Chapter Text
𐦍
There are, Miles Edgeworth muses, very few reliable constants in a person’s life.
If one wishes to lean to the philosophical, life itself – and death – could, of course, be brought up as an example. Poetically and logically, ends and beginnings are of course inevitable, as is change. He’s always found something a little humorous in the idea that change itself would be a constant.
Unfortunately, he can’t seem to locate the energy to make light of his current situation.
Because above all else – above such ancient laws of the world regarding life and death and change –, he believes the true constant in his life must be paperwork.
The evidence adds up. Every accomplishment, tragedy, success and failure of his life has been heralded by ominous stacks of documentation. His first trial? A stalemate of a verdict which only resulted in a remarkable amount of forms to be signed. His first actual win in court? Yet more. Losing against Wright had been a positive deluge. His own time taking the stand had been worse; he’d spent the first week of the new year pouring over release forms. The trial with Lana Skye? Absolutely indescribable. His year of study of the judicial systems in Europe had required less, as had his brief return to Los Tokyo due to the single most panic-inducing phone call of his life, which is, in fact, a high bar to clear.
It’s not particularly surprising that this would be one of his burdens, considering his career choice, but – still. It’s 9 PM, he’s still in his office, and he’s a little afraid to count the hours he’s slept in the past three days. He thinks he might be able to do it on one hand.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head still throbs, which he supposes it’s want to do when one’s been knocked unconscious by blunt force. But he’s kept careful stock of any worrying symptoms and found no sign of anything but perhaps a mild concussion, so he ignores it in favour of a different kind of headache.
He frowns down at the incident report for the GoYou disaster and wonders if pursuing Justice and the Absolute Truth Above Everything is really worth it, and if it’s too late to change careers.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three sharp raps on his door.
He glances up, eyes narrowed in equal parts suspicion and a vague sort of squint in the fading light.
“Come in,” he calls, after a momentary pause. Please don’t be Agent Lang, he thinks, with approximately the same desperation someone held at gunpoint might exhibit.
Another hesitation. Then his door creaks open, and around the polished cherry-wood peeks Kay Faraday.
“Mr. Edgeworth!” she greets, leaning a little further into his office. She’s smiling brightly. “I had a feeling you’d still be here.”
He raises a brow. “It’s my office, Ms. Faraday.”
“It’s nearly 10.” She tips forwards, practically hanging off the door frame. “Do you sleep in here? Do you hang upside down like a bat from that fancy bookshelf? Like Dracula? Or maybe you’ve got a charging port somewhere?”
“It’s hardly half past 9,” he corrects, scrawling a signature over yet another report. “And, again, this is my office. I should like to know what it is you’re doing here at this hour.”
“Aha! You admit that it’s late!”
“...This is pointless.”
“You’re only saying that now that you’re losing.” Kay shrugs, finally stepping through the doorway and into his office. “Anyways, I’m here ‘cause I had to give a stupid statement down at the precinct about – um, today, and they forgot that the buses stop running past 8:30 ‘round here, so I’m kinda... stuck.”
As she speaks, she crosses her arms tightly, lips tugging downwards in an uncomfortable sort of grimace.
He blinks, a brief moment of surprise that slips through the hazy exhaustion he’s been drifting in for the past – however long.
“That,” he begins, before realizing he’s not quite sure where he’s going. He sets down his pen. “What are you asking me?”
Uncharacteristically, the young thief is quiet for a short moment.
“Can I catch a ride with you?” she blurts. Then she chuckles a little awkwardly. “Sorry. I was gonna ask Gummy, but he left at a normal time, so I sorta missed my chance, and, well, I dunno where Lang went, so...”
The words hang in the air. He processes her request: a cursory glance tells her she’s uncomfortable, and while he can think of a myriad of reasons why, none seem to fit.
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
“...Can you not call your guardians?” he wonders, noting the way she tenses. He’s operating under the assumption that at only seventeen she’s likely still living at home, and considering her father is...
Her hands grip the fabric of her shirt. “They don’t know about today. And I – um, I – I’m staying with my grandparents, so I don’t wanna freak them out.”
A fairly innocuous reply. Logical, if a little unsettling for the fact that it makes him vibrantly aware of how he’s grown to take all manner of tragedy in his stride, which is something he won’t analyze now or, preferably, ever.
So why does she still look nervous?
She’s a teenager, he reminds himself. Not a suspect, not a witness. He isn’t about to interrogate her. Her reasons are her own, although he should probably say something kind but firm that will gently nudge her towards letting her family know of her whereabouts, even if it worries them.
