesday, so it wouldn’t hurt to be a day ahead. He returns Pess upstairs before fetching yesterday’s unfinished box of books from the backroom.
As he unpacks the box on the counter, Miles briefly glances at the back door, but quickly turns away.
“It’s a cat ,” he scolds himself. “It can manage on its own.”
The stray still lurks stubbornly in the back of Miles’s mind, however, as he works through the rest of the inventory. He catches himself imagining how skinny the poor creature had looked when he’s supposed to be checking a copy of Radio Girls for wear, and when his mind gets caught up in wondering how long the cat’s been living in back alleys, he accidentally shelves Good Omens in the nonfiction section.
Miles sighs, irritated with himself. “Stop being foolish,” he mutters under his breath, pulling the book off the shelf.
“Hell will freeze over before you quit being foolish,” a voice says behind him, and Miles nearly, nearly, lets out a very undignified sound in his surprise.
But he doesn’t, because he is a calm, well-dressed and put together individual who does not scream whenever his sister sneaks up on him. He forces an exhale between his teeth and turns to glare at her, unsurprised at the smug expression he finds.
“Franziska,” Miles says, his false pleasantry falling flat. “When did you get here?”
Franziska smirks, tucking her keys away in her faux leather purse. She’s clearly pleased with herself. “Just a minute ago. Perhaps if you weren’t so distracted talking to yourself, you might’ve heard the bell.”
“Excellent advice,” Miles says drily. “I’ll certainly keep it in mind.”
He slips past Franziska, tucking Good Omens under his arm as he heads to fiction. Her shiny black stilettos click click after him, sharp, and he wonders just how distracted he must’ve been to not hear her footsteps creeping up behind him. Or the door.
Miles shelves the book where it belongs, ignoring Franziska’s storm-cloud stare at the back of his head. She’s always been irritatingly good at knowing when something’s on his mind, and irritatingly persistent at wrenching it out.
“What are you doing here, Franziska?” Miles asks, without looking at her. He pretends to study the bookshelves instead. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yes, I know what day it is, idiot. I’m here to make sure that foolish employee of yours isn’t ruining my perfect accounts.”
Miles turns, quirking a brow at her. “I assume you mean Kay.”
“Who else would I be referring to? Pess ?” Franziska scoffs, waving an impatient hand. “Quit wasting my time and get the computer. I want to check my accounts.”
Yes, your accounts, Miles thinks, biting down a sarcastic reply. Franziska watches him with those sharp, ice-blue eyes of hers as he steps behind the counter to unlock the lower cabinet; the computer with all the Corner Bookstore’s information remains locked away beneath the counter at all times. Only Miles has the key, despite Franziska’s many attempts to try and get a key for herself. He’s lucky Kay is so loyal to him, otherwise he’s sure Franziska would’ve enlisted her to steal it off him by now.
Miles retrieves the laptop and Franziska immediately snatches it. She perches herself on the stool behind the counter with one slim leg crossed over the other; she’s wearing a pair of classy, pinstripe pants today, the loose kind with a tie around the waist, and somehow she hasn’t managed to form a single wrinkle. They’re perfectly neat.
Typical , Miles thinks.
Franziska drums her acrylics on the counter as she logs in, pulling up her massive folder of spreadsheets. Miles isn’t exactly sure why a single bookstore would need so many spreadsheets, but they haven’t gone bankrupt yet, so she must be doing something right. She stops by every other week to check the accounts and make sure everything is going well financially; it’s her main job at the bookstore since neither Miles or Kay has quite the same head for numbers that she does, though she helps restock and works inventory occasionally when she’s not busy with college.
As Franziska taps away at the laptop, Miles, who has frankly given up on trying to convince himself he isn’t concerned, wonders whether she’ll notice if he sneaks down a bowl of chicken for the cat. Well, she would notice, she notices everything, so the question is would she care enough to mention it. He doesn’t want to admit to his sister that he’s invested in a stray cat that he’s only seen twice . Though he knows Franziska’s rather fond of cats herself, he’s perfectly aware of how long she would hold such an embarrassing matter against him.
Forever. She would hold it against him forever.
He can already hear her teasing voice in his head: I wasn’t aware you had room in your foolish heart for anything other than Pess and books, brother.
