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Miles adjusts his glasses as he’s scrutinizing the paper in his hands. In all honesty, he knows this is a mere attempt to stall for time—but the whole situation is so absolutely ludicrous, the good prosecutor is unsure of what else he’s to do.
In front of him, over the document’s edge, stands a very sick-looking Franziska. The whole shape of her is watery, irritated, her eyes shiny and red-rimmed like she’s been crying all night long. Miles can’t really put words to it, but the congestion she’s making a noble attempt to quietly mouth-breathe through is somehow dragging down all her pinkened features. Her shoulders sag, her posture tilts, even her bow somehow looks like it’s drooping a bit.
She is, of course, intent to bury these facts with every hard line on her face, her fists balled at her sides and her gleaming nose pointed skyward. If Miles hadn’t seen her as an elementary schooler with snot running down her face so many times in his youth, he might find the leaking look of her revolting. This is nothing new, though—as always, she holds steady through the problem. To acknowledge and tend to it would mean to admit defeat.
In any case, her incessant sneezing and sniffling was starting to get to him. Not in the sense that the sound itself was annoying, (she was surprisingly delicate) but in that Miles had seen the way a virus like that wreaked havoc on the offices before. Even the most unassuming of bugs could have half his staff out in a few weeks’ time, and Franziska did not catch anything that feeble. Her steely constitution is not simple bravado—she rarely takes ill, and when she does, it is only with the nastiest and hardiest of afflictions. A more weak-willed germ wisely sees the look of her and runs the other way.
From the moment Miles saw her pouring honey in her tea, his ears were pricked for anything more. A fit of overlapping, itchy sneezes in the middle of a meeting sounded far more like ringing klaxons than the simple things they were. Franziska’s nose always gave her away when she was ill—always twitching and wrinkling in an attempt to fight the inevitable, always the first part of her to grow flushed with irritation. She could wave it off as allergies, blame him for not laundering his suits correctly after giving Pess her nightly headpats, but within the hour her voice would be a poor, croaky imprint of itself, and she could no longer make excuses.
Operative word being ‘could.’ She would still very much make her best attempt.
Pleas to look after herself burned up in the fire of her workaholic nature. No matter how vaguely or warmly Miles phrased them, they all sizzled like venom when they hit his sister’s ears. And that was only if he could get her to even acknowledge she was ill—most of the time, she simply told him to stop being so dramatic about a few errant sniffles and a bout of laryngitis.
One thing he could do, though, was exercise his fairly recent status of Chief Prosecutor over her. This was never his first choice, but in desperate times—when they were already buried under the caseload to begin with—it was simply something that had to be done. Guilt trips did not work on Franziska (“Are you intent to get the whole office ill?” “What does it matter? If the fools drop like flies, I will take their cases on myself.”) and so it came down to this. Miles Edgeworth—heaven help him—telling his sister and her world-renowned inferiority complex that she was not to be back in the building without a doctor’s note that spoke emphatically of her good health.
He was certain she’d be out for at least a week. The day he’d sent her home, she had shown up wearing two jackets, and hadn’t stopped shivering the entire drive there. When she drifted in the passenger seat, he pulled up to a red light and recoiled rather inelegantly when his hand met what little of her scorching skin it could. Bundled up like that—all thick coats and scarves, curling into herself—beneath it all, there wasn’t much of Franziska left.
Yet there she was, in less than 24 hours’ time. Brandishing the fabled doctor’s note, with that signature von Karma grin making its best attempt to offset the bruiselike bags that hung beneath her streaming eyes. Miles’ first thought had been a mental run-through of each and every trick Franziska could have feasibly pulled to convince a medical professional that she was well enough to work her very stressful, very detail-heavy, very high-stakes job. He could see her proposing plea deals and bargains as though she was still on the clock—asking her poor doctor to time her while she ran laps in heels around the parking lot, taking a dangerous dose of Coldkiller and timing the appointment out to the precise second it reached peak effectiveness, painting Miles himself as some neurotic germaphobe, can’t I just work from home? There were so many angles Franziska could take. He was the undisputed champion when it came to arguing with her, but a layman truly stood no chance.
