Archive of Our Own ^beta

People weren’t narratives. A single life was far more complicated than could ever be put down on paper within the confines of two covers and still retain the nuance and detail that made them human. Biographical, tragic, fairy-tale, the grim and clinical lines of an autopsy report; each was too much, or each was too little, to speak to how the person themselves had lived. No person was a story; thus, none could be the main character.

But to those for whom life had always been a performance, narrative seemed to haunt. Not their own – no, it never seemed to be their story to tell. No matter how many times they forced themselves to stand and keep moving, reaching for the light always just out of reach behind a shadow, they became a side character in someone else’s play, waiting in the wings for whatever brief taste of the spotlight they’d be given.

Twice at least had Franziska been cast as a supporting player in the story of those around her. Twice or more had she grieved, and twice or more had she broken, desperate for her turn to be the one casting the shadow – perfect, unflinching. The best.

Once more, it seemed, she’d found herself in the wings, files she’d long since memorized held securely in her lap as she briefly allowed her eyes to close. Only briefly , she told herself, just long enough to give her brief respite from the near empty court lobby before her and the crushing weight of inactivity.

The most unfortunate truth she’d begun to realize over the past tumultuous year was that inaction could sometimes be as powerful or more so than the opposite to which she’d grown so very accustomed. Foolish, counterintuitive, and so incredibly difficult –

But this time, cast in her supporting role, Franziska was in her place on purpose. If nothing could be done to change her fate of always playing second fiddle in someone else’s narrative, she’d at least take charge enough to choose the ones in which she played a part.

A quiet sound registered at the same time as something being set down on the bench, followed by the awareness of another person sitting down beside her. Tensing momentarily, she forced a slow breath through her nose. What fool would dare to have the audacity to approach me like this?

Even before the thought was finished, she’d already come up with her answer, and tension ebbed from her muscles as she opened her eyes and looked down at the package that had been placed next to her leg. Brightly colored plastic, eerily familiar – a processed snack from the vending machine that had stood in this lobby for longer than she could remember.

The hand which had set the package down had already withdrawn to cross over its owner’s chest, perpetually clad in that gaudy shade of maroon. He’d closed his own eyes, leaning back against the wall behind them and failing entirely to appear nonchalant.

“What are you doing here, Miles Edgeworth?” she demanded, removing a hand from her lap in order to tap disdainfully at the package of swiss rolls beside her. “Don’t tell me you came for lunch. Is this the taste in cuisine you’ve developed?”

Since leaving his ways behind – since leaving me behind. Since abandoning the path we were supposed to walk together. The words went unspoken, and he’d since returned to that same path, but daggers remained within her breast that sharpened her tongue and made her want to turn away from him even as she unwillingly relaxed at his presence.

“I could ask you the same – if my information is correct, you shouldn’t be directly involved with any case that would warrant your being here today,” Edgeworth answered cryptically, still not so much as looking in Franziska’s direction. His words were evidence enough that he didn’t need to in order to see through her perfectly. “As for the swiss roll, it’s for you. Whatever your reasons for being present, it’s evident you haven’t taken a break from them. You always make a particular face when you’re hungry, like you’re angry at your own stomach.”

“I don’t recall asking you to buy me anything,” Franziksa retorted, though the hole she’d been attempting to burn in Edgeworth’s temple with her eyes was abandoned in favor of looking back down towards the package of snack cakes. Was she truly that obvious? Rather, was she that obvious to him?

Finally looking in her direction from the corner of an eye – always so pompous, so confident – Edgeworth shrugged, though his facade was somewhat ruined by a faint, amused smile that played at the corners of his mouth. “You wouldn’t. And if I’d asked first, you’d have denied me the opportunity.”

Despite herself, Franziska laughed, failing entirely to muffle the sound behind her fingers. “How foolish of you, then. That vending machine is expensive – what would you do if I refused to take it?”

In response, Edgeworth merely shrugged, then reached for the packet himself and began to unwrap it. Near immediately, Franziska bit her tongue, nose wrinkling and lips twisting into a grimace as she became dimly aware of the emptiness in her stomach. Perhaps she’d spoken too quickly, but she would rather go hungry than satisfy her stomach with the taste of crow.

“You’re making the expression, again.” He’d removed one of the rolls from the packet and had been turning it over in his hand while setting the packet back down between them. Sighing, he broke the roll in half, and Franziska hesitated as a piece was held in front of her. “Will sharing it satisfy your pride? I’ll happily eat the entire thing myself if you’d truly like to keep refusing.”