With that thought, Miles decides it’s better to be safe than sorry and wait until after Pess’s walk to feed the cat again. Checking the accounts never takes Franziska too long, so he’s sure that by the time he returns, she’ll be gone. Perhaps he’ll have lost the ridiculous urge to look for the stray by then as well.
(He knows he won’t.)
Leaving Franziska behind to peruse her spreadsheets, Miles heads upstairs to Pess, the old stairs creaking pleasantly under his weight. He opens the door and finds her waiting behind it, tail thumping on the mat and leash dangling from her mouth. Her walk to the park begins promptly at 1:30 on Sundays, and she’s learned to expect it.
“Hello, clever girl,” Miles says, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice as she leans against his legs, making the process of clipping on her leash much more difficult. “Be patient.”
Pess doesn’t waste any time once the leash is on; she practically yanks Miles down the stairs before he can even shut the apartment door, vibrating with excitement. Franziska hasn’t even moved, her eyes glued to the laptop screen.
“I’m taking Pess on her walk,” Miles informs her, as Pess tugs him by the counter.
“Yes, I could tell by the leash.”
“I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Franziska waits until Miles has nearly turned the handle to stop him in his tracks. “Miles Edgeworth.”
Miles sighs. “Yes, Fran?”
“What is this? ”
Miles turns to look at her, Pess whining with impatience. Franziska’s holding something gingerly between her thumb and forefinger like it’ll burn her, something that turns out to be a small bracelet, clumsily woven with embroidery thread in a fraying pattern of green and red diamonds.
“Oh. That.” Miles pinches the bridge of his nose. He’d found it while sweeping yesterday after close, half-hidden under a shelf in the children’s section. “We had a…peculiar little girl come in yesterday. I’m assuming she dropped it.”
Unless it’s Wendy’s , but Miles can’t imagine her lurking in the children’s section, despite how young she claims to be. Though, she would drop something in hopes of Miles returning it to her.
Apparently satisfied with his answer, Franziska sets the bracelet back on the counter. “I was wondering whether it was yours.”
“I highly doubt I could fit that on my wrist.”
Franziska shrugs, tossing her hair. “You have dainty wrists, little brother. I’m certain you could pull it off.”
Miles gives her a look, but Franziska merely smirks, invincible to even the worst of his glares.
“I suppose the girl will be coming back to get it, then,” she says, watching Miles.
Miles blinks. He hadn’t thought about that. If the girl noticed the bracelet’s absence, she’d likely come back tomorrow.
After a brief moment of thought, he crosses the store to snatch the bracelet off the counter. He’ll just return it himself; Fey’s Flowers is open on Sundays, and that’ll prevent the girl from wandering into his bookstore with her loud, cheerful father lumbering after her to try and break down the door. Miles tucks the bracelet into the pocket of his slacks, ignoring Franziska’s amused smile. He’ll just drop the bracelet off on his way back from the park, and if he’s lucky, it’ll take five minutes at most.
“Goodbye, little brother,” Franziska says, her voice dripping with amusement. “Enjoy your walk.”
“Enjoy your spreadsheets,” Miles replies drily, and lets Pess tug him outside into the sun.
It’s not nearly as hot as yesterday, blessedly; there’s a cool breeze blowing at the back of Miles’s neck. His shoes tap, tap sharply on the sidewalk, and the sun warms his skin through his sleeves. He passes the café, the smell of fresh-ground coffee and tea and baked pastries quickly reminding Miles that he forgot to eat breakfast yet again, but the sound of chattering people floating through the open windows keeps him from going inside. He tells himself he’ll pick something up on his way back (he won’t) and continues on.
The park is only a five minute’s walk away, ten minutes if Pess is particularly distracted by butterflies or passing people. It’s a nice park, usually a bit busy for Miles’s tastes, but it’s conveniently close and Pess prefers it over the dog park the next town over. He supposes that may have something to do with the fact that her best friend usually visits this specific park, usually on Sundays, and usually with his loud and friendly owner.
Upon spotting said loud and friendly owner, standing under a tree, Miles sighs. Pess looks up at him with her big brown eyes, wagging her tail. “I’m doing this for you, you know. So you can see your friend,” he tells her, and Pess’s tongue lolls out of her mouth. She always looks like she’s grinning when she does that.
They cross the street to the park, and Gumshoe notices them immediately, a lopsided smile lighting up his big, scruffy face. “Hi, Mr. Edgeworth!” he shouts, loud enough to startle a nearby bird, and vigorously waves a hand.