“...I cannot guarantee that I will leave any time soon,” he says instead, biting back a sigh. Wright has always been better with these things.
She brightens. “Oh, that’s fine, Mr. Edgeworth! I’ve got to fix up Little Thief.”
Ah. That gadget. Odd, though he can’t deny its usefulness. “It’s broken?”
“Nah, just a few loose thingamabobs. Nothing a bit of double-sided tape can’t fix. Speaking of which...?”
He gives up on stifling a sigh as he rummages through the second drawer of his desk. He holds the tape up, not bothering to look up as he hears the click of her boots on hardwood. She takes the roll, but doesn’t move; he looks up, and finds her studying his workspace.
“Workaholic. I knew it,” she exclaims, eyeing the neat stacks of paper and pile of tabbed binders with distaste. At his affronted frown, she smirks. “Am I wrong? ...Hey, cute, Signal Samurai!”
He snatches the offending key-chain from her grasp, ignoring her sharp gasp of offence. “That’s not mine.”
“It’s on your desk, isn’t it? And it’s the same colour as your jacket, and the curtains, and wow, you’ve got a favourite c-”
“Ms. Faraday, please. Leave me to a miserable death via crime scene report.”
“Oh, it’s like that, then. You know you can just leave it for tomorrow, right?” Whatever look he gives her, she winces. In his defence, he’s still working through the paperwork from his sudden return to the city – and ensuing insanity – an entire month ago, and he’s worried about what new, form-ridden disaster tomorrow will bring. “Alright, fine, dropping it.”
She departs, and a moment later, he hears the gentle crinkling of fabric and the creak of the sofa.
“Shoes off,” he says, not looking up.
A stifled laugh. “Yes, sir.”
There’s the sound of laces being untied, more rustling, and then the soft tap, tap, tap of Little Thief’s interface. He wonders, idly, where she came across the device. He can’t imagine it was cheap.
After a little while, he stops registering the noise. He’s used to working in environments much more disruptive. He, as Wright would say, lets the paperwork take him. He’s not sure if it’s his exhaustion that renders the turn of phrase incomprehensible, or if it’s just that man and his general oddities.
It’s some time later – how much later, he really couldn’t guess – that he realizes the sound has stopped.
At first, he doesn’t think anything of it. The office isn’t suspiciously silent; the scratch of his pen, the click of whiteout, the muffled traffic outside all a pleasant white noise. But then a few minutes pass without a sound from the sofa, so he looks up.
Kay is curled up on the couch, soundly asleep. Her face is pillowed on her forearm, and Little Thief hangs precariously from a limp hand.
A glance at the clock tells him it’s just past eleven.
It makes sense, he thinks, as he sorts the last of the unsigned files into a fresh binder, tabbing the sections accordingly. Even without being held up at the precinct, she’s had a long day.
He collects his things from around his office; his keys, his cellphone – mysteriously in the third drawer with the stationery – and the ever-offensive suitcase that he’s absolutely going to dispose of the first chance he gets. Maybe the detective will want it.
It dawns on him that he hasn’t actually been to his apartment since he’d originally returned to Los Tokyo. After the Engarde trial he’d left for Germany, where he’d studied under some of the top legal minds of Europe for seven peaceful, undisturbed months until that phone call. Then it had been a rush back to the city, a two-night stay in, of all places, Phoenix Wright’s apartment, and a hasty departure back to Germany to tie up loose ends before he’d decided on a sidetrack to Borginia. Now, he once more finds himself in Los Tokyo, and of course a murder had happened the second he’d crossed the border.
He’s beginning to notice a pattern. Europe is peaceful. Europe’s judicial system doesn’t give him an aneurysm. Europe doesn’t seem to actively want him dead. He’s not sure why he came back to Los Tokyo, because in the past twelve hours he’s managed to get himself caught up in two separate murders. An absurd number even for this city, and probably a sign to someone in any way superstitious.
Kay’s still asleep by the time he’s finished. He hesitates, then reaches out to shake her shoulder.
When she doesn’t wake, he tries again, a little firmer. “Ms. Faraday.”
She stirs, blinking open hazy eyes which sharpen and dart about the room before landing on his face.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Edgeworth,” she mumbles, squinting up at him. “’S it time to head out?”
He inclines his head, offering her own bag to her. It’s surprisingly heavy for a purse. A collection of metal pins in assorted shapes clink as she takes it.
