trace (vestiges)
Franziska's expression does not waver, her frown creased firmly into her icy lips, the furrow in her brow not giving way even the slightest; the only sign to indicate that she is even breathing is the way her fingers twitch, curled tightly into the sleeve of her blouse, twitching in irritation in time with the pulsing in her eyelid. Her gaze does not stray, locked tightly onto its target.
Phoenix gulps, throwing on a clumsy, terrified smile. "W-wow," he offers, voice pitching nervously, "the food here is great, huh?"
Sighing, Miles leans forward, clasping his hands together upon the table and raising a brow. His sister has been glaring at Phoenix for the past fifteen minutes in that same pose, completely ignoring the waiter's attempts to catch her attention. Her water remains untouched, her wineglass still without any markings from her lipstick; all she has done thus far is bore holes into Phoenix's skull, as if staring for long enough shall give her an answer as to why they have appeared before her, together, united.
When it is clear Franziska shall not respond to Phoenix's clumsy words, Miles murmurs, "I brought him here because I want your blessing, Franziska von Karma."
Without missing a beat, the woman replies snidely, "And I still believe that you could do much, much better, little brother." Her nose wrinkles in distaste as her eyes dance across the sweat beading upon Phoenix's brow, noting each crease in his blazer caused by nervous fussing and a poor choice wearing it in the car. "He's not worthy someone of the von Karma name-"
"Franziska," Miles warns lowly, keeping his expression light but his tone full of meaning. He has already heard more than enough insults regarding Phoenix's station as Miles' partner on his own; he has no desire for Phoenix to hear them as well.
The younger's mouth finally snaps free of its position, curling into a sneer as the waiter brings by the food which Miles had ordered in her stead. "You should be grateful to be with Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright," she hisses before angrily cutting into her dinner.
Phoenix gulps, eyes transfixed upon the sharp, efficient motions of the woman's knife and fork. When he looks up at Miles, utterly aghast, Miles can only shrug. Please bear with this, he mouths.
The attorney's gaze softens, the corners of his lips quirking up in a gentle, wry smile. I know, he replies silently, eyes rolling. Miles stiffens up in his chair as he feels a large, warm hand land atop his below the table, Phoenix's thumb brushing tenderly over the back of his palm before returning to the table, an air of calm restored around the blue-clad man's self.
Miles smiles at that, focusing upon his meal. He knows that Franziska loves the food here; he also knows that she is not one to make a scene outside of the courtroom unless it is absolutely necessary, so although she is acidic and scathing, Phoenix should remain relatively unharmed.
That hope dies around three glasses in. Miles has never seen Franziska drink before in excess- they were raised in a house which consumed liquor as a part of their station and class, not as a means to lose oneself, for loose lips can undo a prosecutor in a heartbeat- but now, as her cheeks flush a ruddy pink and her spite grows more and more visible, he begins to realize that perhaps ordering a bottle may not have been the best idea. The young woman begins to stab her food with more ferocity that even Phoenix's fake calm can handle, soon leaving him flinching each time she attacks her dinner, her narrow eyes growing bloodshot, her glares more venomous by the sip.
By the time she is done her meal, Miles decides firmly that it is time to stop this farce. The waiter accepts his payment gratefully, leaving the trio to clean up and slip on coats as necessary. "Franziska, you've known my stance for a while now," he says firmly. "Now, I am only going to say this once: cease this antagonistic behaviour towards Wright."
It appears, however, that this is precisely the wrong thing to say. Wordlessly, Franziska's eyes bug out, the inebriated young woman reaching out in the blink of an eye to grab Phoenix's collar and drag him unceremoniously out of the restaurant. Miles can only blink in shock, comprehending the situation a little too late; he is a few metres behind them by the time he sees her pulling a protesting Phoenix out the door and into the cold evening air.
The crack of the whip against concrete is the first thing he hears as he steps outside. "You scum, Phoenix Wright!" Franziska hollers, her voice breaking due to alcohol and emotion. "Does Brother know you were infatuated by a criminal all through the Temple case, hm? You couldn't look away from her, don't think I did not see!" Spittle flies through the air in a decidedly unladylike manner, but it is clear that she pays no heed to this, focused solely upon boring burning holes into Phoenix's appalled, painstakingly guilt-ridden expression. "Iris Hawthorne and Phoenix Wright, former lovers. Do not think I do not know! What would you have done had I not been there?"
Her words are heated and accusatory, yes, but Miles finds himself slowing to a stop in shock as his brain finally catches up, comprehending what has been said. She saw Iris far more than I did. She watched over Iris throughout the case, the trial, all the way until she and Dahlia switched places. His heart sinks in his chest, a distinct pang eating him up, a discrete pounding sensation creeping like the drums of an approaching army in the back of his skull. Just how did Iris look at him throughout the case?