“Hello, Gumshoe,” Miles says calmly.
Richard Gumshoe (Dick, to his friends, though Miles refuses to address him by his first name since that would be admitting that they’re friends, and he prefers to stay in denial) is a large man with an even larger personality, and a clumsy one at that. He works for the local police department, as does his dog, who’s currently nowhere to be seen. Today, in the summer heat, Gumshoe’s wearing his white button-down rolled up to his elbows and a pair of suspenders so old that Miles wonders how they manage to hold up his slacks at all. He’s not exactly the type of person Miles would like to spend time with; he’s loud, wears his cheer like a tattered old coat and is, frankly, exhausting to be around at times, but Miles supposes his heart is in the right place.
And Pess likes his dog.
“Where’s Missile?” Miles asks, as Gumshoe lavishes Pess with a vigorous petting. He scans the park; it’s fairly small, all grass and pleasant little benches and maple trees and wildflowers. It’s a lovely sight in fall, and Pess loves to run through piles of fallen leaves and try to catch them out of the air. In summer, though, it’s green and sun-warmed, the kind of place families like to go to picnic and birdwatchers lurk with their huge binoculars to spot bluejays and cedar waxwings in the trees. There’s even a quiet brook cutting through the park, with a little wooden bridge built over it.
Gumshoe straightens, giving his face a reprieve from Pess’s kisses. “Oh, you know how he is, Mr. Edgeworth, runs off like mad the second he gets here. I can’t believe I haven’t lost him yet. I guess it’s a good thing he’s police-trained!”
He grins at Miles, and Miles merely hums in response, busy bracing himself for the inevitable.
Gumshoe brushes his hand on his pants before sticking his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistling, sharp and eardrum-shatteringly loud. Within seconds , a blur of brown and white bursts from a bush a few yards away, racing across the park and barreling full-speed into Gumshoe’s shins, barking wildly.
“Good boy, Missile,” Gumshoe says proudly, patting the dog on the head. Missile wags his curl of a tail and barks. He’s wearing a polka-dotted bandana around his neck today; from what Miles can tell, the dog has a rather extensive wardrobe. He’s never seen the same bandana twice, though Gumshoe says Missile’s favorite is the one with astronauts on it.
Missile breaks away from Gumshoe to greet Miles and Pess, bouncing on his paws. He’s the kind of dog that always looks like he’s smiling; he’s a sweetheart, really, too sweet for his position as a drug detection hound in Miles’s opinion. He certainly doesn’t fit in with the stereotypical shepherds and hunting dogs, but Gumshoe insists he’s the best detection dog he’s seen on the force. In this small town, though, his particular brand of doggy services aren’t often required, so he’s more of Gumshoe’s pet than a police dog. And, as far as Miles can tell, Gumshoe takes good care of him.
He’s taken care of in the bandana department, at least.
“Hello, Missile.” Miles scratches Missile behind an ear, and the shiba furiously wags his tail.
Once Miles has given Missile an appropriate amount of attention, Pess and Missile quickly delve into their cursory greeting, a rather extensive ordeal involving a lot of sniffing, wagging tails and licking faces, and, on Missile’s part, a lot of barking.
It doesn’t take long for Missile to catch the scent of something else interesting; he stops, twitching his ears, before bolting into the bushes at the speed of sound and leaving Pess behind to strain at her leash. Once Miles frees her, she tears after Missile into the bushes, and Miles just knows he’ll be picking leaves out of her long fur all night.
“Off like rockets, they are,” Gumshoe chuckles, watching them disappear into the bushes.
“Yes, I suppose that’s why you named him Missile.”
“Well, I didn’t name him that. The police chief did. Personally, I think he looks more like a…like a Peanut. Or maybe a Buddy.”
“Perhaps you should stick with Missile,” Miles says lightly, and Gumshoe laughs, a loud sound that resonates from his stomach. He’s been around a lot of loud people recently, Miles thinks.
“It’s nice that they get to hang out every Sunday, Mr. Edgeworth,” Gumshoe says, propping his big hands on his hips. “Missile would get real lonely if he didn’t have Pess to run around with.”
Miles hums. He toys with the leash in his hands. “I’m sure Pess appreciates the companionship.”
