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“You’ve got some colour there.”
It was, to the both of them, a fairly mundane observation. Miles says it with a finger lazily pointed toward Franziska, in that rude way he always did. He’s referring to the stain of red that’s crawling across her cheeks and nose, a subtle thing for now, but…
Though Franziska would sooner die before she admitted it, she fared less than well in the heat, and even worse in the sun. He knows she’s been to the states before—the prosecutor’s office all had stories about her, ones he would get out of them when she wasn’t at his flank and threatening these holy lorekeepers with a riding crop. Every trip she’d seen to America had her on a bit of a tighter leash, though—she didn’t often see the desire to leave her father’s side with how little time she actually got to spend with him, and while Franziska’s stubborn attitude was impossible to wash away entirely, it definitely listened to Mr. von Karma more than it dared listen to anyone else.
All that to say, Franziska probably hadn’t ever been this unbidden in the L.A. summer without a chaperone to stop her. In fact, Miles isn’t actually sure Franziska knows what a sunburn is, despite being set to pass the Bar in mere weeks. Studying her more carefully he can see the hills of her shoulders going pink, too, and he doesn’t notice his brow knitting into something resembling concern until his little sister whips him.
“Nghoohh—Franziska!”
“When will you get over that wretched staring habit of yours, Miles Edgeworth?”
“I wasn’t staring, I was simply lost in thought—”
“Truly shocking, tell me, is there a brain in there after all?”
“Forgive me for allowing myself to worry about my sister.” Miles rolls his whole head along with his eyes, crossing his arms primly. “I think you’re probably due for another round of sunscreen, your shoulders are—ngh!”
“A little sun never hurt anyone.” She pulls back, aimlessly fidgeting with her riding crop as she wags her finger over-confidently. “Certainly not someone of my constitution.”
It is, in all regards, a blatant lie. There’s a visible sheen of sweat living on her skin, one she paws at with purpose when she thinks Miles isn’t looking, and he can see the way she’s breathing heavier than normal, struggling to get the hot city air in her lungs. Franziska was built for freezing European winters and overcast summer mornings, a factor she loved to gloat over Miles’ head when he was shivering from a light breeze. Of course she wouldn’t dare lend her eyes to the fact that their situations were reversed right now. Silently, he ponders a way to turn this conundrum on its head, every heatwave beating down from above feeling like a ticking clock rattling around his brain.
“You should probably re-apply regardless of your constitution,” he settles on. “It’s as necessary as anything else, especially in this deplorable heat.”
Admitting his own disinclination toward the weather. That had to lure her in, right?
“Deplorable for you, maybe.” She crosses her arms, closes her eyes, thumbs at her forearm. “I am not so weak.”
Or not.
“Franziska—”
“Leave it alone, Miles Edgeworth.” She smacks her riding crop down upon one palm, threatening, but merciful just this once.
And maybe he is weak, because that does him in. He holds a sigh behind his teeth, staring vaguely off into the smoggy skyline and taking mental note of just how many hours of the day there are left. Though it’s not something he’s particularly inclined to say so bluntly, he loves Franziska and doesn’t want her to be in any sort of pain. Finding ways to keep her safe is… difficult, though, with how much she loathes being told what to do, perceived as frail, helped in general.
There plays the mantra so often running through his head: let her make her own mistakes. He repeats it, over and over again, trying to internalize it to the best of his ability. Let Franziska learn her own lessons. Let her make her own mistakes. It settles over him like cloudspray on a sweltering day, and he considers the facts: as far as lessons go, this is a better one for her to learn on her own. She’s right, of course—a little sun was not the most harmful thing he could think of, and if she wanted to get herself sunburnt and spend the rest of their time in America wincing in a hotel bed, well, he truly could not stop her.
Unsurprisingly, Miles wakes up to the sound of his sister being generally destructive in the hotel bathroom.
They’re positioned in a suite at the Gatewater, one that’s almost excessive in its luxury. A crystal-kindling fireplace, tumbled stones framing the wooden steps that lead to the massive shower—three-headed with a jacuzzi tub to match at its side. Everything that isn’t lined with gold is lined with silver, and the room itself is big enough to dance through if one so desired. The two of them are sharing the bigger room while the patriarch of the family lives closed-off in his, and Miles knows something is wrong when he stirs early in the morning, shortly after the sun’s crept in through the curtains.
