#pressureverse

Miles

"Phoenix."

Low, distracted humming pauses over the sound of a bubbling saucepan. "Hmm?"

"Is tonight a special occasion?"

A spate of blinking as Phoenix turns to look at him, cheeks vibrant from the steam. There's tiny red drops of tomato spattered onto his shirt, and the counter is a familiar mess of half-used ingredients. It's Friday evening, after all, and on weekdays that keep him at the office late, his arrival home tends to greet him with a hurricane coastline in the kitchen. Luckily, Trucy is absorbed watching television in the living room, or it would be a category event.

"Huh? Special?"

His mouth threatens a smile watching the cogs spin in his husband's eyes, seeking potentially overlooked data, and he edges close to gently tap the wine bottle in Phoenix's left hand.

"Given that you're no fan of reds, one can only assume you're intending to treat me. Unless, of course, your intent is to make pasta sauce with a two hundred dollar French vintage. Either way, I'm flattered."

"T- Two hundred dollars?" Phoenix wheezes, eyes bulging at the bottle in his hand. His own smile breaks at the confirmation of ignorance, and he swallows a small chuckle as Phoenix carefully places the wine onto the countertop like it's a loaded gun. "Why do we even have wine that expensive?"

"It was a gift from the Japanifornian ambassador of Borginia. I'm sure it's a fine vintage, though it may be wasted in a bolognese."

"Jeez," Phoenix mutters. Without warning or opposition, his head tilts to thump against Miles's shoulder. "Well, I’m glad I didn't open it yet. I would have drowned myself. Or bribed Trucy to help me cover up the crime."

"That seems somewhat drastic," Miles hums, absorbing the warmth of Phoenix's cheek through his dress shirt.

“Two hundred dollars,” Phoenix repeats, with fervor. Miles doesn’t voice the thought it might have been worth the entertainment of his panic, knowing it will earn him a night of mockery over his perspective on personal economics. Contrary to popular opinion, he does know how much basic items should cost at the supermarket.

“Anyways... how was work?”

“Nothing unusual,” he replies, as Phoenix straightens up to resume his food preparation. His mouth twitches, weary, as Phoenix reaches for a knife and begins to start chopping an onion, already skinned and halved on a nearby cutting board. “Though... Franziska called today.”

“Yeah? She wrap up that arms-trafficking case yet?”

“Of course,” he says, dismissive— as if it would pose an obstacle— and pauses. He listens for the sound of the television in the next room, blaring familiar orchestra, and continues. “She didn’t call to talk about her work.”

Phoenix’s chopping slows, but he doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”

His stomach prickles with apprehension. “She’s growing... impatient,” he says lowly. “As you can well imagine.”

Phoenix’s shoulders form a tense line. “...I can.”

He still doesn’t look Miles’s way, chopping slow and steady. Miles shifts his jaw.

“She was accommodating, acquiring those records for us last month. But she is not a woman who appreciates being left out of the loop. Especially when she has suspicions about its connection to her work on the taskforce.”

Suspicions with ample justification. The progress she’s made with Interpol in the last few years has been more than impressive— contract killers have been a particular bone in his sister’s jaw ever since the Engarde case, years ago, and hounding the shadowy trails of men like De Killer has driven her to remarkable success with a taskforce under Interpol’s umbrella. Olga Orly’s testimony before her conviction had drawn Franziska’s predatory eye, and Miles had welcomed it, given the threat that woman could have posed to his family.

However... Franziska hasn't been apprised of all they've uncovered, and capable as she is, she’s begun to suspect as much.

It's been a point of contention. For several weeks, in fact. But Phoenix is a stubborn man.

Miles watches him silently stir the sauce, and quietly readies his own stance.

The facts being what they are, he understands Phoenix's point of view. Whoever hired Orly to murder Zak Gramarye did so to keep him from sharing information about Thalassa. Since the trial, they've examined seemingly every angle of the incident that led to her supposed death— but in the months that’ve passed since, finding any leads has proven more difficult than it should have been. Even with Kay’s best efforts, it’s increasingly clear that information about Thalassa has been wiped clean from nearly every avenue of government documentation— a feat that shouldn’t seem possible, given the fame and notoriety that the Gramarye family achieved at the height of their success. It coincides, however, with what Orly had implied during the last moments of her trial— that the person who hired her was someone of extreme political or financial influence.