This is the awkward part of their Sunday trips to the park: once the dogs have gone, it’s just Gumshoe and Miles. While the conversation between them comes easier than with most other people, since he’s known Gumshoe for quite some time, there’s still a touch of discomfort there, lurking at the edges of Miles’s words, in the corners of his mind. He supposes it’s likely just him; Gumshoe doesn’t seem like the type of man to feel awkward.
Miles wonders, absently, what Gumshoe might do with a stray cat.
“I finally finished that book you gave me, Mr. Edgeworth!” Gumshoe says, then, drawing Miles’s attention.
“Did you? It took you a while.”
“I’m a slow reader,” Gumshoe says defensively.
“So it seems,” Miles replies, staring off over the park. He catches a flash of Pess’s chocolate brown fur by the brook, chasing Missile as he races across the bridge, nearly knocking over a couple on a date.
Gumshoe stuffs his hands in his pockets, a childishly hurt expression on his face. “Aren’t you gonna ask me if I liked it?”
Miles stares at him for a moment, before sighing. “Did you like the book, Gumshoe?”
“I did !” Gumshoe exclaims, like he’d never been upset at all. “It was so good , Mr. Edgeworth! I didn’t think I’d like a murder mystery so much but the ending was real surprising. I didn’t think everyone would be in on it, that’s just crazy.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Miles meant it, he did, but somehow he never manages to get that across with the tone of his voice. “I have another book written by the same author that you may like.”
“Is that one about murder, too?”
“Yes. Murder mysteries are Christie’s forte. if you liked the last one, I suspect you’ll like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd as well. It has quite the twist at the end.”
Gumshoe’s eyes widen, and he grins so widely that his face nearly splits in half. “You know, Mr. Edgeworth, I was thinking I should start a book club or somethin’ with the rest of the force so they can read all these cool books you give me, too. They’d like them a whole lot.”
“I certainly don’t give them to you,” Miles says, lifting a brow. “I expect you to pay for them.”
“What?” Gumshoe’s face falls a bit. “I thought they were gifts.”
“I own a bookstore, Gumshoe, not a library.”
Gumshoe blinks, the gears turning in his head, before his wide smile returns and he bursts into hearty laughter. “Oh, I get it! You’re makin’ a joke ! You almost got me there, Mr. Edgeworth.”
“I wasn’t-“
“You know, no one ever believes me when I tell them you’re really funny. You should start tellin’ jokes like that to everyone. Maybe you should turn your bookstore into a theater. For comedy, you know? Like stand-up?”
Miles wonders how he manages, some days. He really does.
They spend about an hour at the park. Gumshoe takes over the burden of conversation, which Miles doesn’t entirely mind. His bumbling nature can be entertaining at times, when Miles is mentally prepared to tolerate it, and he supposes listening to Gumshoe’s stories from the force helps the time pass. Today he doesn’t mind listening, and he interjects occasionally with an acknowledging nod or hum when necessary.
Eventually Pess and Missile, tired from chasing each other and hunting down squirrels and whatever other doggy things they spend their time doing, return to their owners with wagging tails. Gumshoe, as usual, gives them both a treat, which is exactly why he’s one of Pess’s favorite people.
Once Miles says goodbye to Gumshoe (and Pess says goodbye to Missile) they head back to the bookstore. Miles supposes all he has to do now is return the little magician girl’s bracelet, and then he can go back to his store and spend the rest of his day in peace.
And check on the cat, the voice at the back of his mind whispers, but Miles quickly dismisses it.
The walk back feels painfully short. One moment he’s at the park, warning Gumshoe not to eat while reading or else he’ll stop lending him books, and the next he’s dropping Pess off at the bookstore and facing the storefront of Fey’s Flowers.
It’s not like he’s afraid to talk to Phoenix Wright or his daughter. They’re fine, as far as people go, if a bit eccentric. He’s just never been that good with people, especially new people. They’re unpredictable.
Miles swallows his thoughts and opens the door.
It’s a cheery shop. That much he expected. He’s never been inside it before, but it looks as if it would be cheery from the outside, where flowers sit bright and blooming in their colorful pots on colorful stools. The door has a bell above it, much like the one in his own store, but even the bell sounds cheerier in here. The whole store, in general, is warm and inviting; the windows catch more light than the bookstore, and it smells pleasantly of lemon and herbs and earth. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, bearing plants upon plants upon plants in brightly painted pots, each entirely unique. Plants hang from the ceiling in woven baskets that look handmade, spindly ivies and spider plants streaked with white next to plants with lovely heart-shaped leaves that cascade all the way to the floor. A huge fern sits next to the door in a pot painted with vivid swirls of yellow and green and blue, the leaves damp, recently misted.