She must be sicker than he initially envisioned, then, because—he checks, double checks, triple checks the signature again—this doctor’s note is forged.
“Tell me, Franziska,” he says aloud, finally, after a long moment of contemplation, “what sort of doctor hand-writes a note?”
“The sort of doctor that was briefed thoroughly on your dramatics,” she stuffily, raspily shoots right back, as if she had been scripting this in her head all night. “If it was typed out as is customary, I knew someone of your ilk would accuse it of being a forgery.”
Because it is. Wholly and completely.
“Because it is,” says Miles, “wholly and completely.”
“You—incorrigible—”
Even though he knows exactly what’s going on here, ever suspicious and primed to meticulous analysis, Miles still has trouble convincing himself or speaking the words he wants to. If it were any other employee of his, he might understand how the circumstances got to this point—but of all the individuals to sink to this level of utter and complete desperation, Miles would never have guessed Franziska among them.
Even as a professional, Bar-ceritifed accuser, Miles does not know how to begin this ludicrous accusation. Instead, he pulls from his storytelling chops.
“Well, since I have you here, I’d like to relay to you a tale from my childhood.”
“Oh god.” Franziska rolls her eyes, crosses her arms, looks as though she’s going to collapse. Moreso than she did a moment ago, at least. “The childhood I was very much there for?”
“Before,” he clarifies, which softens her features in a way that’s nigh imperceptible. “You really should sit.”
“I’ll stand,” she sets her face, narrows her feverlit eyes, ruins her intimidation factor with a useless sniffle thereafter.
“Suit yourself,” says Miles, placing the paper on this desk and folding his hands. “So, in my otherwise unremarkable youth, I attended a public elementary school like any typical child would, wherein I faced all the equally unremarkable trials and tribulations that come with being of that age. This might be unheard of to someone from your background, but I’m sure you’ve watched television.”
“Get to the point, Miles.”
“Most of these frivolous problems were not particularly of note to me,” he says, “but I did listen to my peers. As you know, I rather enjoy the mundane act of observing my surroundings. One of the common woes of the common child was, of course, PE class.”
“That’s a nuisance among every demographic,” Franziska notes. “Who wants to spend an hour looking sweaty and disheveled amongst their peers?”
“Very few, you’re absolutely correct,” Miles agrees. “And so, a potential market crops up of children who will gladly fork over what little they have to get themselves absolved of it. And with any market comes the over-eager entrepreneur.”
“Pause,” Franziska says, “how old were you?”
“Eight, nine?” he says. “Age did not matter. This character always had some sort of crazy idea. And that year, his idea was simple: forge fake doctor’s notes to get his fellows out of PE, for the low low price of five dollars.”
She’s beginning to look uncomfortable, sweat beading on her clammy forehead. Miles isn’t sure if he should find that amusing—that the illness doesn’t trifle with her, but the idea of being caught does. He supposes that’s typical of a person like Franziska.
“I will drop the pretense now, because you know precisely of whom I speak.”
That eversharp index finger of Miles points downward, hard, onto the paper he’s now got laid out on his desk. Franziska’s face goes quite a few shades paler, and he can see her curling inward a bit as though she’s trying to hold herself together.
“Larry Butz wrote every letter of this so-called doctor’s note,” says Miles, decisive and firm. “I would know that tacky handwriting anywhere.”
“You—” her nails dig into her shirt sleeve, “—how dare you! Send it in for analysis right now, you fool, I guarantee it’ll come back inconsistent with that menace’s sloppy penmanship!”
“That would be quite the waste of time,” says Miles, “considering he has two separate sets of handwriting!”
“Wh—” her brow knits itself twice as intensely, “—what on earth are you—”
“Do I blame you for insinuating he is that stupid? Of course not. But…” Miles leans back in his chair, arms crossed tight, chin pointing up, “I may or may not have made my best attempt to discourage him back then… by insisting the teachers would recognize his handwriting.”
“You… I…”
“Of course, my intent was to stop him,” Miles says, “but the idiot took it as a challenge. This is the handwriting of one Dr. Laramie Bucholz. I would know it anywhere, Franziska!”