“Is there anything else of yours you must collect?” he wonders as she gets up, stretching.
She yawns. “Nah. Got all I need right here.”
Kay holds up Little Thief with a lopsided grin, huffing when he doesn’t deign to respond and instead starts to leave. Still, she doesn’t even grumble as she follows him out into the hall.
“Pretty shoddy locks,” she comments as he turns the key.
“Deceptively so. And the doors are stronger than they look, too.” The lock clicks.
“Guess you get a lotta crime here, then?” Her raised eyebrow is practically audible in her voice.
“Not generally. These were installed as a precaution.”
“Aha! Then how can you know if they’re really that good?”
“I suppose I cannot,” he accedes, gesturing for her to follow him. “In fact, I was out of the country when they were put in.”
Her eyes widen as she hastens her step to catch up. “Really? I thought you were based in Los Tokyo. You’re kinda well known.”
“I... was. Of late I’ve been primarily operating out of a law firm in Germany,” he admits. “Although, I suppose I am back now. For better or worse.”
Kay scrunches up her nose. “Why the change of heart?”
“Which time?”
“Either, I guess.”
He decides his return is less fraught with pitfalls than his departure. If it could even be called that.
“I suppose,” he begins, before realizing he doesn’t really know what he’s going to say. He has too many reasons, and too few. “I don’t fully know. The legal system in this country is, quite honestly, embarrassing compared to the places I have studied in. And I've spent most of my life in Germany. And my reputation here is less than spotless. But I suppose I’ve... perhaps I feel I fit in a little better in Los Tokyo, after all.”
“Into the... legal system?” Kay wonders, squinting at him.
“Yes. What else would – never mind." There’s something a little cheeky shining in her grass-green eyes. "In any case, I don’t actually know if I’ll linger in the country for very long. It hasn’t exactly welcomed me back with open arms.”
Kay’s face falls, just a little.
“I guess it really hasn’t, huh?” she replies, a little quieter. “But we’re – we’re still gonna figure out what’s going on with the fake Yatagarasu, right? Before you go, I mean.”
The uncertainty in her voice is... ah.
“I will do everything I can, Ms. Faraday,” he assures her firmly. “It is not in my nature to let a criminal walk free.”
Kay listens intently, hanging on to his every word. Her grass-green eyes are bright and intelligent.
“Huh,” she says, tipping her head. “Do you practise those lines?”
“What.”
“Um, never mind. I – thanks, Mr. Edgeworth. Really, really thanks,” she says, looking down. Her fists clench at her sides. “It – it’d feel really good to know she’s got what’s coming for her. Man, that sounds awful, but she can’t just keep walking around after killing – a-after everything. Right?”
Miles shakes his head and doesn’t comment on the way her voice breaks.
“No,” he says flatly. “She cannot. And... Ms. Faraday, it doesn’t sound awful. You are allowed your anger at losing someone, and at the person who took them from you.”
Kay looks up, brows pulling together.
“Do you really think so?” She isn’t quite wringing her hands as they walk, but it’s a close thing.
He nods.
“I do,” he tells her, then hesitates. It’s probably just how bone-deep exhausted he is that makes him add, “It’s... something my therapist often says.”
Kay blinks. He tries not to cringe in anticipation.
“Sounds like they’re pretty smart.” She smiles, a little sad around the edges. He relaxes, relieved. “I... thanks. Thank you. It’s really nice to know there are other people on this too, finally. I kinda started to think people’d just forgotten about him. About all this.”
He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Understandable. Cases not solved within the three-day trial system are often left to rot in the evidence rooms, the folders tucked neatly out of sight, collecting dust. Not that he’d know. Not that he’s read any of them.
"I'm sorry she got away the first time," he tells her quietly. "It was a mistake, and one that we'll remedy."
The curve of her lips turns a little more genuine.
“You’re not such a bad guy, y’know,” she tells him, setting her hands on her hips. “Maybe you’ll be a good sidekick to the real Yatagarasu after all!”
He rolls his eyes. “I thought you were my assistant.”
“I am! By day, that is. By night, we switch.”
“I’m not helping you rob anyone. Or endorsing theft in any way.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun?”
“Countless times. Most of them were criminals.” They turn the corner to the stairwell, and -
She pauses at the entrance to the stairwell. “Uh, this is locked.”
He halts beside her, heart sinking.
“So it is,” he agrees, toneless.
Kay frowns at him.
