Chapter Text
Franziska was no stranger to unusual happenings. In fact, every case defended by Pheonix Wright was... unique . And this one, of course, was no exception. As far as said cases go, however, this is actually quite boring. If, of course, you don’t count the chain of cause and effect that it sets off.
It starts with this.
After the second trial, she spoke to his assistant. She can't remember what exactly they spoke about, and doesn't bother to try. The interaction is barely of note.
What is of note is what happens as she climbs into a cab to go to her apartment. Franziska is caught by the sudden tickling sensation of almost-choking; there is something stuck in her throat, likely just phlegm or something of the sort, and so she begins clearing her throat. It quickly becomes apparent that no, she is actually choking on something. She coughs once, quietly, and then again, a little louder and more forceful this time, until soon she has delved into a fit of coughing.
Finally, something flies out of her mouth and onto her sleeve.
A... petal. A little, yellow one. Thin and long.
She stares at it for a moment. A good, long moment.
The cab driver clears their throat. She gives the direction to her apartment, and off they go.
She quickly picks the petal off her sleeve and inspects it. This... Well, she can't deny what it means. Hanahaki.
She searches up the petal. Scrolling through a list of yellow flowers, she finds it must either be a daisy or a black-eyed susan. The specific shape seems more like the black-eyed susan photo.
She finds that daisies mean hope and new beginnings. Black-eyed susans, fittingly, mean justice. She decides it's a black-eyed susan.
The cab stops at her apartment building and she gets out, making sure to pay the driver handsomely. She may be a formidable opponent in court and she may not have any problem with quite literally whipping people into shape, but she respects workers. Leave tips.
She then goes to her flat, changes into lounge wear, and has a quiet crisis regarding that flower petal.
Hanahaki is about repressed feelings.
Franziska von Karma does not repress feelings. She is a von Karma by blood and she is perfect in everything.
Edgeworth, she remembers, has had "almost-chronic" hanahaki, as he puts it, for a very long time. He's very bad at talking about his feelings. He told her, once, that sometimes in the courtroom if he nearly coughs up a flower or petal, he simply eats it instead of removing it from his mouth. While amusing, she guesses it makes sense. He wouldn't want something as personal as that on the news.
She considers contacting him for advice, then decides against it. This is her problem to deal with. And so, she will just deal with it.
She bumps into Wright and his assistant the next day while they're doing that dubiously legal investigation thing they do. Or, rather, they bump into her. The sudden jostling of her body results in a coughing fit. Wright, damn his soul, is immediately visibly concerned.
"Ah, shit, are you okay?"
Franziska glares at him and eats the petal. "Yes, Wright, I am fine."
Wright holds up his hands as if he doesn't know what to do with them. "Are you sure? It sounded... violent."
"Painful," his assistant pipes up. Franziska feels another tickle in her throat.
"Yes. I am fine," she repeats. "Nothing is wrong, and even if there was something the matter, what makes you think I would tell you?"
Wright merely frowns in lieu of a proper response. Franziska continues on her way.
Every time Wright's assistant looks at her in court, she coughs. She does not know the girl, however, and has nothing to tell her; she must be finding connections where there are none. It's not like the flowers would know she's being looked at, anyway.
Miles calls, later. He doesn't call often.
"Is something the matter?" Franziska asks as soon as he says hello.
"That's what I wanted to ask you."
She makes a questioning sound. "Why?"
"I was watching the trial. I saw you were coughing quite a bit. I have not seen that from you before, and wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine. I must have caught a cough, and otherwise am well."
Miles does not seem convinced. "Really?"
She holds back a cough and instead clears her throat awkwardly. "Yes."
"Something is up."
There is a pause. Franziska sighs. The sigh turns into a quite strong coughing fit, and she hacks up another petal.
"Ah," Miles says, in the tone of someone who has just discovered the secrets of the universe and isn't at all worked up about it. He has found an answer he expected.
"What," Franziska rasps.
"Hanahaki."
"No."
"What flower?"
She looks down. The petal looks back. It looks like a ragged fan. "None."
Franziska is quite adept at piano. Violin, as well, but currently she is playing piano. One of her favorite songs, that she has played since childhood. It's etched into her brain; she can play it perfectly without sheet music, without looking at the keys, even if her hands were too numb to feel, even if her hands hurt more than fire, even when she is completely and utterly out of it.
Fascination. Fermo Dante Marchetti.