Franziska’s bed is empty, and he can tell from the half-hissed German cursing in the distance that it’s her making noise in the bathroom. He hears discordant footsteps, the clanking sounds of something hitting marble countertops, running water. It’s simply unacceptable to be awake this early, and on any other day Miles would find it in his right mind to roll back over and fall asleep, but… something stops him, a sort of sixth sense he’s had for as long as he could remember.
He stares for a few moments at the empty space where Franziska’s supposed to be, noting the disarray of her blankets and sheets. Franziska rarely left her space in a mess, even if she was only stepping away for a short while. All perfectionism aside, she simply liked to tidy, it was a hobby for her just like any other, an idle task to busy her hands. Every fold and crease in the misshapen bedding sends another err across his heart, and with a most unbecoming yawn asserting itself across his face, Miles pulls himself reluctantly out of bed and towards the bathroom.
As his footsteps near, hers seem to stop—the cacophony within quieting for a precious moment. Miles isn’t convinced, curling out his index finger to knock softly on the heavy wooden door, his voice still scratchy with sleep.
“Franziska?”
“I’m fine!” is the response he gets, which is a ridiculous thing to say and a definite confirmation that she is most certainly not.
Maybe on another day Miles would feel some semblance of guilt for using his more underhanded tactics, tricking his sister as though she’s some criminal he’s intent to lure into confessing. When she gets like this his compassion overloads and numbs itself, though, too focused on helping her to care how furious she might get.
“Glad to hear,” he says flatly, exaggerating another yawn. “Then could you perhaps move things along in there? I’m in need of the facilities.”
To that he’s met with silence, a lack of sound that heralds victory in his head. Another bout of shuffling, some more whispered curses that don’t quite know what language they’re supposed to be in. Then there is a turning silver knob, a crack of light that spills over Miles’ face, and—
Franziska looks about as red-faced as she did the prior night, but there’s something off about it, the way it stretches beneath her eyes and stains their rims now too. Her hair’s a fuzzy blue mess, and Miles genuinely can’t tell if the moisture still clinging to her cheeks is water she’s splashed on her face or sweat—she’s only just standing there, but there’s something in her expression that paints the action as herculean, like keeping herself upright is the hardest thing in the world.
One of the spare blankets is pulled around her shoulders, and the air conditioning is probably sitting just barely below comfortable, but not so much so for her of all people to be shaking the way she is. Franziska holds Miles’ gaze with bleary blue eyes, jutting her jaw in a bid to remain stern and intimidating despite her poor state.
“Let me see,” Miles says, as softly as he’s able, and he isn’t surprised when Franziska jerks away from his outstretched hand. It backfires, though, and her feet tangle and slip, and then she’s braced upon the bathroom counter as she tries with all she is not to fall to the polished tile underfoot. This time, Miles is quicker, one hand on her back to steady her, another that finds its way to her sweaty forehead.
Franziska makes a noise that’s almost akin to a hiss, trying with all she is to ward him off, but she’s all bark and no bite with her riding crop on the coffee table, something he definitely should’ve taken as a red flag. Another attempt to pull away has her swaying, but it’s enough time for Miles to get his answer.
“You’re burning up, Franziska.”
“Silence, Miles Edgeworth!” she tries, but all she can really manage is an acidic look up at him from where she remains on unsteady feet. When he pulls the blanket off her shoulder she shivers in a way that’s almost violent, and there beneath its cover he has to fight not to wince at the state of her shoulders. They’re scaly and blistering, just looking at them hurts, and suddenly all inclination to mutter I told you so leaves him, overtaken entirely by what he can only describe as fiercely maternal instincts.
“Fever, chills, not to mention the state of your skin…” He gives her another once over, and she grits her teeth. “Are you dizzy? Tired at all?”
“Tired of you.”
Miles rolls his eyes, unsure of why he hadn’t been expecting that. “Sun poisoning, I think. You’re going to be alright, but we need to keep you hydrated.”