“Can you unlock it?” she asks.
“No.”
“Oh.” She glances around. “There’s an elevator over there, so I guess we’re not stuck. But why -?”
Miles sighs, crossing his arms. His fingers tap a frustrated rhythm on his bicep.
“The building is locked up after 10:00. Unfortunately, I do not have the master key,” he replies flatly. “I – seem to have forgotten this particular trait of this particular office in my time abroad.”
He’s going to pretend it’s that, and not the fact that he’s quite honestly a little too exhausted to be thinking entirely straight.
“Fair enough.” Kay shrugs, then makes for the elevator. “Twelve flights of stairs is a pretty long walk, anyway.”
Her gloved hand darts over the button, the ensuing click obscenely loud.
“Mr. Edgeworth?” she asks, likely because he hasn’t moved an inch. “Something up?”
He shakes his head, joining her. “Not at all.”
She studies him for a moment, likely noting the tension that’s settled in his shoulders. She’s perceptive to a degree that discomforts him.
“I’ve never really liked elevators,” she admits, and he blinks, turning his head to better see her. “They’re no fun – just up and down, without any flair! What a waste.”
That startles a surprised laugh out of him.
“That’s a... controversial opinion, I’m sure,” he says, clearing his throat. “What would you have instead, then?”
The elevator dings. Kay hops inside the moment the doors open wide enough for her to fit, turning sideways to squeeze through.
He can’t move.
Grow up, he thinks. Remarkably, it doesn’t help. But he sees Kay’s face begin to fall, and he can’t very well not follow her because he’s her ride out of here and the stairwell is closed, and even with that flawless logic, it still takes a monumental effort to pass the threshold. She smiles when he does, big and bright, and steps aside.
The doors slide shut.
He catches his wrist behind his back, neatly trimmed nails digging into his skin. The small spark of pain is a distraction, but it’s not enough.
It’ll be quick, at least. Probably. He’s not certain he’s actually ever taken the elevator down from his office. Well, he must have; he knows he must have, but he can’t remember when. The last time he can remember taking an elevator in this courthouse is –
“I’d put in poles,” Kay decides suddenly.
He turns his head too quickly to look at her, and his vision blurs. “W-what?”
“Like what firemen use. It would be quicker than stairs, or elevators, or escalators, which are kind of a lazy in-between,” she continues, spreading her hands as she speaks. The gesture seems familiar, somehow. “Think about it! Detective poles would make precincts so much more fun.”
“...I don’t believe that’s part of their purpose, Ms. Faraday.” The words come out a little strangled, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “And that would be incredibly inconvenient.”
“Meh. What about poles in the courtroom? Lawyer poles?”
“I can’t even imagine the context in which that would be helpful.”
“Emergency trial.”
“That isn’t a thing.”
“Really?”
“...Well, not technically. Emergency hearings do exist, but they aren’t final,” he concedes. The floor of the elevator trembles a little as they descend. Don’t think about how hard it’s getting to breathe. Don’t think about how close the walls are. Don’t –
“Alright, then, dramatic entrances. I bet you’ve totally wished you could do some of those, huh?”
He realizes, all at once, what she’s doing.
And – God, is it actually working?
“...I assure you, I am perfectly capable of making my own dramatic entrances,” he tells her, and wonder of wonders, his voice doesn’t waver. “As are you, apparently.”
Kay grins at him. “It’s an art, Mr. Edgeworth! And I, the great Yatagarasu, am a skilled artisan.”
The doors ding.
Kay waits for him to step out before she follows. As the doors close behind them, he allows himself to let out a slow, measured breath, re-adjusting his jacket. As he runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face, she sets her hands on her hips.
“Your office is on the twelfth floor,” Kay says.
“...It is.”
“And you hate elevators.”
“I don’t -” Actually, that’s a lie. “I didn’t choose my office.”
“Couldn’t you just ask for a different one?”
He does not reply. Kay eyes him, then shrugs, making for the glass double doors that lead out into the city.
“Fair enough,” she says, and though there is an underlying hint of ‘how incredibly masochistic’ in her tone, she doesn’t voice it. “It’s probably good that someone knows where all the fire escapes in the building are, anyway.”
“That is... certainly one way to look at it.”
But still, he follows her out onto the sidewalk, lit by golden streetlights flanked by budding cherry trees. The buzz of traffic lessens as they circle around to the underground parking lot. Kay calls out a few strings of hello’s, delighting in the endless echoes against the high ceiling. He rubs at his eyes and fights back a sigh, fumbling the keys as he unlocks his car.