Chin thrust forward, Franziska briefly debated refusing the offer once more. Doing so would likely only result in further teasing at her expense by this insufferable man who observed far too much. IIf the cost of preserved pride was looking foolish than ever – as she’d become increasingly aware of in recent weeks – it wasn’t worth the fight.

“Very well,” was all she acquiesced as she reached out to take the cake and bite into it more delicately than her stomach would have liked, careful not to dirty the files in her lap with crumbs. No thanks would be offered, for none were deserved – nor did any need be spoken aloud.

Silence lingered between them for the next several seconds as they ate, both comfortable and strange. By all accounts, Edgeworth should have been a stranger – following his decision to abandon his prosecutor’s badge, Franziska had nearly made the decision to turn her back on him completely as he’d so nearly done to her. What were they to one another if everything that had once bound them together mattered so little he could set it down and walk away without concern?

Some of us aren’t able to abandon our legacy so easily.

Then again, he hadn’t. Not really, not in the end, and by this point Franziska wasn’t certain if he was any more capable of it than she was, herself, or if any of what had bondended them could be erased so easily at all.

Was that a good thing? Would it have been better for either if they did turn away completely? Was it truly any better to be bound by the sins of the father, rather than his perfection?

“He’ll be preparing for the trial soon.” An olive branch of a confession, offered by Franziska as she finished her meager meal and reached for the comfort of the whip at her side. “I can’t linger for much longer and waste time with you.”

Edgeworth nodded in response, not appearing surprised in the slightest. The neutrality of his expression coupled with an infuriatingly smug glint in his eyes proved he’d only had his deductions confirmed. Yet, his voice was soft when he asked “why linger at all?”

It was a fair question, but not one which Franziska was immediately prepared to answer. Her brother’s tone of voice, having phrased the question so differently than those asked during interrogations, threw her entirely off balance, yet all at once made her more likely to give an answer.

“. . . He shouldn’t have to stand alone through any of this,” she finally replied, and her own voice was gentler than normal as she looked towards the courtroom. “But he should be allowed to do so on his own two feet.”

For both Franziska and the person she spoke of, the world had been an awful place where one either walked in front of someone out of superiority, or behind them as a result of their own failings. This new world was a frightening and unfamiliar one, but all the better for it, where one could be allowed to share space walking at someone’s side, entirely of their own volition.

“He’ll manage,” came Edgeworth’s reply after a moment. “Of his own accord, but not without the best support he could have hoped for.”

He hadn’t spoken the words that would have caused him to be interrupted by the crack of a whip, but Franziska heard them nonetheless. Words that spoke of understanding, of missed opportunities, of another granted a sort of closure that Franziska herself never would.

Lifting a hand from her lap, she let it hover in the air between them, then briefly curled her fingers into a fist before dropping it to the bench to close around the half empty swiss roll package.

With that, she stood, posture perfect and shoulders squared as she set her eyes on her destination. “He will,” she agreed while tucking the folders in her hand under an arm in order to pull her whip taught between her hands, one of which still held the remaining cake. No longer quiet, her voice rang with conviction, as well as her unspoken and so will I.

For Franziska had made it just the same; with the best support possible, and the only other person who could have understood.

One day, perhaps, she would thank him. For the moment,, she didn’t look back as she left him behind on the bench and emerged from her place in the wings.

The young man was already in place as she entered the courtroom, hunched over his desk and sniffling, a hand buried in his hair. Papers were scattered in front of him in a state of disarray, but his eyes, though watery, scanned each with a clarity that spoke of determination and comprehension of what was written on the pages.

Franziska approached, taking her place at his side at the same time that she tossed the package in her hand onto the desk near where his elbow rested. Startled, he flinched – an eerily familiar and stomach-churning response – and looked up at her with the wide eyes of a frightened woodland creature.

“M-Ms. von Ka-”

“Sebastian Debeste,” she greeted bluntly, gesturing towards the swiss roll with her whip. “You will eat before we begin. It is clear you have not been taking care of yourself – you always cry harder, and make a particular expression when you’re hungry.”

Sebastian blinked in reply, bottom lip momentarily pulled between his teeth, then suddenly smiled as the tears on his face began to slow and he reached for the cake. “Really? For me? Wow, thanks – I love switch rolls.”

“They are ‘swiss’ rolls.”

“Oh – ‘swiss,’ ok. That makes more sense. . .” He wiped his nose, let out a blubbering laugh, and nibbled on the edge of his cake. 

No “ fool” passed Franziska’s lips, nor would for the remainder of the day. Some people needed to be informed of their incompetence – others had already been told far too much. Thus, she remained silent while crossing her arms over her chest and subconsciously gripping her shirt sleeve.

To forge their own story separate from their legacy, one could not abandon it – only do their best to make it into something better.