Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth placed a great deal of value on routine.
He was a busy man with a stressful job and a lot on his mind—of course anything that could reduce the number of things he had to remember at any given time was a relief. And of course the converse—that when things departed from expectations, as they so often did, it was… distressing. Edgeworth had been accused of various character flaws on this basis, but he was of the opinion that it was better to be a bit rigid than an agent of absolute chaos. Or in most cases, anyway.
But when various agents of chaos weren’t bursting into his life and disrupting his finely tuned balance, Edgeworth’s morning routine looked like this: he woke at six forty five. He put on his preferred dressing gown, headed downstairs, fed Pess and had a cup of tea and toast with marmalade. He spent ten minutes reading the news, ensuring that no one he knew had been accused of murder, then went back upstairs to shower, shave, and dress. He took Pess for a turn around the block, dropped her back off with a stern admonishment not to lay on the couch (she always ignored this, which was another important part of the routine). He drove to the office listening to classical music on days when he wasn’t in court and eurobeat on days when he was, then parked in the same spot and went up to his office. He sat at his desk, made a second cup of tea. And only then did he check his email.
Which was why, on this particular day, he only saw the email in question at eight forty five, which left him with nine hours and fifteen minutes until his routine was to be disrupted. He took two of those to massage his temples, take a few more sips of tea, and then sigh and page his assistant. “Have I got anything this afternoon?”
“No, sir,” she replied. “Or—wait, Mr. Wright has just put in a request for a meeting. Subject line—er, in all capitals, the cowboy did it?”
Edgeworth leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling for strength. “Tell him it will have to wait till tomorrow. And everyone else, for that matter.” He shut off the intercom before he muttered to the statuette of the Steel Samurai sitting on his windowsill— “Franziska won’t let me keep her waiting.”
***
Dear Brother,
I have been slighted, spited, and in every possible way thoroughly insulted. I should ask for your intercession, but I think you would have about as much luck against the cruel whims of the law by which I am bound as would your foolish associates. But know this! I shall not take this disrespect lying down! I am the heir to the von Karma name, and I will adhere to this punishment with such perfection and grace that they shall feel foolish for having foisted it upon me in the first place! Ha!
You will no doubt find some amusement in the ridiculousness of my punishment—according to my Chief Prosecutor, I have “never taken a vacation day” and am “legally obligated to take at least two weeks off a year” for my “mental health”! Absurd, is it not? I assured her that I am in perfect health, mental and physical, and she had the gall to tell me that whipping people is not a good stress relief method! I trust you will tell no one that I am unfortunately burdened with some measure of respect for the Chief Prosecutor, and so was unable to win this particular argument. Yet.
So I have been placed on three weeks of leave, effective immediately, and it was suggested to me that a trip or time with family might be an agreeable way to spend my exile. I shall arrive at LAX at 7pm your time tomorrow. I trust you will arrange a driver for me. An order from that ramen restaurant the foolish Phoenix Wright’s assistant is so fond of would not go astray, either.
Cordially,
Franziska von Karma
***
She always signed emails like that—even though their guardian was well removed from them and the need for stilted perfect conversation was eliminated. He replied in a slightly lower register of formality—not enough for her to pounce on imagined weakness, but enough that he didn’t have to spend time revising his word choice—and set aside the paperwork he’d had planned with a sigh. Franziska visiting for three weeks. If it had been anyone else he’d have refused for such short notice alone, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her, and perhaps he was remiss in his brotherly duties for that. At the very least, he could keep an eye on Franziska during her vacation and make sure she didn’t descend into madness without a case to work on. He’d need to make up the guest room for her, he supposed, and… come up with something to entertain her? What did Franziska even do, besides practice law and study law and talk about law? Whip practice, perhaps, though he wasn’t sure how that could translate to a… sibling activity. He shuddered, and turned to the easier prospect of fulfilling the concrete request that she had made.
“Wright and Co. Offices, Phoenix Wright speaking!” There was a slightly manic edge to Wright’s voice, and if Edgeworth had to guess, the defense attorney was a bit short on sleep.
“Wright—” he started, but got no further.