“Shotgun!” Kay calls unnecessarily as she slips into the passenger seat. “You do have a favourite colour.”
“Mm?”
“It’s clearly blue.”
Heat prickles at his cheeks as he starts the car. “Very funny, Ms. Faraday.”
“Green.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Yellow. Can I turn on the radio?”
“...Fine.” He bites back a wince as she flicks through a few staticky channels, instead focusing on maneuvering them out of the underground lot.
The streets are fairly quiet. The sky is clear, and it’s warm for mid-March. Despite the light pollution, stars glimmer high above, though the glittering tapestry of the night is cut into by the inky silhouettes of buildings and power lines. With the windows rolled down, the scents and sounds from the city drift in, and he realizes he’s actually missed driving through Los Tokyo. What a ridiculous notion.
It’s an eclectic city, all things considered. Some of the shops and houses still have their original brick, papered over with posters and ads stuck on with tack, but the closer to the heart of the city one goes, the more shining metal and spotless glass one sees until the world becomes a maze of polished mirrors. The sidewalks are lined with red maple and cherry, and parks abound, but some back alleys lead to a network of streets without a speck of green to be seen for miles. Neon signs garnish shop windows and street corners beside hand-painted kanji scrawling across weathered cardboard.
Kay fiddles with the radio, clicking through a few more channels until she lands on something he’s not familiar with. She seems to like it, though, leaning back and tapping her fingers to the beat on her knee.
“Where are we headed?” he asks, casting her a glance.
“Corner of Smith’s and 7th,” she says after a short pause.
He frowns. Something about that sounds off, but he can’t place it.
“...Is that not a park?” he wonders. He vaguely remembers Gumshoe saying that he walks Missile there. Perhaps he should bring Pess sometime.
“Yup! It might be kinda weird for a random car to pull up outside my grandparents’ house; if they see you, they’ll, um, ask me where I was,” she explains a little haltingly.
He taps his fingers on the smooth curve of the steering wheel, considering his next words carefully. He can, of course, understand why the young woman might not want her address to be known, but he doesn’t think she’s lying out of mistrust of him; otherwise he does not believe she would have come to him, nor fallen asleep on his sofa.
He can tell she’s picked up on his hesitation. She’s sharp, even when she’s clearly tired, and seems pensive.
Miles nods. “Very well, then.”
Kay blows out a breath, letting her head fall back against the seat. “Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth. To be honest, I really didn’t want to walk.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Yeah, there’s so much crime in this city! Not that the great Yatagarasu is afraid of criminals, of course,” she adds. “They fear me! But, still.”
“Believe it or not, Ms. Faraday, I actually do have some experience with city-wide crime rates.”
Kay giggles, then sobers.
They stop for a crosswalk, and after a short moment, she asks, “How do you ever feel safe, knowing all of the stuff that happens out on the streets?”
Part of him wants to correct her that it’s not just out on the streets. But she knows that. He offers her a one-shouldered shrug.
“My father was a defence attorney,” he admits, the words falling surprisingly easily from his tongue. How about that. “I’ve been aware of the concept of criminal justice since – well, honestly, since before much else. It’s something I’ve had to grow comfortable with, though it remains... difficult. It’s different, prosecuting cases as opposed to having them recounted to you. Especially when the guilty party is not evident at first or second glance, which... has been the case more times than I expected when I... chose my profession.”
Kay nods.
“Is that why you left?” she asks quietly.
He opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking.
“In part,” he concedes. “But in truth, the spark was lit by a... friend.”
“Who wouldn’t happen to be Phoenix Wright, would he?” Kay asks innocently.
He turns to stare at her so fast it nearly gives him whiplash.
“What?” he replies, before hastily refocusing on the road because Wright will not be spiritually causing a traffic accident, damn him. “W-where – where did you come up with that absurd idea?”
Kay cackles, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle the unholy sound. “Oh my god, it totally is! You know the Phoenix Wright! The Turnabout Terror!”
“I don’t know anyone who actually calls him that.” Hold it! “Nor do I know him.”
“I’ve read your trials.”
“...Fine. It – wait, what?” Dear God, she’s actually going to make him crash the car. “You did what?”
She rubs the back of her neck, grinning awkwardly.
“Sorry, that was mostly for dramatic effect. I had to track you down again, remember? I just skimmed whatever newspapers I could find for information, and his name kept popping up,” she admits. “I did read a summary of State vs. Edgeworth, though, when it happened. It was pretty big news.”
