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It isn’t until Franziska whips the court stenographer that Maya really decides something needs to be done about this.
She’s been lost in thought for the last few minutes, trying to connect points in her head in an attempt to parse this witness while Nick gears up for cross-examination. The witness isn’t unruly, but rather far too succinct, and Maya crosses her arms and presses a hand to her cheek and runs over what she knows so far in her mind, feeling that for all she lacks at least two heads are better than one. Nick seems like he’s on the same page—eyes scrunched at the corners, brow firm, analytical—silent as he listens, gears turning in his head.
And then, of course—
“Ms. von Karma?”
CRACK
Right. Franziska.
At present she’s got her whip unspooled, trailing onto the polished floor. It’s a subtlety that most probably wouldn’t notice, but usually she has it coiled, hanging loose around her palm as she fidgets, pulls it taut. A much more aggressive stance, not at all the flimsy brandish she’s got on display right now. For whatever reason it’s this that makes Maya’s heart start to ache with strange worry—not the water-bleary sheen of Franziska’s eyes, or the way she keeps ducking beneath the bench to muffle ailing noises into a handkerchief that’s on its last legs, or the absolute state of her voice right now. Maya doesn’t think she’s ever heard a person sound that painfully hoarse, the deep tones of her cadence now scraping and weak as they try with all they are to hold on. The congestion on top of it certainly isn’t helping, and Franziska’s accent is already kind of thick, so it’s really no wonder the stenographer asked her to repeat herself, because she might as well be speaking a different language, right now.
Maya’s supposed to be watching the witness, maybe, but she finds herself transfixed on the ill prosecutor instead. Her eyes are so trained on the way Franziska’s sniffling against the cloth in her hand that she completely misses Nick’s cross-examination at her side, jolted back into her thoughts at the sound of him objecting.
“—exactly does that prove premeditation?” he’s in the middle of saying, and Maya tunes herself back in with futility, side-eying the way Franziska presses a hand to her head on the sentence’s upturn. The prosecutor’s bench is sloppy, too, evidence binders crooked as opposed to their normal uniformity. Franziska’s flipping through files with an almost tortured look on her face, irritation burning on every line of her expression. When she finally raises her own objection it makes Maya instinctively touch at her own throat, sympathy pains stabbing through her like fallen icicles. She feels like she’s getting sick herself just looking at Franziska, she feels like Franziska’s taken up a side hustle as the common cold’s personal spokeswoman, the way she can barely make it through a sentence without sneezing.
Somewhere out there in the world, Maya thinks, there must be at least one lawyer who isn’t stubborn to the point of self-sabotage. Everyone she knows is no better than Franziska, though—pretty much all of them could easily be standing in her place, turning the otherwise unremarkable trial into a superspreader event. Which is why Maya’s a little surprised when Nick, known pot, leans in and declares how black the kettle is.
“We have to do something about this,” he echoes her thoughts, and Maya’s silver tongue kicks in before her agreement does.
“You goin’ soft on me?” Maya teases. “It’s an easy win, she’s clearly off her game.”
“You know I’m not here to win,” he reminds her. “We’re working together, even if she won’t admit it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Maya waves a hand, “we probably should figure out some way to end this before she embarrasses herself.”
“I don’t know if von Karma’s capable of feeling shame about anything,” Phoenix says as she’s doing one of her normal arm flourishes and all but tilting on her feet.
“Probs not,” Maya agrees, “but she’s gonna infect everyone in this courtroom if we don’t get her outta here. Follow my lead, alright?”
“Wait,” Phoenix says, seemingly locating his common sense all at once, “what are you—”
And then Maya cries out, silencing any and all discussion as it happens around her. Phoenix watches in horror as she makes one of the loudest scenes he’s ever seen her make—which is definitely saying something—and leans with a shaking arm braced upon the bench, clutching vaguely at her abdomen. His initial reaction is genuine—Maya’s volume alone startles him, and the performance itself is so effective he almost forgets she’d just admitted to starting a bit. She’s still yowling like a cat that’s been thrown into a bath when Phoenix slams a palm down hard on his desk and shouts over the cacophony of both Maya and the crowd.
“We need a recess!” He pulls from years of acting classes, an artificial waver in his voice. “Now!”
“O-Of course!” the judge stammers, looking equal parts concerned and confused. “We’ll take a 25 minute recess and reconvene shortly. Court is adjourned!”