“Edgeworth! Thank god—okay, okay, did you get my message? You’ve really got to check your own emails, by the way—I think your assistant deleted our meeting. But it all makes sense! The whiskey wasn’t poisoned, but the victim died of poisoning anyway? You know what else is poisonous? Snakes! And who would know how to handle snakes? Cowboys! C’mon, Edgeworth, get Gumshoe to take another look at the body and there’ll be fang marks in the victim’s foot somewhere, I know it! It has to be Rodeo Joe—”
“Wright!” he finally interrupted, closing his eyes in frustration against the fact that of course it was the cowboy, and how did Wright always do that, and— “Would you do me a favor and ask Ms. Fey which ramen restaurant is her favorite?”
There was a quizzical silence on the end of the line. “I think it’s the Noodle Stop near my office? You want to get lunch? Because now that I think about it, I’d really like to take another look at those cowboy boots and see if they’re the right size for the victim—”
“I can’t,” Edgeworth said shortly. “My sister has decided to spend her holiday visiting me, and requested… takeout.”
There was an incredulous cough of laughter on the other end of the line. “Franziska, take a vacation?”
“Mandatory.”
“Mmm, okay. But takeout? I figured she only drank, like, the blood of innocents or something—”
Edgeworth rolled his eyes. To be fair, he was surprised by Franziska’s choice of dinner as well, though his estimation of her tastes ran more to the five star restaurant. “Thank you for the information, Wright. I’ll have the boots brought over to your office.”
“Yeah, that works.” There was a hint of let-down in his tone—gone so quickly that Edgeworth, half distracted, wondered if it had been there at all. “See you tomorrow, though. Sorry in advance.”
“Get some sleep,” he advised, trying not to let the impending defeat color his tone. At least he knew that was coming. “Goodbye, Wright.”
“You’re probably right.” He yawned, and Edgeworth could almost imagine the sound of the springs in the sagging couch in his office squeaking. “Bye, Miles.”
The line clicked, and Edgeworth found the Noodle Stop website, setting up a delivery for eight and flipping open his planner to start taking notes on what he needed to host Franziska. It was only after several minutes that he noticed he was still holding the phone to his ear.
***
He found her in the airport, arguing about her whip with Customs. Or rather, he headed to Arrivals, and could hear her shouting from the next room over. He allowed himself a smirk, and waited by the baggage claim to the accompaniment of angry voices and the occasional snapping noise. She still had her powder-blue suitcase, just as he had the matching red one; he took it off the conveyor for her, and waited until finally she came storming out. The sight of her was a violent surprise, and Edgeworth had to turn and pretend to cough to hide his reaction. Gone were the usual pencil skirt and heels; she was dressed in a sweatshirt and leggings, her bangs scraped back in a hair clip and her glasses barely blunting the glare she was sweeping around the terminal. It caught on him, and she stormed over, a matching powder-blue briefcase in one hand and her whip clutched in the other. “Your American TSA knows that the laptop battery they have allowed me to bring with me this whole way is far more dangerous than my whip, yes?” she said by way of greeting. “In fact, I’ve prosecuted several cases in which the murder weapon was a briefcase, which they do not seem concerned about, either.”
“Good to see you in good spirits, Franziska,” Edgeworth said placatingly, and took her briefcase for her too. “You look—” he cast about for a word that wouldn’t put him on the bad side of her remaining weapon. “Comfortable.”
Not her only weapon—the look she shot him was withering. “I told you, brother—I will vacation so unimpeachably that they will never be able to send me on one again. My relaxation will be perfect. Do I not look relaxed?” Her knuckles were white on the handle of her whip.
“Very,” he lied, and ushered her toward the exit. Through the door to Customs he could see TSA agents glancing their way and looking vengeful, and he was eager to avoid that particular confrontation. “Come on. You must be tired—it’s what, three in the morning for you? I’ve got the guest bed made up and your ramen waiting.”
“I’m not tired,” she said, stifling a yawn, and strode out in front of him. He resigned himself to following, wondering how she expected to find where he’d parked, and was surprised when nearly immediately she dropped back into step with him. “It is good,” she said, gazing straight ahead, “to see you too, Miles. Thank you for picking me up.”
“O-of course,” he said, slightly wrong-footed, and averted his eyes back to where he was going. It had been a long time since he’d seen Franziska in a context that hadn’t been related to their work, with all the stress and stiltedness that entailed. He had unquestionably changed in that time, and perhaps so had she.
“That being said, if you scratch my suitcase I will not hesitate to whip you into next week.”
He pursed his lips, lifted the suitcase carefully over the dropoff of the curb, and followed as Franziska picked up her pace again. Perhaps. Perhaps not.