He knows that Phoenix loves him. It has only been a week since the trial, however; wounds of self-doubt and fear of loss shall continue to ache for quite a while, it seems.
Miles' hand is upon Franziska's shoulder, stopping her from raining her whip down upon flesh this time. "It is alright, Franziska," he murmurs. "We have already spoken about this."
"And you forgive- forgave him?" she squeals indignantly, her state making her words spill carelessly from her lips, fear and disgust painted clear as day in every word.
When he shakes his head, she seems to snap out of it. Before she can react, he takes his keys from his pocket and tosses them to Phoenix. "Call her a taxi," he says firmly.
Crestfallen, Phoenix bites his lip. He clearly wants to stay, wants to protest and clear his name and win over the one person Miles loves just as dearly, if not more, than Phoenix himself; however, the prosecutor does not budge, a quiet, calm resignation in his eyes finally convincing Phoenix to listen, to leave.
When they are alone, Miles reaches out, straightening up Franziska's haphazardly-slung-on coat. "You always were precocious," he cannot help but laugh as she pouts and tries to pull away, an uncharacteristic openness he hasn't seen in quite a while oozing from her every pore.
She harrumphs, irritated in response. "Phoenix Wright and the defendant fluttered their eyelashes and pined for one another and I will not tolerate this disrespect, Miles Edgeworth," she mumbles out clumsily, crossing her arms across her chest. "He does not deserve you-"
"We've both made mistakes, Franziska," he murmurs placidly. "He has apologized, and I have not forgiven and forgotten, if that is what you are worried about."
"But why- why-"
"Why him?"
"He's not worthy!" she protests almost childishly, her ruddiness only amplified by the brisk evening air.
Although he should be horrified, he cannot help but smile at her anger. "I… To err is human, Franziska von Karma," he replies at last. "What matters is how you move past it."
"But you were hurt by it."
Miles freezes. Had Franziska noticed? Of course she had, he tells himself sternly. Why else had she sat with him during the rest of the trial? Why else had she stayed with him, listened to his requests, made sure he was alright each and every time before she continued her far-more-time-sensitive work for Interpol?
How could he have ever assumed that she would not fight this battle for him?
For a moment, he wonders whether he should hug her. He does not know how to express the warmth in his heart; she has never been one for physical contact, nor has she ever enjoyed having her good deeds pointed out. Nonetheless, she truly has always been on his side.
Quietly, he murmurs, "So, you-" Then, he shuts his mouth and takes a step back, smiling at her wryly. He shall not point out the one other thing which had truly caught his attention in her first outburst; she is intoxicated, and he doubts she shall allow him to ever bring this incident up again, so there is little point in teasing her about it.
She does think of me as her older brother, though, hm?
He has always known it. To hear it from her own lips, however, is wonderful. His heart is warm despite the residual frustration and grief brought up by Iris' visage.
When she frowns up at him, waiting for him to finish his thought, he can only chuckle ruefully before smoothing out her hair with fingers that are far too clumsy despite the length of their relationship. "You are a good rival, Franziska," he offers warmly. "Continue to grow, alright?"
Her eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, she looks vulnerable and helpless and every bit the nineteen-year-old she actually is; then, her expression hardens, mouth pressing into a grimace as she coughs out, "Of course, Miles Edgeworth."
Right on cue, the taxi, presumably called by Phoenix, arrives, pulling into the front of the restaurant. Chin high in the air, Franziska haughtily wobbles away, ignoring his gentle reminders to call him when she arrives home; he had wanted her to stay with him, but she had insisted upon staying at a hotel, so all he can do is see her off.
Her eyes dart over to him once again, just as she is about to step into the taxi. Doubt clouds her vision. "Do you really… with him?"
He nods. "Perfection is a lofty goal," he says softly. "I'd like to have some company while I pursue it."
Her pout is more lonely than anything. Sullenly, she nods, then slips into the car. He waves goodbye; she hesitates, then waves almost meekly back as the car begins to drive away.
Phoenix greets him with a quiet hug and tender lips upon his cheek once he slips into his own vehicle. "She has every right to hate me," he says softly. "In her eyes, I've probably taken everything away from her."
"She'll understand one day," Miles murmurs in response, weariness overwhelming him as he finally allows himself to sink into the car seat. "I know she will."
"Oh yeah?"
Miles smiles despite it all. "She… is my younger sister. We are more alike than you'd think."
"…you're not allowed to get a whip-"
"Do not insult me, Wright-"
The drive home is easy, effortless. And the next day, when Franziska storms into his office and reluctantly tells him that she shall "perhaps accept Phoenix Wright" in exchange for ignoring her shameful behaviour the night before, Miles knows that this is what happiness, what security, truly is.