Someone desperately wants Thalassa to stay buried. They have no evidence to suggest who, or why. They haven’t even been able to verify that she is alive, as Zak claimed. All that’s certain is that the truth is something that a certain party is willing to kill over, and because it’s all they know— because they are grasping at straws against a shadowy danger, and have been for months— he has made concessions.

He had reluctantly agreed, when Phoenix first told him, that the truth about Thalassa should be kept secret from Trucy. Not because she needed to be shielded from the possibility, but because they knew her too well. Trucy wouldn't be able to resist searching for her mother on her own time, and that posed an unacceptable danger. Loath as he was to conceal such a critical thing from her, he and Phoenix agreed her safety was paramount, with themselves still so much in the dark.

As a result, he’s grown accustomed to dodging his daughter’s earshot, in recent months. He despises how habitual it has become. However, as of today, he’s determined his agreement to secrecy will no longer extend to their other loved ones.

“It's time," he says, to his husband’s stubborn back. “At this point, she’s going to be furious that we didn’t tell her what we discovered sooner.”

“Miles,” Phoenix says, and the unspoken slant to his voice— the we’ve talked about this layered within—makes Miles’s stomach clench with irritation. “... You know how I feel about this. It’s not—”

“Do you doubt my sister’s capabilities?” he interrupts, before he can hear the same justification he’s heard a dozen times before. “Do you consider her untrustworthy?”

“No,” Phoenix says pointedly, knife stilling, “you know I trust her, so don’t try to make it sound like—”

“We are making little headway on our own, and she is a talented investigator,” he presses, pride rankling. “I understood your hesitation, at first, but—”

“Hesitation?” Phoenix issues, voice edging on a hiss. “I’m not being hesitant, I’m thinking about safety here.”

“Franziska can look after herself. She is more than capable—”

Phoenix puts down the knife, hard enough to clack against the cutting board wood. “We still have no idea who we’re dealing with or how influential they are. Just because Franziska’s Interpol doesn't mean she's untouchable. Besides, the more people poking around into Thalassa, the more likely we are to tip them off!”

“We are less effective on our own,” he counters, voice flinty. “And if our investigation brings danger to our doorstep, we’re putting others at risk by keeping them in the dark.” And it speaks to the core of what’s been eating his conscience, for months on end— not just the deception, but the potential danger that comes with it. “The people we trust to ask for help— they deserve the facts as we know them.”

Phoenix is stiff, now, staring into the boiling pot of marinara sauce. Shoulders squared. Muscles bunched in his jaw. Miles hates it. Hates the tension and anger coiled in Phoenix’s body, hates that he erased the calm he found when he came home. But he isn’t willing to bend anymore.

“I can’t,” Phoenix grits out. “I can’t be— I can’t put them in danger, Miles.”

“I am not asking your permission,” he replies, cutting, and Phoenix’s nostrils flare. “Just because you hide the truth from your sister, doesn’t mean I will lie to mine.”

Phoenix’s head snaps his direction, and they finally meet eyes. “That’s not fair,” he says, oversharp. “Goddamn it, Miles. You think I like this?”

“I think you’ve confused silence for protection,” he argues, glacial, and when Phoenix visibly reels back, eyes alight with it, he strikes first. “And I am just as guilty. Because I have allowed you to do so.”

Phoenix’s open mouth stalls, face flickering. Miles feels his stomach roll under the emotion on his face, having spoken the realization he’s been turning over in his head for days. He knows— has always known— the kind of man that Phoenix is. And that kind is a fool.

A stubborn, reckless, determined fool. A stalwart of belief. A man who triumphed with his mastery of evidence, on their control and righteous reveal. A man who would work himself broken to help someone who needed it, and who would suffer every burden in silence, if he could manage it. Even if the cost was great. Even if his sacrifice was unnecessary.

Miles is guilty of the same mistake that others have made, when it comes to his fool. Guilty in assuming that because Phoenix is capable, it means he is right.

He is capable. So much so it has put stars in Miles’s eyes. But he can be blind, too, in that what others might consider selfish, Phoenix finds responsible.

“I have allowed you to carry this,” he says softly, “because I was willing to do what I thought you needed, after the trial.” For you to feel safe. So you didn’t feel powerless. “But I cannot call fighting on your own what you need.”

“I... I’m not on my own,” Phoenix says, former anger cut in half in his voice. I have you, it means, and affection sweeps warm and painful into his chest.