Her hands float over the keys, barely hitting the keys yet pressing firm enough to make a solid sound. It all flows together seamlessly, legato where it should be and not where it shouldn't. Her eyes are shut, gently, as if falling asleep on the bench. Her head is tilted up slightly. She is at peace.
Or, she appears to be.
Her hands hit keys discordantly as another cough rakes through her. She swears, loudly. She coughs again, and another petal flies from her lips. She brushes it away as if it is of no worry and continues playing.
Somehow, the song changes to something less relaxed. Still gentle, but more emotional. She only vaguely recognizes it. She might be making it up on the spot. He fingers move quickly and forcefully, no longer floating but still gliding. Her eyes screw shut tight as she hits a chord in a lower octave, and hits it again, and hits another slightly different chord, and at this point she thinks she might just be taking out her feelings on the poor instrument.
Pianos are weird. They're a strange cross between percussion and string. She thinks if she knew more about other instruments it wouldn't seem so odd, but she is foolishly unknowing about so many things.
She hits another chord with more fingers, and another, until she's just banging on the keys with her fists. It makes an awful, awful noise.
She is glad she is alone. She is glad there is no tutor or father standing over her shoulder. She is glad there is noone within reach.
She drops her head on the keys and finally opens her eyes. They are blurry with tears. The floor looks like the ground beneath the fruitless cherry tree from her childhood in late spring.
Her phone is ringing. She answers. Out of boredom, mostly.
"Hello," a familiar voice she doesn't know greets joyfully. She coughs.
"Who are you?"
"Maya! Uh, Phoenix Wright's little sister. Friend. I guess you might not know we're like siblings, haha."
"Why are you calling me ."
"I, um, was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with us? Phoenix and Edgeworth and me. I don't want to be a third wheel again, y'know?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"Well, you and Edgeworth are like, basically siblings, right? It seemed fitting."
"I did grow up with him. Why should I come?"
She can hear Maya grinning. "It'll be fun!"
"I doubt that. No thank you."
Maya huffs and moves away from the phone. "See, Phoenix," she says distantly, "I told you she wouldn't—"
"I'll come."
"—want to– Oh! Oh, okay, awesome! I'll text you the plan, then!"
"Um... Okay."
Maya hangs up. Franziska closes her phone. She's not quite sure what she just agreed to, but anything to prove Wright wrong.
She's also not sure how Wright's assistant has her number. Last she checked, she doesn't give it out.
She is given an address and a date and time, and she is already too far in to back out now.
She looks up the address and finds that it's a restaurant that is a middle-ground between formal and casual, leaning towards casual. Her court outfit fits the bill well enough. It's not like any of them have seen her wearing anything else in the past two years, anyway. You can't go wrong with a signature outfit, after all.
The date is this Saturday. It is currently Thursday. She curses Wright for contacting her at such short notice and immediately rearranges her schedule. She doesn't have much on Saturday, thankfully; though she does not take weekends off, many others do, and so plans usually do not fall on those two days. So, in a way, she does have them off. Less work, and all. It's enough a break for her.
Once finished, she texts back,
I had to rearranged my schedule, as I am working then. I should be able to make it, however.
The response is quick.
you work on Saturdays?
so sorry haha! is there a better day for you? like when ur not working?
No, she replies succinctly. I work all days.
oh
that sounds stressfull lol
i can barely fet by with three days off loll
I simply have better work stamina than you, I would assume. I have been working like this for a very long time.
wait you became a prosecutor at 13 right
simce then??
Yes.
what the fuck
There is no need for such profanity.
sorry jdbcjdb
i just
i cant imagine being 13 years old and being made to not have any days off
I did it willingly.
??????????
i dont understand you
Many do not.
Saturday comes quickly. Franziska finds her new flower. It is a carnation. She has red and purple ones, so far. Red means love, and purple has an array of meaning. Carnations in general seem to be related to mothers, but as she does not have a mother figure in her life, she is a bit stumped.
Upon further investigation, they also mean fascination, and, as one website puts it, "female love," whatever that may mean.
It is Saturday today, which means dinner with Miles and the fools. She starts getting ready early—she hasn't had dinner out with anyone in a long while, and she wants to be sure she is prepared—which ends up being a very good thing, because she spends almost over an hour trying to do her makeup. She almost succeeds without an unexpected cough messing her up, but she is foiled by the mascara, her oddly shaky hands, and her lungs conspiring against her together. She reacts to this calmly by throwing the mascara into the air and hitting it with her whip like she's playing baseball. It flies out the slightly open window and hits Larry Butz on the head as he is walking past.
