Because a bus capable of dropping one off at a specified location and time did not exist, Phoenix was--as usual--a bit early when he arrived at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. Although he'd seen the structure from a distance on several occasions, this was the first time he'd ever been in the theatre's forecourt, so he took advantage of his spare time by admiring the architecture and browsing the hand and foot prints in the cement. There were several names he recognized, most notably Hollywood greats like Clark Gable and Elizabeth Taylor. While he was never what one might consider star-struck, he had to admit that there was a sort of excitement to standing in a square of cement where someone like Marilyn Monroe had left her mark on the city forever. (Albeit a tiny mark, he mused, examining his own hand and comparing it to the considerably smaller print below.)

He really wished he'd brought his camera.

[ring ring, pick up the phone~]

Reading French was sort of like deciphering a cryptogram, Phoenix decided. He hadn't even heard of most of these dishes, much less did he know how to pronounce them, and the English descriptions explaining each item only marginally helped, as he wasn't particularly familiar with things like 'shallots' or 'arugula'....

But if there was one word he recognized, it was 'steak', and you couldn't go wrong with that, right?

Deciding that was probably his best bet, he set his menu down and rested his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his hand as he idly observed the people walking by.

It was a nice day to be sitting outside, at least. The temperature was in the high 80s, but there was a cool breeze to counter the heat, and the overhang above was wide enough to block the sunlight. The restaurant was nice enough, too: a small, old French bistro called La Lune, about half an hour from his office. Being at the mercy of public transit system tended to make one incredibly early, however (or incredibly late; thankfully, this wasn't one of those times), and he had arrived about twenty minutes before their set meeting time. (Sometimes it paid to keep your own office hours, he thought with a smirk.)

Stifling a yawn, he turned back to the table, once more looked over his menu in the sudden, unlikely event that he felt adventurous, and waited for Edgeworth to arrive.

It was late. Normally, Sunday nights saw Phoenix eating dinner, watching a little TV, and then crawling into bed at around eleven—that was, of course, unless he had an investigation to prepare for the next day, which happened to be the case tonight.

Going to the detention center on a semi-daily basis had proved useful; he’d found many potential clients, but none of them had caught his attention quite so much as the young man accused of strangling his new wife on the night of their honeymoon. There was a motive (she came from a rich family), time (they’d spent the whole night together), and enough evidence to get him convicted (a scarf found by the bed, scratch marks on his arms), but something about the whole thing seemed too convenient… The man had claimed innocence, of course, and Phoenix believed him; when questioned about what really happened that night, however, the psyche locks went up.

Phoenix sat back with a sigh. His kitchen table was a mess, and he’d gone over what little information he had more than three times, but everything still pointed to his client’s guilt. He hoped to gain a little more insight at the hotel—the Montefaire, of all places—in the morning. For now, though, he would call it a night.

As he stood, he made short work of his shirt buttons and stumbled to his unkempt bed, pulling his socks off along the way. Before he even had a chance to get comfortable, however, the ever familiar digital sound of the Steel Samurai theme song filled the apartment, and with yet another sigh, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and glared at the display screen. The irritation didn’t last long, though. He was always surprised to see that number…

Hitting ‘talk’, he held the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

As they exited the restaurant, Phoenix fell in line behind Edgeworth, dreading everything from the walk to the parking complex to the ride in the car and especially the ultimate arrival at Edgeworth’s apartment. He had somehow managed to convince the other man to share a glass of wine with him before the night was over—one last celebratory gesture for an occasion Edgeworth seemed to care little for. Unbeknownst to Edgeworth, though, a throng of people were expectantly waiting for him there, standing in his living room, sitting on his couches, possibly eating his food… using his facilities…

Stomach twisted in knots, Phoenix tried very hard to focus on the bright side: dinner had been pleasant enough and thankfully affordable; despite knowing very little about sushi, he had managed to locate a restaurant that was both ‘decent’ (according to Edgeworth’s standards) and reasonably priced (according to Phoenix’s), and while their encounters were never perfect, Edgeworth had at least seemed to be enjoying himself. …As much as he ever allowed himself to, anyway.

…Which just made the whole thing that much worse.

Phoenix sighed, and for the umpteenth time that night, he wondered how the hell he had let Larry talk him into this.



((OOC: Post-dated to tomorrow evening. ...or would that be this evening? Oh well. Whoo~))

It appeared dinner was coming to an end. Phoenix polished off the last few bites of his spinach ravioli (a dish he had ordered at Edgeworth’s thinly veiled challenge to try something new) and took a sip of Cabernet, already well into his third glass. The night had its bumps, as were inevitable when the two of them interacted socially, but it wasn’t unpleasant. More often than not, Edgeworth’s silence left Phoenix the task of filling awkward pauses, a responsibility not entirely unfamiliar. Although the other man had, perhaps, been a little more silent than usual tonight, it could have been attributed to many things: the late hour, for instance, or the fact that they had simply never done this before.

Several times over the course of the evening (and the course of the previous evening, for that matter), the thought had caused Phoenix to wonder. What had prompted Edgeworth to invite him to dinner? Why to a trendy Italian place on Hollywood Boulevard? As the familiar warmth and giddiness of one who’s just past their normal alcohol tolerance level settled in, however, Phoenix merely grinned, coming to the conclusion that the answers didn’t matter. They were two men enjoying each other’s company, and that was enough.

He aimed his gaze across the table, to his companion—his friend—and his smile grew softer. “I guess we should get the checks, huh?”



((OOC: Taking place the night after their IM conversation.))

Phoenix stared at the piece of paper in front of him. The prospect of eating raw fish didn't seem as appetizing as his lunch companion made it out to be, and the fact that he didn't recognize a single item on the list only served to make him more skeptical. Magura? Hamachi? Kani kama? Perhaps if there had been some kind of explanation, he may have been less inclined to set the paper aside in favor of the regular lunch menu, although that was a very large if.

As he scanned the selections, he sighed in relief. At least you couldn't go wrong with a teriyaki beef bowl, right?

((OOC: Backdated to 2/5/08 - taking place directly after Edgeworth's ghost attack))

[steel samurai ringtone is go!]

[fumbles in pocket for cell phone and blinks at the caller id]

[beep] Edgeworth..?