"No,” he agrees. “But they aren’t children, anymore. Franziska and Maya neither need nor want your protection, if it means you do not have their support. And the same goes for your proteges.” Slowly, he reaches out a hand. Phoenix hesitates, only to sigh and take it.

“Look at me.”

Phoenix does. Their fingers slowly tangle.

“They act in your footsteps. Do you want them to learn this habit? To feel too afraid to ask you for help, out of concern for your wellbeing?”

Phoenix stares at him, hand warm in his, and closes his eyes. “...Damn it,” he whispers. His expression fractures. “...I hate when you’re this right, Miles.”

“You hate when you are wrong,” Miles corrects bluntly. “But that is something we both can be forgiven for, on occasion.”

“M’sorry.” Phoenix’s fingers tighten around his hand. “I— I shouldn’t have made you choose. Between me and Franzi.”

“It was not a choice. It was a strategic delay. I was always going to inform her.”

A humorless huff. “Okay, sure. But you waited. Because I asked you to.”

“Yes.” It’s unnecessary, to say what he meant by doing so, but Phoenix’s fingers squeeze around his regardless.

“I know I’ve been... paranoid, lately,” Phoenix admits, face shadowed with regret. “I— It just feels like. I don’t know. Like if I take a breath, then—”

Miles’s chest cramps. Phoenix hasn’t taken on a client himself since the trial, too focused on supervising Justice and Cykes and spending the rest of his time following leads on Thalassa. He’s noticed certain habits worsen. More often, his husband’s hand seeks the inside of his coat when they leave the house. More often, he wakes to find their bed empty. And it’s just one more reason why he resolved himself to tell the truth to Franziska.

They need to resolve this as quickly as possible. Not just for Trucy’s sake, or to catch a murderer, but because he’s reached his own limit. For dead-end leads, for withheld truths, and for the dark circles that have made a permanent home beneath Phoenix’s eyes.

"We will keep doing what we can,” he says. “But now, we will have more help.”

“I’ll call Maya tomorrow morning,” Phoenix says, sighing. “She’s gonna rip my head off.” Miles says nothing, because it is true. “I hate making her worry, Miles. Especially with all this tension going on between her and the Khura’inese envoys...”

“If you do not inform her, Franziska will beat you to it,” Miles says, to curb any chance of cowardice, and Phoenix grimaces.

“Ugh.”

With Phoenix on the ropes, he maintains momentum. “And your juniors?”

Phoenix shifts uneasily. “I... don’t know. Athena’s still adjusting and I can tell something’s... bothering her, right now. And if I tell Apollo, he’ll have a meltdown, and Trucy will be able to guess we’re all keeping something from her. It’s bad enough just we are. I want her to have them to turn to, if the worst happens and she’s...”

Heartbroken, he doesn’t say, and Miles feels the guilt of it lance across his stomach. “You have a point,” he admits, unhappily. They are, the lot of them, remarkable in their abilities, but even the single day he spent with the capability to sense falsehoods had proven overwhelming. There was a time in his youth that he wished more than anything that he was better at understanding and relating to other people. But the older he becomes, the more he realizes his own challenges are far more preferable to the burden of understanding too much.

“But if the time comes,” he begins, the memory of Apollo Justice awkwardly wrapped in Phoenix’s arms blooming in his mind, “don’t discount their—”

“Shit,” Phoenix yelps, and Miles blinks to the distinct smell of burning. “The sauce, oh my God, I forgot to stir it—”

“Daddy.” Trucy’s voice comes, worried, from the living room, and Miles watches Phoenix fumble with the gas, muttering curses.

“Yeah, sweetie, I’ve got it, nothing’s ruined—”

“Daddy,” Trucy says again, but there’s no relief in it. “Papa. I think you need to see this.”

They both frown, glancing at one another. Phoenix shuts off the stove, and they abandon the kitchen for the living room, the sound of a newscast filling Miles’s ears as they draw close.

“Truce?”

"Daddy,” Trucy says, turning from the TV. Her face is pale, ringing alarm bells in his mind. “Something bad happened downtown. I saw people talking about it online and turned on the news and...”

Miles turns to the television, the reporter’s voice increasing as Trucy dials up the volume. A reporter, standing in front of what looks like the GYAXA center downtown, above the headline at the bottom of the screen—

TRAGEDY AT COSMOS SPACE CENTER.

