As it was a holiday morning, Miles tipped more generously than usual when the bellboy brought up Franziska's errant suitcases. There was a look of faint regret in the man's eyes, but for Miles' sake, not his own. Clearly he pitied Miles for being stranded in a workman's hotel on a day that should be spent with family, when he himself could presumably drive home after a half workday for a dinner and reunion. Miles didn't bother correcting him. His metropolitan past was difficult to explain, and even more challenging was the idea that he'd returned to the city that did feel the most like home and yet had been living in a hotel for months. He'd almost forgotten how to put down roots. The idea of owning a key instead of simply borrowing it seemed more foreign than any country.

He wheeled the suitcases to Franziska's door and left them there after knocking gently, then walked across the mingled living room and kitchen into his own bedroom. The space was quite comfortable, even if it could do with some brighter spots of color, but it couldn't quite decide whether it was a hotel suite or a full apartment. It felt as transitory as he did.

Well, if he were trying to settle down, attending Thanksgiving at the home of his oldest friend was certainly the most domestic activity he'd experienced in years, if not decades. Miles answered a few emails to give Franziska a little longer to sleep, then got dressed and knocked on her door again, louder. After a few more emails, he tried again, finally got a response, and waited for her debut.

"You're wearing that?" he asked dubiously as Franziska walked into the suite's living room. She was in a typical dress suit that she might wear to court, all starched material and elegant embroidery. And she had on silk stockings, for god's sake. "We're going to a casual gathering, not a trial."

Her glove-clad hand twitched uselessly toward her belt; he'd gotten her to agree to leave her whip, thanks to the close quarters and at least one underaged attendant. He'd probably pay for that upon their return to the Gatewater. "This is not a casual gathering, little brother." She spat the nickname. "This is a gathering of defense attorneys, and yet you choose to represent the Prosecutor's Office in that ensemble?"

"Yes," Miles said. He would still be dressed more formally than anyone there but Franziska, but if he wasn't going there from work, there was no reason to wear a suit. Plum-colored cashmere made a thin enough sweater to wear during the day, yet would be perfect for the chill that even Los Angeles nights could have in late November. Paired with charcoal grey slacks and black leather shoes, he would look rather stuffy at a party that would surely be full of t-shirts and jeans... if not for Franziska. "It's all right, Franziska," Miles said tolerantly, struck by sudden inspiration. "You've never really lived in America. No one expects you to know the appropriate level of formality for events like this."

Franziska narrowed her eyes. She recognized what he was doing yet was helpless against it. "A von Karma is always perfect," she spat and stormed back into her bedroom. Miles hid a smile as the door slammed and he waited on her outfit change. After a minute, Franziska's head and one bare shoulder popped into view. "Miles Edgeworth. How do you expect me to behave perfectly at this meeting for your culture if you refuse to provide me any guidelines for performance?"

Good; she'd stopped pretending that his heart truly belonged in the German woods of the von Karma estate. "Wear a knit like I've chosen," Miles said mildly. "I know you prefer skirts, and that's fine, but don't wear hose with them. You'd probably just snag it, anyway."

"I most certainly would not," she said before considering his suggestion. "Thank you, I can work with that." Oh, how about that; it was only the day after a long flight and she'd already remembered the words 'thank you.' Perhaps this would be a better visit than he'd anticipated. After another couple of minutes and a few loud thumps, Franziska pushed the door grandly open and made her re-entrance. "Critique me." A short wool skirt nearly vanished under a plush ivory pullover. She'd paired them with black leather knee boots and a purse to match, and large diamond earrings dotted her earlobes. The gloves were gone.

"There's a lot of food there," Miles said after some thought. This would go over poorly, but he had to say it. "A white sweater might not be the best choice."

"Because you expect me to stain it?" Franziska asked, hackles rising.

"Because someone else might. For all I know," Miles added dryly, "Wright's invited Larry Butz to the party."

It took her a second to place the name and Franziska reared back when she did. "No one can frighten me into abandoning an engagement," Franziska eventually said, "but it is only common sense to dress for one's surroundings." She vanished one last time and returned wearing a dove grey twin to the abandoned ivory sweater. "Well?" she asked tightly. "Is this appropriate?"

He studied her just long enough to ease her concerns and then kissed her gently on the forehead. "You look lovely. And perfectly appropriate."

"Hmph. Of course." She tossed her head and the strands of hair that had been disrupted by her wardrobe change fell into place. He'd always envied her that ease. "You look nice as well," she said as they made their way into the hallway. "Is it true, what Klavier Gavin implied when he called me? Are you trying to seduce Phoenix Wright?"