All of this, Miles expected. He expected a plant store to sell plants, and own plants, and be generally plant-centric. What he did not expect (and in his defense, most people would not expect this) was an slightly off-key rendition of Rhinestone Cowboy by one Phoenix Wright, teetering on a ladder in a way that makes Miles’s heart clench. He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand, carefully outlining a fist-sized peony on the wall, part of a half-finished mural with parts still sketched out and others awash in color.
Clearly he didn’t hear the bell over the sound of his own voice, and, clearly, the amused dark-haired girl at the register isn’t about to inform him, either.
“ Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo!” Phoenix trills, leaning a little too far forward on the ladder in Miles’s opinion to reach a spot just a touch out of his reach. There’s a smudge of green paint on his cheek, smears of yellow on his wrists and hands. At least Miles knows where all the paint comes from, now. “ I’m a rhinestone cowboy!”
“What’s up?” The girl asks Miles, brushing aside her waterfall of hair. “Can I help you with something?”
“I…er. I need to talk to him,” Miles says awkwardly, gesturing to Phoenix. He could just leave the bracelet here, though, couldn’t he? He moves to fish it out of his pocket. “Actually-“
The girl snorts, cutting Miles off before he can continue. “Hey, Nick!” she shouts, and Miles swears Phoenix nearly falls off the ladder in surprise.
“What?” Phoenix calls back, without turning around. He sticks his paintbrush in his teeth to fiddle with a palette sitting on the top rung of the ladder.
“Your friend is here.”
Miles winces. “We’re not-“
Phoenix twists around, and his face lights up. “Miles!” He exclaims (through the paintbrush). “What are you doing here?”
Miles exhales, uncomfortable. He holds out the bracelet. “Your daughter left this in my store yesterday.”
Phoenix squints at it before tucking the paintbrush behind his ear and sliding down the ladder, and suddenly, suddenly, he’s so much closer , invading Miles’s personal space. He smells like paint and earth and something else that Miles can’t place, not that he’s thinking about it. “Oh! That’s Trucy’s lucky bracelet. I made it for her.”
“Well. She can have it back,” Miles says, and thrusts the bracelet at Phoenix.
Phoenix grins a crooked, boyish grin and tilts his head. “ Well , you can give it to her yourself! She’s in the back helping Mia, let me go grab her.”
“ No ,” Miles says, a little too firmly, and Phoenix blinks at him in surprise, his grin dropping. Miles exhales through his nose and repeats it, a little softer. “No. That’s fine. I can just give it to you.”
Phoenix’s grin inches back. “It’s her bracelet, not mine,” he says, like that makes any sense at all. “I bet she’ll be really happy to know you care enough to bring it back. And then she can tell you how much she likes the book!”
Miles blinks. This conversation is escaping him much quicker than anticipated. When did caring come into it? “The book?” He asks, a bit weakly.
“Yeah, you know, the book you picked out for her yesterday?”
“Oh. Yes.” The book he only gave her to get her to leave him alone. “That book.”
“Gimme one sec!” Phoenix says brightly, and just like that, he’s vanished to the back.
Miles glances at the girl at the counter. She has her chin propped in her hands, an amused glitter in her eyes. She shrugs and smiles. “Sorry. Nick’s like that.”
In a flash Phoenix’s returned, tugging Trucy behind him. “Here she is!”
Trucy looks up at Miles; she’s not wearing her cape today. In fact, she’s wearing shorts and a green Fey’s Flowers t-shirt, her hair held back with a sparkly headband. “Hello, Mr. Edgeworth,” she says politely.
“…Hello.” Miles holds out the bracelet, again . “You left this at my shop."
Trucy smiles, a grin reminiscent of her father’s, and takes the bracelet with her small hand. “Thank you! It’s my lucky bracelet. I can’t perform unless I’m wearing it.”
Miles raises a brow. “You should take better care of it, if it’s that important.”
Trucy doesn’t respond, merely smiles, and Miles frowns.
“Tell him about the book, Truce,” Phoenix urges lightly.