Maya’s all but collapsed on the bench, her cheek pressed into its finish, and Phoenix has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes when she sticks out her tongue and sneaks him a thumbs up beneath its shade.
It’s freezing in the prosecutor’s lobby.
Actually, the whole damned courthouse is frigid, Franziska thinks ruefully as she’s pulling on a jacket. The summer heat has already kicked up in full force in LA even though it’s barely spring, and now every damn building in the immediate vicinity is blasting the air conditioning like their reputations depend on it. There’s a shiver that’s been trying her all morning—it’s been an act of will to get through trial without trembling—and she lets it finally rip through her once she’s swiped her gaze lazily around the room to make sure no one beyond the distracted bailiffs are present.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic, to be laid low by the most common of common colds. For as put-together and well-prepared and utterly pristine as she was, there was no way to predict illness, and with it came unraveling any façade of her usual grace. At the very least, she’s grateful for the lack of eyes on her now, and equal parts annoyed that she’s being forced to take a break. The moment she stopped moving it seemed as though every twinge and ache in her body ramped itself up tenfold, and now she sits curled into herself on an uncomfortable wooden bench, nursing a stubborn headache and digging desperately through her briefcase for leftover cough drops.
Wrappers, wrappers, wrappers—Franziska grits her teeth, holding back an angry snarl as she fails to locate even a single modicum of relief. Her throat is in complete agony, inflamed and angry from all the talking she’s been doing, and for a moment she almost regrets saying twice as many words as she needs to, today. Perhaps it was a risky move, but a little pain was a small price to pay for the outcome—under no circumstances was Phoenix Wright allowed to lay his foolish gaze on her little predicament. She had to bring double the energy she normally would, attack him more aggressively than ever before, bring out all her nastiest tactics and make sure he did not catch onto how disorganized and slovenly she was truly feeling.
An itch in her throat turns into a burning in her sinuses, and she fights back a tired growl and digs in her pocket for her handkerchief, giving into the inevitability that comes with stuttery inhales and squinted eyes. This time she doesn’t try to fight the sensation as it riots in her airways, far away from any prying eyes—and of course, because fate is having a field day with her today, she winds up stuck there on the precipice with tears smudging her mascara, the sneeze refusing to come. Sitting there with her shoulders hiked up and her palm braced a few inches in front of her, she thinks about marching up into the sky and lashing whichever god is unlucky enough to cross her path first.
The feeling teeters and cascades—finally—and Franziska’s bent forward and sneezing wretchedly into the cloth in her hand, an awful sound that comes from somewhere deep in her throat. She’s thankful that her ears are so garbled with congestion she can’t hear the subtleties of how unfathomably sick she sounds, almost as much as she’s thankful that there’s no one else here to—
“Yikes, bless you!”
Oh, the glare that Franziska raises over the threshold of her curled fingers is positively acidic. Her hand absentmindedly twitches, eager to pull her whip from her side, but she’s no good with her right hand and Maya’s not really the kind of fool she prefers to attack, anyways.
There she stands, bright and bubbly as ever with her hands behind her back and her body angled forward. If it were anyone else Franziska would undoubtedly feel condescended to—the nerve of them, to not only look down on her but to be in such perfect health while she shivers and sniffles and suffers in pestilence—but it’s Maya, everlasting energy and a smile like a sunbeam. There’s more than one sickness trying Franziska at present, this second plague jostling around her nervous heart.
“Maya Fey,” Franziska says out of habit, but the first consonant is utterly lost somewhere in her stuffy voice. She pretends to ignore it, pulling her handkerchief away from her face.
“Hiya,” Maya chirps, tilting her head an inch.
“You seem—” voice going a little soft around the edges, Franziska peers up at her, “—unharmed. That’s quite the relief.”
“Huh? Oh! Yeah, I’m good, I dunno what all that was about. Anywho!” She moves right along, without another word about the little commotion she just caused. “How’re you feeling?”
“Don’t waste my time with rhetorical questions.” Franziska clears her throat. “That matter is of no concern to you.”
“Yeah, nah, I think it kinda is,” Maya says. “Especially on account of the hour I just spent listening to you try to any% speedrun laryngitis.”
“You,” Franziska presses a hand to her hip, “are not a lawyer. No one is forcing you to stand opposing counsel to me.”
“Oh come on, you and I both know Nick would crash and burn without me there.”