Franziska groans, pulling the blanket tighter over her shoulders and trying not to cry out in pain at the errant brush of it across the blisters that now live there. “You are not forcing me to drink water, Miles Edgeworth, let alone revolting hotel sink water—”
“Only temporarily,” Miles says. “There’s a shop down the street I’m going to pop over to for something to treat your burns, but I worry you’ll get worse in the interim. Please, Franziska—”
“I don’t recall asking for your help!” she shouts, eyes molten-blue beneath messy bangs. “Must I beat it into your thick skull? I’m stronger than you, Miles Edgeworth, and I won’t stand for any more of this insubordinat—”
She’s cut off by a piercing snap of fingers, one that straightens both their backs and pulls their hands to their sides. The world ceased to exist while they had their altercation, as did the shifting noise of the connecting suite door falling open, the metered footsteps through their shared room. Neither of them heard Manfred approaching until he announced himself, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with what can only be described as a curious intensity. Franziska tries with all she is to keep what little appearance she can, a futile effort if Miles has ever seen one. Instinctively he finds himself sandwiched in between Franziska and her father, running on instinct entirely.
“Quite an early morning for you, Edgeworth,” says Manfred, studying the eerie red of the hotel clock as it illuminates its little niche. “And Franziska, if you’re going to keep that habit of rising before the birds, you’d do well to not force the whole house to rise with you.”
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, papa. Miles was—”
“She’s ill,” Miles interrupts. “I was checking in on her. Please pardon us for all the noise.”
Something softens on the good prosecutor’s face, and he uncrosses his arms, angling around Miles’ shoulder to look at his daughter more carefully. “Is she now?”
“I’m fine—”
“Sun poisoning, and she’s definitely running hot,” says Miles. “I’m sure you know how bad California summers can be, sir.”
“Indeed.” His brow knits itself in a way that’s a little menacing, and the both of them find themselves shying down a touch. “Though I would think two intelligent young lawyers would have enough foresight between the pair of them to protect themselves accordingly.”
Franziska shuffles a little, blinking slowly and dizzily. Still, she does her best to meet her father’s eyes.
“Papa, I—”
“It’s my fault,” Miles blurts before she can finish, pulling a palm to his heart. “I neglected to bring sunscreen when we were out to lunch yesterday, and I foolishly miscalculated how strenuous the walk back would be.”
Miles has his back to her, and he’s not privy to the look Franziska shoots him—it’s subtle, muted, fever-foggy and slow, not to mention something she’s not inclined to explain to Manfred should he question it. No, Miles holds his own as he looks his mentor in the eye—Manfred von Karma, the man who can squeeze any truth he wants to find out of whoever, whenever, with one single look. That look is rendered meaningless against the simmering flame that burns the edges of Miles’ heart, though, protective in its silence and all it doesn’t say.
“Is that so?” is all Manfred says himself, and lets his tone do the talking for him. Miles pulls his hands back to his sides, chin down and eyes resolute.
“I was just on my way out to gather supplies to treat her,” he keeps on, bowing at the waist and holding his head down. “Please forgive me for my carelessness, sir. If you’ll permit it, I should like to look after Franziska until she’s well again.”
“Hmph.” Manfred looks off somewhere unseen, visibly thinking as Miles remains bowed. Between him and Franziska, he’s slower to rise on these early mornings, and it’s clear that his mind has not yet caught up to the rest of him. “Do as you wish, then. Franziska?”
She blinks herself back awake, swallowing thickly. “Yes, papa?”
“You’re to spend the day recovering,” he instructs. “Our flight departs at 4pm sharp. Ensure you are fit to board by then.”
“Of course, papa.”
“I’ve some business to finish up at the offices before we leave,” Manfred says. “Edgeworth, I trust you will hold down the fort here.”
“Yes, sir. Count on it.”
With a general grunt of affirmation he turns on his heel, making his way back to his room to dress for the day’s work. It isn’t until Miles hears the lock click that he lets go of the breath held tight in his lungs, visibly deflating in the lowlight of the hotel. Franziska pulls her fist back and slugs him hard in the shoulder.
“Ngh—you—!”
“You foolishly foolish foolhardy fool of a foolish little brother, what are you thinking lying to papa like that?!”
It is, somehow, a whispered scream—quiet so that it does not carry, sharp and angry all the same. Only Franziska.