Miles tripped over his feet. "What? No!" he gasped as he caught himself on the wall and kept from falling. We are going to have words, Gavin. "We are having an entirely platonic competition. Entirely. I have no idea what that man told you, Franziska, but any seduction attempts will be held to him and his attorney of choice."

She said nothing and her expression was impossible to read. It maintained that opacity as they passed the elevators, thankfully. During their youth Franziska had mocked him when he avoided elevators, ever since his phobias were discovered and Manfred began rounds of what he called "exposure therapy." In reality, that therapy had simply been yet another way to abuse him. The man eventually concluded that Miles was helpless against his fears, and he was allowed to avoid elevators in exchange for being reminded of his weakness by father and daughter alike every time he did.

Their lives had become very different after the Hammond case. Even during the worst of Franziska's surging rivalry, she began to recognize what Miles already had: the two of them had grown up thinking they were pitted against each other, yet they were the other's sole ally in a war they didn't even know was being waged. The years since had mellowed them further. It helped that he'd taken a position back in the States, and with heavy administrative responsibilities. Franziska spent half her time prosecuting cases around the European Union, half of her time working with Interpol, and pulled down full pay for both. Both were respected in their fields, but their output couldn't be easily compared, nor were they working with the same people.

She'd long ago become kind to him about earthquakes. Now, it even extended to elevators. "It's fortunate that they had such a well-appointed suite on just the third floor," she said after a long stretch of silence, when they were nearly to the parking garage.

"Mmm. Yes. It's one reason I chose the place."

"That constraint will make it harder to find a suitable home, though; penthouses are on top floors." She glanced at him. "Unless you plan to buy a house?"

"In the city? With the laws and insurance premiums they have about guard dogs?" Manfred had kept a whole pack of dobermans and rottweilers on the manor's grounds; he'd made enemies more easily than most men breathed. "I'd be begging for someone to break in by the end of the first week. Any home on the ground floor would be—"

"Foolish," Franziska said. From her grin, it was the answer she'd wanted to hear. "I'm glad that you're doing your job well enough to need that caution." She added airily, "I might need a bodyguard if I'm too much more successful. If so, I'll inform you so that you might congratulate me appropriately."

They did live strange lives.

"In any case," Miles concluded as they reached his car and he clicked open the locks, "I am still far too busy settling into my new job to even think about househunting."

"Truly?" Franziska asked with a humorless smile as she strapped on her seatbelt. "But you have time for this foolish wager about that foolish attorney?"

And we're back to this. "Franziska..." He trailed off with a sigh as they pulled out onto the street. "I don't have an excuse. It was an emotional, egotistical reaction to Gavin's prodding. I should have been above it. I wasn't."

"And why is that?"

"He..." Miles' hands flexed around the steering wheel. It was impossible to give an answer that didn't at least touch on the truth, and he couldn't mention that truth about his far too complicated feelings without sounding, well, foolish. "Gavin said that he and Justice have a better and more significant relationship than Wright and I do. Which is completely incorrect and I had to prove him wrong. Don't give me that look."

"You should be watching the road," she said flatly. "Do not look at my expression."

"I'm not. I just guessed." He managed another block before he had to say, "Have either of them ever saved the other from a death sentence? No. Affected the course of the other's life from childhood onward? No. Hearing Gavin argue as he did was completely absurd. I refused to take it." And he was getting emotional again. No wonder Klavier had goaded him so successfully.

"So you feel that this makes your relationship with Phoenix Wright superior?"

"Yes, of course."

"Someone can have a long and proud career," Franziska said, "and that history will always exist, but it does not mean that they are performing better right now than some younger challenger rising through the ranks."

Miles scowled. He knew Franziska wouldn't be on his side; it was the entire reason he'd proposed her name to Klavier to counterbalance Ema. Still, the woman had seen him pretend to be a defense attorney just for Wright's sake! That had to count in the evidence, and heavily. They'd set all the precedent she might ever want.

"For one," Franziska said as she studied the passing city, "I doubt that Apollo Justice would ever ask Klavier Gavin to degrade himself by using the badge of his inferior station to make a mockery of the court and everyone in it." Oh, right. She'd hated that entire bout of playacting. Oops. Franziska remained silent for a few long blocks. "Foolishly sentimental. I said as much to Klavier Gavin and I see that it is even more true than I thought."

"I am not sentimental."

"You are, and you are forever a fool. You could have earned twice as much as a consultant and author back home, Miles."