In the end, she settles for the very basics. She never liked mascara, anyway.
She arrives at the restaurant early despite that mishap, and stands outside a bit awkwardly to wait for the rest of the group.
Miles, she is surprised to discover, had picked up Wright and Fey. They are both in the backseat, thankfully; she may think the car a bit tacky, but she wouldn't trust either of them to be up front for fear of them somehow destroying something.
Some of Franziska's nerves—which she hadn't even noticed until now, funnily enough—melt away at the sight of them, strangely.
"Hello, Miles Edgeworth," she greets as he walks up to her.
"Evening."
"I didn't take you for the type to be... buddy-buddy with the enemy. Apologies for misreading your character."
"You're here," Miles points out. "You could have refused."
Maya pops out from behind him, grinning. "Girl, what were you doing at the Devil's Sacrament!"
"Sorry, the what?" Franziska questions, perplexed.
"Nothing," Maya says casually with a wave of her hand. She's wearing a crop top and high-waisted jeans instead of her usual acolyte clothes. A sliver of her stomach is visible. It looks soft. Perhaps it would be nice to use in place of a pillow.
Not that she would specifically want to. Or cares. A normal pillow not made out of flesh would be more comfortable, obviously.
They enter the restaurant, then, and get seated. There's an air of awkwardness, which Franziska is sure she is the cause of, so she takes initiative to start the conversation.
"Edgeworth," she says simply. It had been a while since they'd spoken.
Miles pauses, opens his mouth to say her last name, then seems to change his mind. Finally, he says, "Franziska."
"Miles."
"...Fran."
Franziska narrows her eyes. "Edgey."
Miles rests his hands on top of one another on the table and leans back ever so slightly. "Franny."
She thinks for a moment, then smirks minutely and crosses her legs. " Edward ."
Miles grimaces. " France ."
"What the fuck is happening," Wright interrupts. Rudely, one may add. Franziska is about to say as much, but Maya gets to insulting the fool first.
"You are clearly an only child. I called Mia piss once, doing something like that."
Wright makes a comical face that reminds Franziska of an adolescent boy she saw (read: whipped) once on a trip to England.
"Wright," she begins, "you remind me of a child."
Wright splutters, also quite comically, which gets a good chuckle out of Franziska. "I'm feeling targeted. Edgeworth—"
"I agree with Fran," Miles says cooly. "Perhaps a third grader."
Maya laughs and says, "Nick, did you come out to have a good time? Are you honestly feeling so attacked right now?"
"Yes!" Wright cries rather loudly, startling the people in the next booth over. He apologizes quickly, then goes back to his foolish whining. "I hate it here! It's miserable! I'm miserable! Melancholy, even!"
Miles smiles. Franziska hasn't seen that in a while. "I didn't realize you knew such big words, Wright. You've changed."
"Changed since when ! Third grade? I was in third grade! You can't blame me for not knowing every legal term at the tender age of 8!"
"I did," Franziska interjects.
"You are an outlier and should not be counted, Miss Lawyers Georg," Maya says matter-of-factly, making absolutely no sense, as usual. Franziska finds it... well, she laughs.
Maya does a fist pump. "Woo, I got Fran to laugh at an actual joke and not human pain or Nick being stupid!"
Franziska coughs, then, the kind of cough where you can tell something's up, but it's hidden between the sound of the others' laughter. She manages to continue conversing for several more minutes before she feels she cannot do anything but cough her heart into stopping. She excuses herself to the bathroom, hides in one of the stalls, and covers her mouth with a handkerchief in an attempt to muffle the sound. She is standing over the toilet, hacking up petals, in a matter of moments. It feels like a very long time.
They are all carnations and black-eyed susans. The carnations are all pink and purple and red, for happiness and apologies and love. They drift peacefully in the water, until Franziska shakily pushes the flush button and they swirl down the drain. A single, small carnation petal falls from her lip into the quickly moving water and is gone in the blink of an eye.
She stands up straight. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve. She leaves the stall and washes her hand, because public bathrooms are disgusting and she thinks hell might be one, and stares in the mirror. She fixes her hair. Her face is red. She splashes some water on her face, then pats it off quickly before it can ruin her makeup. She returns to the table.
Dinner goes well, from there. It's good. Fun, even, and she might consider doing this again.
She coughs up a just-bloomed carnation that night when it is much too late to be up. She goes to bed feeling sick.