“Is that how you thank me for covering you?!”
“I asked for no such thing!” Franziska says. “Miles, what if he had caught you?”
“What if he had?” And there’s that smug grin Miles wore so well. “I’m no longer a child, Franziska, all he can really do is give me that... face. I'm sure you know the one.”
“It’s dreadful!” she says, intent to argue even in her agreement. “I hate disappointing him! It’s a fate worse than death, Miles!”
“Well, lucky you, you didn’t have to,” he says. “Why don’t you lay back down? Pardon the disrespect, but you look a bit dreadful yourself.”
Franziska shoots him another searing glare, but this time she is outnumbered—because life won’t allow her a break, her father has chosen Miles’ side. With the comforter on her shoulders her balance is shot, and her head swims dizzily in the brightening dawn, and maybe it’s for that reason that Franziska doesn’t protest when Miles places a hand around her waist to steady her, leading her slowly and patiently back to the pulled out sofa beds. She winces as soon as her stinging shoulder hits the mattress, no level of softness or thread count of sheets acceptable for the state she’s in. Try as she might to keep it behind her teeth, it comes out as a whine, pitiful and weak.
“Roll onto your stomach,” Miles instructs, and Franziska listens, too feverish to mourn her dignity. “Better?”
It is, but she doesn’t owe him a response, so instead she huffs out something vaguely affirmative to the sound of glass gently hitting the table beside her.
“Water is on the side table,” says Miles. “Do try your best to drink as much as you can. I’ll be back with something far more palatable shortly.”
He drags one of the pillows closer to her face, and it’s so blessedly cool that Franziska can’t help herself, pressing her blazing forehead into its silken surface. Satisfied with his work, Miles tightens up the blinds, making sure that no sun can get in—Franziska had always been sensitive to light and noise, rising at the first sign of the world coming alive, the smallest sound no matter how far away. There on the bed she sighs a little sigh, and Miles hopes she will forgive him for how hard it hits him in that moment—she is a child.
A strong, capable, genius child—but a child nonetheless. It’s something he does his best to remind himself, on days like this where she frustrates him to the brink of near insanity—she is small, and young, and trying her damn best. Franziska is violent and combative and off-putting quite often, and Miles remembers what it was like to be thirteen and decides she is exactly how she should be.
Quiet as he’s able, he shuts the bathroom door and runs a comb across his hair.
Franziska’s not much better when he returns shortly thereafter, and all Miles can offer to the still-full glass of water on the table is a sarcastic glare, one Franziska isn’t at all scared of or intimidated by. To that Miles just sighs a tired sigh, pulling some strawberry-flavoured sport drink from his bag and handing it to her without another word. Franziska sits up, trembling as she takes it, and drinks with such a ferocity Miles fears for a moment she might choke. She drains the thing in record time, all but slamming it down upon the table.
“Impressive,” he admits, “Could you scoot a little closer there? I’m going to apply this for you.”
He’s holding a bottle of deep green gel in one hand, dotted with air bubbles and smelling vaguely medicinal when he flips the top open. With the other Miles beckons Franziska to the corner of the bed, presumably so he can sit behind her and slather it on her back like she’s some kind of—of invalid, and Franziska finds herself hot with embarrassment at even the thought of something so juvenile, and so she puffs her chest up and raises her chin and says with a huff, “I’ll do it myself.”
And Miles is incorrigible, and foolish and overbearing, a doting mother trapped in a gentleman’s body. Which is why Franziska feels like she’s misheard him when he shrugs noncommittally and hands the bottle to her. “Sure.”
She eyes him suspiciously for a moment, trying to perceive what exactly it is he’s pulling. Finding nothing of note, she slowly reaches out to grab it, and then—
Miles raises his arm, high above Franziska’s head. Instinctively, she raises her own, and a hiss of pain slips past her teeth the second she does so. Searing agony blooms anew all across her back and shoulders, and more broken curses tumble right out of her, dirty words she is far too young to know.
“That’s about what I expected,” Miles says, nudging his head forward. “Come on, then. I’ll take care of you.”