She staggers back a few steps, clutching her arms, the way she always did in court. “How dare you accuse me of something so asinine! And how dare you accuse me of even associating with that—that foolish Großmaul! Miles Edgeworth, I have half a mind to—to—”
She goes for her whip, but is thwarted by a rather vicious sneeze. Miles watches it start on her face, travel to her hands—making some attempt to wave it away, then poised in front of her crumbling features. The thing bends her nearly in half, and it entirely lacks the cutesy cadence Miles is used to after years upon years of hearing that same unremarkable sound. The roughness of it pulls something slightly more gentle from Miles’ heart, and he wordlessly nudges the tissue box closer to the edge of his desk.
Franziska casts her glistening gaze at the thing, from behind the veil of her curled fingers. Pointedly, then, she sniffles emphatically and stomps herself back into step.
“—you have no proof of your claims!” she carries on, despite herself. “And with no proof, you have no case!”
“Well, I do suppose you’re right,” Miles uncrosses his arms. “And it likely wouldn’t be a wise use of resources to go out of the way to investigate this document’s legitimacy, so…”
Slowly, then, Miles flips the thing around, so that every last word is legible to her. Trying to keep any smug notes of victory off his face, he looks up at her dryly from behind his lenses. Unbeknownst to what’s to come, Franziska settles into her own preening sort of pose—the triumphant grin finding its legs as it tugs again at her mouth.
“I will see you in three days,” Miles does not blink, “as your document here states.”
Pointing, of course, to the line in question as he says it.
Franziska blanches. Double takes. Triple takes. Snatches the feeble paper back off his desk, scrunches up the sides of it with the seething, shaking death grip she keeps on each. Brings it close to her face, teeth pressed so hard against themselves that Miles worries they might splinter. Over and over and over again, she reads the clause in question—before her rage boils over and she tears the thing in two.
Being Larry Butz came with the ever-present caveat that one was, at any given moment, just a hair’s breadth away from some truly contrived, miscellaneous nonsense happening. Whether it was to him or around him, he had more or less learned to expect it, and also promptly decided to pay it all no mind. A more somber man might think they are cursed, or live in fear, or view the world through a pessimistic lens—Larry just couldn’t find it in him. That seemed like a pretty miserable way to live one’s life, and so he elected to just stand there and enjoy the world while crazy shit happened around him.
Suffice it to say, he’s not exactly shocked that this is where his day is going. The whole thing had started off way too normal—a walk down to the park with his easel in tow, a perfectly shaded grassy patch under one of the biggest trees, a picturesque view of the sunset bleeding its smoggy-orange into the lake. This late in the year, no one in Cali really wants to be outside if it’s below 60, and Larry gets it, really, he does, but… man, they’re missing out on this view.
Pushing his paintbrush in broad, warm-coloured strokes, he can’t help frowning at his half-hearted attempt to immortalize it. It’s picturesque. It’s perfect. It’s… too perfect. This whole day is way too perfect, and Larry doesn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, but he kinda feels like the second that proverbial horse is out of his view it’s gonna turn around and kick him in the—
The yelp he lets loose comes before the pain actually registers. Across his back rings a sharp, strong-armed, familiar sting. It knocks him to the ground, on his stomach, and the whole time he’s falling, the only thing Larry can think about is how it feels… different. A little lopsided, with a little less punch to it? In any case, it still hurts like a bitch, and so when he hits the (thankfully soft) ground he allows himself a moment to groan a high groan and feel a bit pathetic. At the very least, he saved his palette—raised in the air with reverence and intent, like how a fancy waiter might brandish the dish of the hour.
“Laurice Deauxnim!”
Of course he knows it’s Franziska before she says a word. That whip does all the talking. Which is probably for the best, cause her voice sounds like two rocks scraping against themselves. He peeks out through one eye, looking up at his dark angel as her furious silhouette blocks out the setting sun, and that sense of divine inspiration that always falls over him whenever Franziska does anything chases the pain away lickety-split. While he’s trying to memorize the image of her there—to sketch out later, of course—she bends right over and grabs him by his shirt collar. His palette and brushes topple to the grass.