“I suppose it was,” he agrees flatly. “...That’s why you didn’t ask about -?”
“Huh?” Kay’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh, yeah, I figured – well, actually, I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t wanna bring it up. I’ll make you some lock picks for the next time you get stuck in the office late, and then you can just sneak out like a true thief!”
“That’s... incredibly illegal,” he manages to say evenly. “But appreciated. I’m surprised you don’t have more questions.”
Kay shrugs, holding up her hands. “You didn’t totally grill me about being a thief, so I guess I felt like I owed you a favour.”
Her cheeky grin tells him she’s lying. He doesn’t press it.
The music drifting from the speakers has changed. Kay frowns, appearing dissatisfied, but she must recognize the street they turn onto because she drops her hand and reaches for her bag instead.
“This is me,” she says as they pull into a small roundabout parking lot with a water feature of a rather ugly beaver in the centre. What a strange choice. “Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth! You’re a lifesaver.”
He inclines his head as she hops out onto the curb. “Of course.”
She offers him a goofy grin and a mockery of a bow, bending at the waist and extending a hand. Then she straightens, hitching her bag over her shoulder as she begins to walk the curb towards the block of buildings in the near distance.
“G’night!” she calls over her shoulder, waving him goodbye. He simply nods once more, key already turning in the ignition.
By the time he pulls out of the parking lot, she’s just a distant figure in the rear-view mirror, following the sidewalk. For a moment, just as he’s turning back to the road, he thinks he sees a blur of movement as she darts into the trees lining the edge of the park.
He shakes it off, certain he mistook the flicker of the city lights in the mirror for motion.
𐦍
The next day, Kay barges into his office and demands they follow her newest lead on the mysterious Yatagarasu impersonator who’s left their threatening – and, apparently, fake – calling card at an embassy on the other side of the city.
She’s dragged him down seven flights of stairs, gesticulating wildly while explaining the plot of a show called the ‘Jammin’ Ninja’ before he recalls that ah, yes, she is a teenager.
In retrospect, the Jammin’ Ninja probably should have tipped him off.
“Ms. Faraday,” he pants, attempting to catch his breath in one of the many, many stairwells they’ve acquainted themselves with today. “Hold it! Mustn’t you contact your grandparents? I’m sure they’d like to know where you’re going.”
Kay mouths the word mustn’t, then shrugs. “Meh. I’m usually out late anyway.”
“Even so, this may prove to be a risky investigation. I would feel much more comfortable if -”
“Aw, c’mon, Mr. Edgeworth! We’ll be fine,” she says, grinning. Well, at least she has confidence. He, on the other hand, has been entangled in three separate murders over the past forty-eight hours and fears what his future brings. “Seriously, they’re – um, used to me being kind of there-and-gone-again, so it probably won’t even register.”
He hesitates, an uncomfortable feeling weighing down his heart. “Ms. Faraday, if they are neglecting you -”
“No!” Her eyes are wide. “No, no, that’s – nope, wow, that came out wrong. It’s just that they know not to worry. They’re really good – um, guardians. But they won’t mind! It’ll be fine!”
“Still, I recommend -”
“Don’t worry about it!”
“Ms. Faraday!”
Kay goes quiet, looking resolutely at the floor.
He draws in a slow breath. He’s fairly certain the expression on his face is, as the detective so kindly calls it, the ‘scary one’.
“Please,” he says, softer. Which is an underused and underdeveloped register of his voice. “This is important.”
She blinks twice, looking away, lips pursed.
“...Okay,” she agrees, twisting the cuff of her glove. “I’ll call when we get down to the lobby, yeah? That way you won’t, like, get arrested for kidnapping me or whatever.”
“Thank you.” Miles nods, relieved, then glances ahead. “...You, er, don’t have to take the stairs.”
“Are you try’na get rid of me?” Her grin is back.
He spreads his hands, shaking his head. “Not at all. I just don’t know anyone who willingly subjects themselves to this many flights.”
“Well I do, and he’s my ride, so.” She stretches, touching her toes. “Besides, I’ve gotta stay quick if I’m gonna steal the truth, right?”
He feels his lips twitch. “Very well, then.”
Later, she makes a show of using her phone while they linger at a crosswalk. She smiles cheekily at him, flip-phone cupped to her cheek with her shoulder, her voice drowned out by the din of the city.
𐦍