He grumbled. The use of only his first name hadn't passed him by. He suspected that, although she would never admit it, Franziska had found herself lonely wandering the judicial halls of Europe on her own. "I am home." His earlier estimate of her acceptance had apparently been overstated. "And I don't need any more money, while my home needs all the help it can get to clean up its legal system. I'm where I belong. For good."

"You did not mention that this is also the home of Phoenix Wright. Was that not your primary decision criterion?"

He groaned as they rounded a corner. "Really, Franziska? This is what you think of me? I can see that you're just trying to goad me and I've already taken quite enough of that from Gavin recently. No. It was not. The face of law has turned away from the light and it needs someone willing to champion the right path. I'm in a position to affect change to millions of people; with only one level of appellate courts, tens of millions. If you weren't so obsessed with the thrill of the hunt and getting your hands dirty, perhaps you could understand that."

"Hmph." She folded her arms. "I watched you fly him out to work with us on cases that needed no consultant, little brother."

"He's the best legal mind I know," Miles said with a deliberate smirk, and got the glower he wanted in return.

She twisted a tissue in her hands, shaping it into a pathetic mockery of her whip back at the hotel. It smacked against his forearm uselessly. "As your judge I demand to know the following: are you in love with him?"

"No," Miles said.

"The truth!"

"No," Miles insisted. "I may have complicated feelings toward the man, but love isn't done at a distance. It means... knowing a person's foibles, their dreams, what makes them smile..." All right, this was a poor argument track to go down; he knew all of those things about Phoenix Wright. "And... and it involves dating," he finished lamely.

"You're creating a definition to suit yourself." Franziska studied him and her expression dropped in childish dismay. "It is true. My foolish fool of a brother is in love. With a defense attorney. You gave up your career in Europe for a defense attorney. Papa would be horrified, Miles Edgeworth."

"No, I did not, and good," Miles practically snarled. "I hope he's spinning down there."

Awkward silence surged. It choked them both and kept them quiet for nearly a mile. "I apologize for my outburst," he eventually said, though he didn't mean it. The only way Franziska could continue to bear her name with pride was to remember the man she'd seen in her heart and head, rather than the monster that had emerged from Miles' tortured memories. Mostly, they tried not to talk about Manfred.

"I researched this holiday," Franziska said. "As I understand, a family argument is required for the day to be complete."

He smiled faintly and reached over without looking away from the windshield. Without its usual glove, her wrist felt delicate when he squeezed it. "Then we've done a very efficient job of checking things off. Well done, us."

"Perfectly efficient," Franziska agreed, and the tension continued to drain... at least, until she caught his wrist in return even as he shifted gears. "Label your feelings for Phoenix Wright, then. As your judge, I'm owed this knowledge."

"Not love," Miles insisted. He'd been similarly grilled by Ema Skye only three days prior; how was it that this felt even more intrusive? "Gratefulness for our friendship, and mingled curiosity and faint regret at most. But never love. Unrequited love is pathetic and I am not. I refuse to be." Her silence in return unsettled him. "Were anything to... develop, it would have done so in Europe over these past years. We were frequently alone and in neighborhoods with far more character than this," he said with a dismissive gesture toward the boxlike discount architecture around them. He knew that Phoenix liked women, but it had remained to be seen whether his taste also extended to men. Apparently not; or at least, not to Miles Edgeworth. Fair enough. "It was a one percent chance at best, and so I never truly expected anything to happen. I was proved right and I moved on."

That might be overstating things, from his overblown reactions to things like a simple touch at that board game night. But he didn't need to be totally honest with Franziska. She didn't have one of those thrice-damned stones, after all. Miles finished, "I am beyond fortunate to have him as a friend. I would never do anything to jeopardize that for a vague 'more' that will never happen."

"Well," she eventually said, "I suppose I am glad to see that you can still behave sensibly when necessary. Even if you did make a terrible mistake in leaving behind the excellent team we made in favor of... this city. It's nearly December and it's green."

"It's called life, Franziska. It's pleasant."

"You're going to miss the snow," she said warningly. "You're going to miss fireplaces and mulled wine and scarves."

"Perhaps," he admitted as they reached the apartment complex he remembered well from Tuesday night. "I'm still not moving back."

"Hmph." She strode into the building as he grabbed the wine he'd purchased the day before, then followed. "I can use today to familiarize myself with Apollo Justice," Franziska said as she sought the right door. "I believe I have a relatively complete picture of Klavier Gavin after our meeting yesterday, and so he is all that remains."

"And what does that picture of Gavin look like, Fräu Richter?" Miles asked lightly.

She batted him with her tissue-paper miniwhip again; he didn't even flinch for show. "I owe you no explanations, Miles Edgeworth. And if you lose like I expect you to, I will delight in passing down a loss to both you and Phoenix Wright."