“Hmph,” Franziska scoffs again, eying the olive branch with a smile that’s nigh undetectable. “That’s certainly true. I was hoping to do away with him quickly and get today’s trial over and done with, but your meticulous eye is making it rather hard for me to obtain my guilty verdict.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, Franzy,” says Maya, and she does truly mean it. “Can’t leave any stone unturned, though. Even if I do want to sentence you to bedrest.”
“Your pity’s hardly welcome.” Franziska looks to her feet, dotting imaginary constellations in the knots that decorate the wood below. “It’s merely—”
Her nose is literally twitching on the tail end of that sentence, and Maya tries with all she is not to stare in frankly inappropriate wonder at the sight of legendary prodigy prosecutor Franziska von Karma succumbing to something as simple as biology. She muffles a pair of sneezes into her handkerchief and then reigns herself back in as though nothing’s happened, sniffling sharply and derisively.
“—merely a head cold. No use in worrying about it when it’ll resolve on its own.”
And maybe that’s technically true, but still. Maya’s heart twinges a little in her ribcage—regardless of what Franziska thinks, she can’t help how badly she wants to wrap the ailing woman up in a blanket and nurse her back to health.
“You really aren’t familiar with the concept of taking it easy, are you?” Maya asks, and to that Franziska can only blush a little and turn away, her red-flushed nose stuck up in that haughty way it always was. It’s hopelessly endearing, the way that poorly colour betrays entirely the holier-than-thou intent of the gesture.
“How did you even get in here, Maya Fey?” Franziska changes the subject.
“What, the prosecutor’s lobby?” She laughs. “Anyone can charm those guards, Bailey and I get dinner on Wednesdays.”
As if to prove her point she waves across the divide to where one of the court bailiffs is standing guard, and she in turn makes a face and waves right back. Typical Maya, somehow garnering a friend circle that spans the whole county.
“Anyways, I didn’t come here to argue with you, especially not when you’re one objection away from losing your voice entirely.”
That observation isn’t far off base, Franziska thinks as she swallows and tries her damnedest not to wince. “Then what, pray tell, did you sneak in here for?”
Finally, then, Maya pulls her hands from behind her back, producing a little styrofoam bowl that’s tied up tight in a plastic bag for good measure. Moisture pools in the folds of it, condensation running down the interior, and Maya shoves it toward Franziska with a characteristic lack of grace, eyes shut tight like a cat dozing in a sunbeam.
“Ta-da!” she sings off-key. “The finest blend of chicken noodle the courtroom cafeteria can offer. Real gourmet shit, Franzy.”
Franziska blinks at the little white mound in Maya’s hand, unsure what to make of it. Instinctively her stomach rumbles—she skipped breakfast, obviously—and when she moves to palm the container it’s still warm in her hands, the kind of warm that her angry throat is all but screaming for right now.
Franziska steels herself. “Is this a bribe?”
“Nah, swearsies,” says Maya. “As steely and determined as you are, even you deserve a little pick me up when you’re sick.”
Something buried deep down inside Franziska stirs, lurches, jumps into the space just beneath her collar. It feels warm and watery all at once, like the pull to cry but a little less straining. Her face feels hot, and it’s probably a budding fever, just one more annoyance to deal with. She doesn’t have time to meditate on it before she’s ducked into her handkerchief and sneezing again.
“Oh, right,” Maya says, seeming to realize something as she rifles through her robe. “Here, it’s not a lot but it’s better than whatever’s left of that poor scrap.”
With one hand she’s pointing at Franziska’s sodden handkerchief, with the other she’s placing a travel pack of tissues gently atop the soup bowl that’s balanced precariously on the prosecutor’s lap. Again, Franziska feels it when she comes back into herself—a fluttering in her chest she almost can’t ignore, like a downy songbird’s made a little nest there.
“Shit, we’ve got like five minutes ‘til court’s back in session,” Maya says, eying the clock hanging over the courtroom entrance. “Eat up, okay? I wanna see you give Nick some hell out there!”
And with that she’s turning on her heel and almost prancing out the door, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just fake a medical emergency, sneak into an unauthorized area, and waltz up to the fearsome, ruthless prosecutor with the intent to bring her soup. Like she wasn’t the magical thing that she was, beautiful and strange.
Franziska doesn’t like being ordered around. Something about Maya Fey, though, makes her press the flimsy bowl to her lips and drink.
When Maya sees Franziska walk her signature power walk back into trial, she can’t help but stare at the fledgling flush blooming red across her opposing counsel’s cheeks and worry that maybe her sickness has gotten worse.