“Heya, Franzy!” says Larry, mostly just happy to see her. “You look kinda mad.”
“I’ll have your head on a spike, you miserably foolish artist!”
“Eesh. Really mad.” He’s just kind of half-hanging there. He’d never say it out loud, but even in heels she’s pretty short, and so his weight dangles awkwardly as she tries to hold him high. “What’s got your goat?”
“Were you going to tell me,” she says, her breath hot against his collar as she shakes him for emphasis, “that you’ve been forging doctor’s notes since you were a snot-nosed child?”
That’s a pretty rich adjective coming from her. Larry feels like he’s getting sick just looking at her, up close all her features look chafed and painful. “Aww, c’mon, I’m really not one to boast…”
“Factually incorrect!” She shakes him harder. “And you very well should have! If I had known that Miles Edgeworth was aware of your depraved side job…”
“What’s it matter that Edgey knows?”
“I am his—he is my—” the thought of words like subordinate and superior make her want to gag. “We work together! He is the one who requested the note in question! And even if he was not, you claimed I was to be out of work for three miserable days!”
“Well, yeah, that seemed like a pretty reasonable amount.” Still just there in her fists, he crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side. “What were you expecting me to write?”
“Zero!” She drops him hard as she says it, teeth bared and whole body trembling—from the rage or from the chills, Larry can’t really tell.
“Gimme a break, Franzy, how was I supposed to know that?” Awkwardly, he pulls himself back up, sitting criss-cross. “Dr. Larry wasn’t about to send you back to work in that condition!”
“In what condition?!” She cracks her whip at his flank. “I am perfectly—”
A meddlesome coughing fit stops both her words and the point behind them. It’s a rough-sounding thing, productive with the unfortunate sound of movement in her lungs, and Larry can’t help himself from touching at his own chest in sympathy as Franziska stumbles back on her feet. Her whip drags in the mud, and for some reason it’s that which needles his heart the most.
As Franziska’s regaining herself—blinking tears from her eyes, sniffling back their bite, making her best attempt to breathe—Larry all but bounces to his feet. She’s a touchy thing, he knows—like a feral kitten, more than anything—and so he doesn’t reach out and place the arm on her shoulder that he so badly wants to. Instead, Larry just grins his brightest grin, bringing twice as much energy for all that she cannot.
“If Edgey’s gonna make you take time off anyways, why don’t you come back to my place?” he says. “I can make you some of my world-famous cream puffs.”
Snapping her reddened glare back into its proper place, it looks like she’s going to protest when she starts to open her mouth. The words dissolve on her tongue, though—the fire simmers down a touch. Larry watches some of the fury fade from Franziska’s stance, how she dips her chin toward her chest and raises one eyebrow, suspicious.
“You bake?”
“Yeah! And I’m even kinda good at it!” He shoots her a thumbs up. “You seem like a gal who can appreciate a good pastry. And I guess I owe you one, anyhow.”
“You absolutely do!” She barks the statement out, grabs painfully at her throat when she feels how it rakes hot and barbed against the raw ache there. “Fine, Laurice Deauxnim. I will accept this as your penance.”
“Righteous!” He pumps a fist in the air, then turns on one heel to start packing up his things. “Take a load off, Franzy. Y’know, if you’re really that desperate to work on something, we could always talk about the book…”
Staving off the urge to sneeze, she makes her best attempt to discreetly rub at her nose, her voice low and watery. “I sincerely doubt you want me to model for you in such a revolting state.”
“Please, you’re a baddie any day of the week.” He leans over his shoulder to offer her a crooked smile. “Common cold couture. Beautiful as ever.”
Addled as she is, he’s not sure if he should read into the way the flush on her face deepens, or the seemingly flustered way she clears her throat thereafter. Either way, she’s cute as a button. “I hope you do not think flattery alone will get you back on my good side.”
To that, Larry can only clasp his hands together, eyes big and bright.
“Aww, I was on your good side?”
“I plead the fifth.”