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For the first time in what feels like years, Miles Edgeworth is more than half an hour early to an appointment. It's a habit he thought he'd kicked years ago, displays a level of nerves unbecoming of a prosecutor, let alone one of his standing. He thinks this once it can be forgiven.
They are to meet on the shared balcony that connects their hotel suites. Miles is already seated when she arrives, a pot of tea steeping on the table in front of him and the second chair askew just enough to invite sitting. Her lips purse, her hands flex. For a single horrible second he thinks she is going to turn around and leave. Thinks this will have been for nothing. “Sist--” he gets halfway through the syllables, and sees her steady her resolve.
“What?” She snaps across the table to him, drawing the chair further out to settle herself down in it, a flouncing of sleeves and a straightening of skirts so practiced it's over almost before it begins.
“Nothing?” She asks, quirking her lips up for a heartbeat. “Not surprising, from a fool such as yourself.”
Irritably, fondness unfurls in his chest. He can feel it easing the lines of his face, hears an echo of an echo snap 'Expressions will be the first thing used against you in a professional setting,' but banishes it firmly. They are not here to repeat old patterns. They are here to do better – to be better. So he allows it, and instead of riposting, asks “How was your flight out, sister?” He can see some of his own struggle reflected in her face, and reaches for the teapot to busy himself pouring, the best privacy he can give her from directly across the table.
“Well,” she says, “I cannot say I enjoyed the experience, but I suppose it was adequate.” A grudging pause, and then: “Yours?”
Miles puts down the teapot carefully, both cups poured, and straightens back up to look Franziska in the eye. “My own was quite adequate as well. We arrived early, thus – ” he gestures to the table — “I was able to steep in advance.” He offers her a tight smile and is rewarded when she reaches a gloved hand out for her teacup, leans back in her chair further than she had previously. The mystery reasoning of his arrival has been solved, and is no threat to her.
Gently, he takes a sip, and watches her do the same. The familiar taste of bergamot greets him, and undoes another inch of the tension he's been carrying since a patch of mid-flight turbulence. Still, he watches her carefully – this tea is the result of months of careful negotiation, the surgically slow excavation of the relationship he would like to have with his adoptive sister, and he knows she is taking just as much of an emotional risk on this as he is, if not more of one.
“I saw the headlines on your latest case,” he comments, sees her reflexively tense up and deliberately relax, kicks himself for a moment. “You did well. It looked like a complex case.” Next time, he won't hesitate between opener and compliment. If there is a next time. If they can find the space for it. God, he hopes they can find the space for it.
“Well,” she says again, “it was the least a proper Von Karma could do,” and that one does still hurt, though he is not as desperate to live 'up' to the name as he had been at aching sixteen, stretched-taffy seventeen, “but thank you.” She nods to him, and it is a balm on the old ache.
Von Karma is a burden they carry between themselves, now. Each in their own way, but inarguably so. For Miles, it has always been a lash over his head. For Franziska, it has always been the fire at her heels. He does not know if she has forgiven him for being the first Von Karma prodigy without even carrying the name proper, does not know if she ever will, but he suspects it is just as much a matter of delicacy for her as it is for him.
She takes another sip, hesitates. There, he thinks, she's tasted it. “This... tea is better than I would expect a hotel to have on hand, little brother. It tastes almost familiar.”
He can't help it, he smiles at her. He'd planned this out well in advance, but he hadn't planned for the warmth her harmless suspicion would unravel in his chest “I don't know why I would ever try to get something past you, Franziska. It's not the hotel's. It's my own personal travel blend. From our old suppliers.” For a moment, he wonders if it was too much, too familiar, but then she is laughing, cupping the tea closer in her hands, and he knows he is seeing the little sister he spent years living beside, loving as best as their environment had allowed. Emboldened, he reaches down for his briefcase.
“Actually,” he says, popping the snaps “I took the liberty of ordering you a travel set when I had mine refreshed.” It's a full case that he pulls out, in her signature pale blue. “It's always made subpar accommodations seem closer to acceptable to me, during my travels.” What he means is that it has helped settle his nerves, helped him sleep somewhere new. These are problems he knows they share, but they are not yet at the point where he thinks she will comfortably accept that reasoning. He holds it out to her across the table, and says “Only if you want it, of course, but – you know how family worries.” It's a low blow, but he sees it land, and he is not sorry.
“Fine,” she says through pursed lips “but only because you have already foolishly wasted your money on it, and I will not see more foolishness added to your fool mess.” She reaches out to take it, and the knot that has been furled so tightly in Miles' chest since he sat down threatens to begin to unwind. “You will not mention this to your fool colleagues.” Franziska demands, and he knows that she has heard his unspoken reasoning.
“Of course not,” he replies “it's family business.”
“Hmph.” She replies, and sets the case down, returns to cupping her teacup in both hands, and pivots to watch the view from their balcony, conversation clearly over. Miles leans back in his chair, takes a deep sip of his own tea, and allows the conversation to die.
The view is lovely, the weather comfortable, and the company is steady.
For now, he thinks, he has no complaints.