"If you pass down that judgment," Miles said as they reached the door and she lifted her hand to knock, "I will of course accept it. For you will have made a perfect judgment that is a testament to your skills developed since childhood. Certainly, you would never insult your own talent by ignoring the facts just to make me lose." He smiled innocently. She glared, then hit him again.

Phoenix soon answered, looking far more "Phoenix" than like anything resembling the senior lawyer of a renowned legal agency. He was an absolute mess, smudged with what looked like every ingredient in the pantry. Miles couldn't help but wonder what sort of shape their dinner might be in. Apparently, the kitchen was less forgiving than the courtroom; not only was Phoenix a mess, but he was incredibly flustered as he welcomed them inside.

Smells greeted them that mostly matched his expectations for the holiday, even if everything wasn't coming together with quite the same flair as what Manfred's cooks would produce during a dinner party with roasts and pastries. He set down his wine bottles as directed, returned a strange look to Phoenix when he saw that the man was staring at him a beat too long, and stopped by the bathroom to make sure there wasn't anything smudged on his sweater. No, it looked fine. Phoenix must just be that amused by the sight of him without either a cravat or scarf; he'd certainly tried to get it off him during Game Night.

He next checked the kitchen to see how their dinner was coming along, rubbing his neck absently as he went; Phoenix had made him self-conscious despite himself. Plates were everywhere, the sink overflowed with mixing bowls, and the dishwasher's red light begged to be unloaded. "I think we put the turkey in too late," grumbled Athena as she, engrossed, flipped through something on her phone. "There's other stuff that's already done, and it's still got at least an hour to—" She noticed Miles only feet away from her and straightened in a second.

"Time to go!" squealed that peculiar necklace of hers. It had occasionally blurted out an answer she was considering in Trivial Pursuit, but this was far more entertaining. Athena blushed and covered it, then hurriedly scooped bits of food into containers. Miles glanced around as she flailed and saw Apollo's unaccompanied workstation. It appeared that Franziska's interrogation session was indeed in full swing. What a festive way to begin the holiday for everyone.

"Mr. Edgeworth!" Trucy said brightly, and held up a plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies. "Thanks for coming!"

As Miles reached for one, Phoenix popped his head into the kitchen. His hair was more of a mess than usual and he was still struggling into a fresh shirt over the tee below. "Um. Don't eat those, Edgeworth." Trucy frowned at him and he added, "You'll, uh, ruin your dinner."

"Your associate said it would still be at least an hour," Miles said as Trucy set the cookies reluctantly aside. Athena brushed past him in the narrow galley-style kitchen, her arms laden with tupperware-clad side dishes, and Miles blinked. "You're leaving, Ms. Cykes?" He might not know her on anything past a superficial level, but if Phoenix trusted her, he wished to.

"I. Ah. Simon!" Athena showed off the food she was carrying and took another step toward the exit. "I'm going to have dinner with Simon. Very nice seeing you, Prosecutor Edgeworth!"

"You look just as scary in a sweater!" chirped her necklace.

Smirking, Miles inclined his head. The girl's face was nearly as red as her hair. "Please pass on my greetings to Prosecutor Blackquill, then, and best wishes to you both." With a tumble of words that was probably intended to be a polite farewell, she excused herself and the door closed. In the confusion of Athena's rapid departure, Trucy snuck a cookie into his hand. Vindicated, he moved to take a bite.

Phoenix threw out a hand and pleaded, "Stop, stop! Seriously, you don't want to eat that. They're from Trucy's panties." He turned to his daughter and hissed, "I told you not to make those today."

Miles froze just before taking a bite, looked at the cookie in bewildered horror, and then stared between the Wrights for an explanation that was never offered. "I... I beg your pardon?"

With wide, innocent eyes, Trucy said, "What? My magic panties, from my show. The show you've been to. Remember?" Miles still stared and she reconsidered her words. "Oh, right. I've shelved them for a little while until I get the knife act down, so you've never seen what I can do with my panties when I really get going." Her hand twirled in a flourish. "Well, anyway, please enjoy the cookies that were baked just this afternoon in my magic panties! They're wonderfully—"

"Please stop saying that word," Miles managed, and set the cookie back on the plate. "Please."

"It is like this every day, sometimes," Phoenix said weakly as he moved the plate of cookies to the far end of the counter. Miles followed him out of the kitchen; even his inconvenient feelings were far easier to deal with than hearing Trucy Wright wax rhapsodic about her underwear. This had to be the least appropriate thing he'd been involved with over the past year by quite a considerable margin.