With a pointed look she complies, letting her legs hang over the creaky sofa-bed’s edge as she pouts like a toddler. With her back turned she can’t see the smile that finds its way onto her brother’s face—warmer this time, grateful for her willingness to meet him halfway. Her nightclothes are a racer-back, unaligned with the lines and borders painted red on her skin. Miles pulls a hair-tie from his bag and gets to work, gentle fingers through silver-blue locks as he twists her into an updo.
“This’ll be colder than the west wing on a winter morning,” he tells her. “Steel yourself.”
Franziska scoffs. “Weakling. That’s hardly—”
And, because she is his bratty teenage sister and he is more than allowed, he squirts a generous glob of the sickly green slop into his hand and shoves it directly on her neck without any further warning.
Franziska yelps, high-pitched and startled, a sound Miles has never heard her even come close to making prior to this moment. He chokes back a hearty laugh until it turns wheezy and broken, and Franziska—with what little strength she has—whips her head around so fast that her high ponytail smacks him directly in the mouth. When he makes one of his stupid noises and she feels the bed shift as he reels, Franziska feels this exchange is complete.
“You’re a wretched man, Miles Edgeworth,” she says as he pinches off the attack with a laugh and goes back to slathering her shoulders, less abrasive this time. “Picking on your little sister when she’s weak like this.”
There’s a great number of objections Miles can raise to that, but what he goes for is, “Little?”
Franziska shuts her eyes, a satisfied smile on her face. “There are certain conditions where I will allow myself the moniker of younger sibling.”
“Such as?”
“Garnering sympathy and other resources from you when you’ve lost your patience with me otherwise.”
“A truly brilliant tactic,” Miles says sarcastically. “You are your father’s daughter.”
“That is a compliment.”
“I meant it as one.” Miles curls a hand down her shoulderblade, hitting an area that’s particularly tender, and Franziska lets loose a truly relieved sigh, leaning into the sensation of all that pain melting away. “You’re just about done. Does that feel any better?”
He pulls around her flank when he asks it, residue from the gel still shiny on his hands. Franziska hangs her head before speaking, a gesture Miles has come to know—were her hair not up it would fall like a veil across her face, a way for her to shield herself from some of the flustered stirrings whenever she was feeling small and shy. Rare moments, for sure, but ones that lived within her nonetheless.
“Much,” Franziska says, softly. And then, because she is Franziska, “You are good for something after all.”
Miles’ response to that is to run his index finger along his still-wet palm, gathering the remainder of the gel there and tapping it on her nose in a ridiculously juvenile display. Franziska scrunches up her face a little, confused and slow to react, and Miles goes for the tissue box to wipe what’s left off his hands.
“Now, now, Franziska,” he says, “is there anything I can do that’ll convince you to sing higher praises of me?”
“Do not look forward to that, little brother,” she rolls her neck, testing it out, “at most I simply tolerate you.”
“Is that really what you think of someone who bought you sweets?”
Franziska stills, eyes widening as she creaks her head to side-eye him, to get a better look at what he’s pulled from his bag. There in his hands is not one pack, not two packs, but a whole box of swiss rolls. Sugary, processed, delectable American swiss rolls, which Franziska is pretty sure is an oxymoron, but whatever. Instinctively her mouth waters, joining the pile of biological functions that have utterly betrayed her today. Miles, the bastard, just smirks his signature smirk and hands them over without complaint.
“Glad to see you with an appetite.” This time the smile he’s wearing is warm, earnest, saccharine in that special way only Miles can be. Franziska’s too busy—melting around a mouthful of chocolate and cream that’s just as sickly-sweet—to offer any comment to that, so Miles reaches forward and brushes the back of his fingers across the side of her face.
“Still a little warm, but if you’re eating that’s a good sign.”
She swallows. “I have a backup stomach for sugar. You know this, Miles.”
“That I do,” he says. “Let’s call it a victory, though.”
Franziska’s not even finished with her first roll before she goes for another, still-shaky hands fumbling lamely with the thin plastic. She’ll have to settle back down sooner or later, but for now he draws the blinds with a warmth in his heart, wondering how he ever survived being an only child.
More crinkling of plastic sounds out behind him. She’s going to make herself sick, but it’s a pointless thought when poised up against the smile in Franziska’s voice.
“Naturally.”