“...Coming to you live from the scene, we have the latest report from investigators about the terrible tragedy that took place at GYAXA mission control, moments before the long-anticipated launch of the HAT-2 space missile.”

Trucy gasps, and Phoenix draws in a quick, horrified breath. The name is familiar but Miles can’t immediately place it, attention locked onto the screen.

“Early this morning, authorities were notified that two devastating explosions had rocked the facility. The base is under lockdown after emergency responders were cleared to enter to rescue staff members on site. Currently, LAPD can neither confirm or deny that the fallout was a result of catastrophic failure or criminal act, but sources say that there has, in fact, been an arrest made. Though we are still waiting for final confirmation, we can report there has been one confirmed casualty.”

“Please,” Trucy whispers.

“GYAXA Director Yuri Cosmos released a statement moments ago, confirming the identity of the staff member lost to this tragedy.”

The screen flickers, and an older man stands at a podium draped in the GYAXA flag. His stern, aged face is layered with grief.

“It is with deep sorrow and regret that I must announce the tragic loss of one of our brightest and most talented young pilots. It is our hope that the authorities can get to the bottom of this senseless tragedy, so that we can honor the life he lived, and acknowledge his contribution to humanity’s dream of transforming the next frontier. My condolences go out to the friends and family of one of our best, taken too soon. GYAXA Flight Engineer Clay Terran... may the stars welcome you home.”

“No,” Trucy croaks, a horrible sound of denial. “No.”

Horrorstruck, he watches the portrait fill the frame. A young, familiar face, smiling into the camera, holding a helmet in hand. A face he’s seen at Christmases, birthdays, and graduations. A face he’s seen grinning at his child, making her squeal as he swung her around, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Oh, God,” Phoenix whispers, and he turns to see grief, decimating his husband’s face.

Sobs break into his ears, Trucy covering her eyes and crumpling in on herself. Miles watches, paralyzed, as Phoenix moves robotically to her side. She grasps fingers in his shirt, weeping.

“Daddy. What—what do we do?”

Miles’s heart closes shut. Phoenix’s face breaks, stroking their daughter’s hair.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice cracking. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry—”

“How do we tell him? What do we do?”

Trucy looks up, and her face cuts a wound in Miles’s chest.

“Polly,” she says, and beneath her grief is a horrible desperation. “We have to go get him, Daddy. Polly.”

Watching this new pain dawn on Phoenix’s face, Miles feels his heart break cleanly in two.

xXXx

Phoenix

He knocks, then lets himself in.

He pockets the spare key by the door, quietly leaving his shoes near the shoe rack. He pads barefoot over linoleum, and there’s a mew as Mikeko chirrups quietly at his arrival, weaving around his ankles as he moves through the living room.

The apartment is dim and quiet. No lights, the last of the blue hour soaking into night. In the living room, the TV flickers over the news. It’s the same channel he last saw, with images of flames burning over Cosmos, and the reporters’ mouths move in muted silence. His heart climbs and calcifies in his throat.

He keeps going. Passing the hallway, drifting into the kitchen where Mikeko trots ahead of him.

He steps inside, and finds the cat curled at the feet of his owner. Apollo stands in the kitchen, barefooted. His back turned, hair curled damp on his neck from a recent shower.

He’s staring at the sink. Doesn't turn at the sound of footsteps.

Phoenix swallows. “Hey,” he says. Soft and low so there's no chance of surprise, in case his entrance wasn't heard.

Apollo doesn’t respond. In the silence, he can say nothing. He stares at Apollo’s back, throat closing shut.

That sweatshirt’s too big for him, he thinks faintly. Makes him look small.

Slowly, in heavy heartbeats, he watches Apollo take in a breath. Straighten his shoulders.

“I was going to meet you there.”

The sound of his voice makes Phoenix’s stomach sink.

Level. Steady. Completely untouched.

Oh, kid. He sucks in a breath, and he lets it go. “...Meet me where?” he asks.

“The station.” Calm. Too calm. “They arrested someone.”

His heart clenches, and then he understands. God, he does.

“Apollo,” he says, the whole name, and Apollo finally turns.

“I need to see them.”

Apollo's face is colorless. Empty. His gaze is unfocused, and in the dim light, his eyes seem—

Red. Mercury red.