“Oh! Yes!” Trucy smiles up at Miles, and it’s a sweet smile, even he can admit. “I’ve liked the book so far. I like Creel. And there isn’t a lot of magic in it, just dragons. I was expecting a lot of magic.”
“Aren’t dragons magic?” Phoenix asks.
“They’re reptiles,” Trucy says, giving him a look.
Phoenix grins; it crinkles the skin around his eyes. “They can’t be reptiles and magic at the same time?”
“Geckos aren’t magic.”
“What about salamanders?”
“Salamanders aren’t reptiles,” Miles says, before he can stop himself.
Trucy smiles widely, Phoenix looks betrayed, the girl at the counter snorts and Miles truly can’t believe he’s still here.
“Well,” Miles says awkwardly. “If that’s all, I should get back-“
“No!” Phoenix interrupts, and he reaches out, grabs Miles’s hand to keep him from turning away. Miles stiffens, and Phoenix, noticing, pulls his hands away and rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I just…wait there, okay?”
Miles blinks. “Er. Okay.”
Why do these things happen to him?
Phoenix gives him a quick, small smile before darting to the back of the shop, and when he reemerges, he’s holding something. “Here. This is for you.” Phoenix says, pressing a pot into Miles’s hand. “As a thank you for returning her bracelet. And for picking out the book.”
Miles looks down at the pot, bewildered. In it is a small bamboo plant, with two stalks twining around each other. He blinks.
“It’s a lucky bamboo plant,” Phoenix explains. “There weren’t a lot of plants in your bookstore and I thought you might like one, and bamboo is kind of hard to kill so I thought it would be a good starter plant. Not that you would be bad at taking care of plants but I didn’t want to assume you were like, really good at it and then give you a fiddle leaf fig or something ‘cause those are really fussy and a lot of work but lucky bamboo is super easy. And it’s lucky.”
Trucy takes Phoenix’s hand, and he cuts off. “Daddy, you’re rambling,” she says politely.
The girl at the register snickers.
“Sorry,” Phoenix says, his mismatched eyes flitting away to glare at the girl. “Sometimes once I start I can’t stop.”
Miles nods jerkily. He looks at the plant in his hands again. “Yes. Well. Thank you, Wright. For the plant.”
Phoenix raises his crooked eyebrows. “You can just call me Phoenix, you know.”
“…Alright.” Miles glances back at the plant, then at Phoenix. “I’ll be going now.”
“Alright,” Phoenix parrots. He waves a hand. “Have a nice Sunday.”
“You…too.”
Miles exhales, and leaves the store. He can hear the girl at the register laughing as the door swings shut.
Franziska isn’t at the bookstore, and Miles thanks any gods that might be listening for that. He sets the bamboo plant on the register, frowning at it.
What a confusing day , he thinks.
Then, Miles goes and checks for the cat, because after that experience he decides he might as well cut himself a break from pretending he doesn’t want to.
He can’t help but feel a tiny pang of disappointment when the cat isn’t there. The bowl he set out last night, however, is empty. Whether the cat ate the food or some rabid raccoon did, Miles doesn’t know. He picks up the bowl, turning it over in his hands, and catches himself glancing at all the little dark corners and crannies in the alley, searching for a hint of dirty gray fur.
But then, after he cuts up the rest of his leftover chicken and brings the bowl back outside, the cat has suddenly appeared as if summoned by the smell of food. It’s the same cat, with the same dirty gray fur and missing ear and stumpy half-tail, sitting a few feet away by the garbage cans.
“…Hello,” Miles says cautiously.
The cat flicks its ear, eyeing Miles with narrowed eyes.
Miles crouches to set the bowl down, pushing it as far from himself as possible, as slowly as possible. The cat waits for a moment, looking at the bowl then back at Miles, judging whether Miles will make any sudden moves. Seemingly satisfied, the cat stands, slinking towards the bowl. It watches Miles as it eats, and Miles doesn’t move until it’s done, barely even breathing.
It looks a bit like Ernest Hemingway, Miles thinks, with its salt and pepper fur.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the cat turns and vanishes down the alley, just like that.
Miles picks up the bowl and goes upstairs.
Only once Miles has settled back into his armchair with his copy of Anxious People does he see it. There, at the curve of his wrist, the spot Phoenix had grabbed earlier, there’s a soft smudge of yellow paint, bright and cheerful and sunny.