"Well." Miles cleared his throat. "I see I've yet to encounter some of her more inventive performances."

"Sorry." Phoenix laughed sheepishly and raked his hand through his hair. Against all logic, it fell into the ridiculous order of his typical hairstyle. "They're not panty panties, they're bloomer panties. Right. You want me to stop using that word, too." He folded his arms across his chest, searching for something to say next, and Miles found himself growing self-conscious again as Phoenix looked at him in silence. When was Phoenix Wright ever lost for words? His problem was talking too quickly, not this.

After he'd teased Franziska about her outfit, Miles wondered if he was the one who'd erred. He idly rubbed that spot on his neck again. Cashmere probably wasn't right for a 'casual gathering,' either, or perhaps plum wasn't his color. Say something, Wright.

Phoenix swallowed.

Not helping.

"Can we please eat now?" begged Apollo Justice as he walked into the living room. His loud plea broke the silence and both Miles and Phoenix took long breaths as awkwardness shattered. Behind him, Franziska returned from the hallway with a dark glare. "We'll get started on the other food and the turkey'll be ready for second helpings. Right?" His voice strained further. "Right?"

"What on earth did you ask him about, Franziska?" Miles asked before he remembered what a stupid idea that was.

Fortunately, Franziska appeared to have covered her true intentions well. She always had been good in investigations. Apollo met Miles' gaze directly, took a deep breath, and murmured, "German shepherd. German shepherd."

"I. Ah." Miles blinked. "What was that?"

No explanation came, for Apollo plowed onward with as much confidence as he'd ever shown during Game Night, or more. "Prosecutor von Karma was asking me how I see myself fitting into the Agency, Prosecutor Edgeworth. I know Mr. Wright has worked with both of you and I think she wanted to understand my style." His jaw set. His voice soared. "I told her how serious I am, and about the next case I plan to take versus Prosecutor Gavin." A determined nod. "Versus Prosecutor Gavin, who I am not even going to talk to for at least a month when we're not in the courtroom, because I'm just focusing on my work!" A beat. "And on Thanksgiving!"

After clenching his teeth until he was sure that he'd fought down a triumphant grin, Miles politely asked, "I'm sorry: you said that you don't even anticipate speaking with Prosecutor Gavin for a month?"

"Maybe two!" Apollo proclaimed. "I'm going to focus!"

Languidly, Miles turned to Franziska and repeated, "A month. Maybe two."

She tugged at her tissue paper whip. It tore in her hands.

"That sounds like an excellent idea, Mr. Justice," Miles said. "I find your focus on your work to be highly admirable. Avoiding casual contact with individuals like Prosecutor Gavin will certainly help you in that regard." Franziska's glower deepened and Miles couldn't help but smile at her. "What?"

"I'm getting food," Franziska muttered, and stormed past the small group. "I do not care if your timing on the turkey was incorrect, Phoenix Wright," she said as he tried to raise protest. "I'm eating now. Apollo Justice, join me. We will discuss your association with Klavier Gavin further." Apollo's short-lived relief died.

"Don't eat any cookies," Miles called after her.

"Thanks again for coming today," Phoenix said when it became apparent that everyone was indeed going to follow Apollo's suggestion of eating now and anticipating the turkey. "It's good to have you home again."

"It's good to be home," Miles said, surprised as always at how much he meant it. "Ah. Wright. I have to ask you something else."

Phoenix's eyes flicked to his collar again, and Miles gathered his resolve to ignore that reaction for the time being and to throw out this sweater when he got home. Clearly, something was wrong with it. "Yeah?"

"Trucy didn't... make any other food, did she?"

It took a second for the distracted fog in Phoenix's eyes to clear, and he laughed when it did. "Only some scalloped potatoes, but I watched those come out of a box. It's safe."

"Good."

"Good."

"Good," Miles repeated. The clock on the disc player below the television ticked to the next minute. "...It sounds like they're getting food. Perhaps we should..."

"Absolutely," Phoenix nodded. He turned away and walked into the kitchen, calling out directions, and sounded far more like Phoenix Wright again than he had for most of that afternoon. The food did smell good, if inventive, and the space that had looked so bare and new on first sight again felt far homier with the sounds of friends and family. Miles smiled, smaller but more sincerely than when he'd heard about Apollo's Gavin embargo, and walked to join them. This was the first Thanksgiving in years that he'd celebrated, and certainly one in which he felt the most genuinely thankful.

Phoenix gave him another strange, sidelong look as Miles craned his neck around Apollo to inspect the food offerings.

Sigh. Well, he was thankful for everything except that sweater.