“I need to see them,” he repeats, voice hollow. “Whoever they are. I need to know.”

Phoenix lurches a step forward. “Kid—”

“I need to know why. They'll tell me. If I see them, I can find out. Even if they don't want me to.”

His irises burn and burn. Unblinking, molten. Dread sparks in Phoenix’s stomach, almost afraid. Afraid that what's come over him is something Apollo doesn't have control of. Rattled, he finds himself stepping forward, intent to eliminate the distance between them—

Unfocused eyes find him and sharpen, sending a jolt through his heart. Their color drains to muddy brown, and Phoenix stills, breath caught in his throat.

“I—” Apollo blinks. The invisible wall on his face shudders, then holds. “I'll get my keys.”

He moves, walking past him, expression blank. Without a second thought, Phoenix reaches out a hand. The moment he makes contact, Apollo flinches away.

“Apollo—”

“Don't.”

His heart twists. “You know they won't let you in,” he says, trying for reason first. “Tomorrow, maybe—”

“I'm not waiting.” He opens his mouth, but Apollo cuts him down, words coming faster, “He'll lawyer up soon, and then my chance to see him will be gone. I need to—”

“You'll have a chance,” he counters, soothing. “I promise. But the cops won't let anyone in right now, so—”

“Then I'll go find someone who will talk,” Apollo snaps. Finally there's emotion on his face, and it’s fury. “Someone— anyone who knows something. Who they are, how they did it, when, why—” A schism, steamrolled over, “Someone at GYAXA has to know. I'll find out who and then I'll—”

“Do what?” he asks softly. Apollo freezes, face rigid, staring at him with that perilous nothing threatening the edge of his expression. “Pollo...”

“Why are you trying to stop me?” Apollo demands, with sudden volume that’s like a slap to the face. “Are you really gonna tell me that I should hand this off to someone else?”

“No, but I—”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” The word’s spat out of Apollo’s mouth like it’s been poised there a long time. “Like you’d do anything different. You wouldn’t hesitate. Don’t try to tell me to stay put like some stupid kid when I can do something—”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t,” Phoenix tries, strained. Apollo’s been angry with him before, but not like this, and it’s like the ground shifting under his feet. “I’m just saying to— to take a second, take a—”

“I can’t!” Apollo cries, his frayed voice shattering the dark kitchen, and Phoenix has nothing to say. To offer him.

There’s nothing that will fix this. That’ll make the pain any less.

“...I know.”

“Shut up.” His expression trembles, anger splintering. “You don't.”

“Pollo—”

“You don't know anything,” Apollo croaks. “You always act like you do. Like you know everything, like you know me. But you don't.”

His stomach twists like he's been punched. Apollo has always been private about himself, since the day they met. And he's never pried. He thought it would only push the kid away. He isn't the first person Phoenix has drawn close through a few walls.

But maybe he should've tried knocking.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Apollo’s eyes widen, taking shine, and his face cracks.

“Shut up.”

“I'm sorry.” He steps forward, and Apollo’s body tenses as if to run.

“Stop.” Desperate. “Stop it.”

“I'm so sorry, kid,” he whispers, voice thick. He reaches out again, with both hands, gently grasping slim shoulders.

“You don't know anything,” Apollo says, voice fracturing. He leans away, shoulders jerking from Phoenix’s touch, but his feet are rooted to the ground. “Don't— don't touch me, you're not my—”

“Trucy told me to come get you.” At her name, Apollo stills, his protests disappearing. If Apollo can't accept him, there is someone else who he’ll always permit. “She wanted me to make sure you were okay.”

Silently, tears well in Apollo’s eyes.

“I... I don't want her to see,” he whispers.

And Phoenix understands.

Is he the same age that I was? Did I look this young, too?

“It's okay,” he says, voice thin. “She just doesn't want you to be alone.”

Tears slide down Apollo’s face. “... I was,” he says. “Before. Without him. With— without him, I—”

A strangled noise, an awful hiccup of a sound like he can't breathe. And his face breaks apart into something so frightened that Phoenix can't bear another frozen moment.

Gently, he takes Apollo in his arms and drags him close. Resistant hands push at his shoulders, knocking weak fists against his arms.

“No. No, no. Please.”

Gasping sobs. The hands that push him away turn to claws, digging into his shirt.

“I can't. I can't, I can't.”

He holds him when his knees fail, supporting every scrap of his weight.