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“I require your assistance,” Franziska von Karma said briskly.
“Hello to you too, Franziska,” Miles Edgeworth said, gripping his phone in one hand while holding up a “just-a-minute” finger with the other.
Franziska snorted. “I had not thought you needed to be coddled with pleasantries. But hello.”
“What do you need help with?”
“I’m working with Interpol on a case—” Franziska began.
“I’m sorry,” Miles cut in, “but I can’t help you with a case right now. I believe I told you that I have a guest in town this week.”
Said guest looked up from where he was seated on the couch and mouthed “Me?” exaggeratedly. Miles rolled his eyes.
“I know that,” Franziska told him. “Your foolish guest is precisely why you can help me.”
Miles sighed. “Explain, please?”
“We’ve intercepted communications from the group we’re tracking that indicate they’ll be performing an exchange of information at a gala event in Switzerland next week. I will be attending in order to observe the exchange and identify the individuals involved.” She paused. Miles didn’t prompt for more information; he knew Franziska would relay all pertinent details and would only be annoyed at being nudged. “In order not to stand out as a lone attendee of this gala, I have been instructed to bring…a date.” She pronounced this last word in a tone that suggested it could just as easily have been worm or locust. “There are certain specific requirements for the individual I bring as my guest. They must be of an appropriate age to believably serve as my romantic partner; they must not have any obvious connections to Interpol; they must be a person with whom I am already known to be acquainted; and it is…preferable, due to the somewhat conservative nature of the event, that they be a man.”
The sense of foreboding that had been building in Miles ever since Franziska had said date here reached a point at which it could no longer be suppressed. “Tell me you’re not suggesting—”
“I am not suggesting. I do not suggest. I am informing you that I have selected Phoenix Wright.”
“Surely there’s someone else—”
“There is not!” Franziska snapped. “Do you think I would consider that foolish former attorney if there were any other viable options? Your inexplicable fondness for his company is hardly universal.”
“I don’t know whether he—”
“He has ears and a mouth of his own, does he not?” Franziska demanded, and Miles wondered wearily whether she’d ever let him finish a full sentence. “And free will? It seems to me that what matters are not your foolish thoughts on the matter, but his.”
“I suppose you’re correct,” Miles admitted.
“Of course I am. So. Put Phoenix Wright on the phone, and I will lay my proposal before him.”
Miles exhaled slowly. It would be ridiculous to refuse. Franziska was perfectly correct; Wright was certainly capable of making his own decisions about what prosecutors he would or would not pretend to date in the interest of a case, and it would be the height of presumptuousness for Miles to decline on his behalf. “One moment,” he told Franziska, and covered the phone. “Wright?” he said. “Do you have a moment? Franziska wishes to speak with you.”
Wright’s face went comically terrified at the request, but he nodded gamely and took the proffered phone from Miles. “Hey, Franziska,” he said, affecting a breezy tone. “Everything okay? How’s things at Prosecutors without Borders? Y-yes, I know, it’s not called that, just a joke—”
Miles smiled to himself, mostly against his will, and left the room; Wright deserved to be able to think over Franziska’s request without anyone hanging over his shoulder. The fact that Miles was mildly dreading what he would say in reply to said request was merely a contributing factor. He headed for the small kitchen instead, switching on the kettle and rummaging idly through his teas.
Wright poked his head in the doorway a few minutes later. “Hey, Edgeworth,” he said, holding up the phone. “Franziska had to go, but she said to say goodbye to you.”
“Did she really?”
“No,” Wright admitted, “she informed me that she would see my foolish self on Thursday and hung up. But I sort of inferred.”
“So you agreed,” Miles said.
Wright looked at him quizzically. “Yeah?” he said. “I mean, I figured…that case we were working on wrapped up way faster than you thought it would, I might as well help her out too, while I’m here. I do owe her a couple favors, after all.”
“Of course,” Miles said, hands tightening on his teacup. “I simply didn’t know whether the…ah, the nature of the request would be objectionable to you.”
Wright snorted. “What, you mean that she wants me to be her date? Are you kidding? Think about it, Edgeworth. Franziska von Karma has to stand in public and pretend she likes me. For multiple hours! When else am I gonna get the chance to see that?”
“It will no doubt be…amusing, indeed.”
“Yeah,” said Wright suspiciously, “you sound like you think it’ll be a total laugh riot. What’s the matter? This isn’t bothering you, is it?”
“No!” said Miles, with what he feared was unconvincing fervor.
“Oh, God,” Wright said, “this isn’t, like, some sort of protective brother thing, is it? You don’t want your disreputable disbarred friend dating your kinda-sister? Because, Edgeworth, trust me, my feelings towards Franziska are completely platonic. As are hers to me. Actually, hers are probably…what’s less than platonic? Aristotelian? No, wait. Socratic. Her feelings towards me are positively Socratic, because every time we meet I get bombarded with a million questions, most of which are along the lines of why on Earth are you like this, you foolish fool?”
“That’s not really what the Socratic method is,” Miles protested weakly. “But…no, no, of course it’s not a protective brother thing. I’m fairly certain Franziska would whip both of us into unconsciousness if she heard you suggest it was.”
“Then what’s the issue?” Wright asked.
Miles just stared at him. Does he really not realize…? He felt a bizarre sort of satisfaction at the idea that Wright, who was possibly the most devilishly perceptive person he had ever had the displeasure of going up against, was apparently unable to discern Miles’s feelings towards him. It meant that Miles was doing an adequate job of concealing the fact that he harbored any desires beyond friendship.
“There is no issue,” he said at last, hoping Wright hadn’t brought his lie-detecting rock along with him.
“Well, good,” said Wright, not looking entirely convinced. “She said she’d text you the address so we know where to go. And that you should make sure I’m wearing something that won’t embarrass her too terribly.”
“W-we?”
“Oh!” Wright said, grinning in his usual fatuous manner. Miles had seen that grin all too infrequently, though, these last few years; it was comforting to know Wright could still smile like that. “Didn’t she tell you? She needs an extra person backstage, or whatever it’s called. So you’re coming too!”
“Franziska wants me to come along while the two of you enact this imposture?”
“Yeah!” Wright said, smile flickering for a second. “Don’t you—I mean, is that okay?”
Miles sighed. Do I want to sit idly by and watch while Wright and Franziska playact idiotically at being in love with each other? Not a chance. But… “Of course,” he said, not meeting Wright’s eyes. “That sounds…” Like torture. “Perfect.”
The vantage point from which Franziska had determined he would be viewing the evening’s events was, as it turned out, a surveillance van. An Interpol agent who’d introduced himself and whose name Miles hadn’t bothered remembering was reclining in the front seat, looking suspiciously half-asleep, while Miles was uncomfortably wedged in the back, earpiece tuned to the frequency of Franziska’s hidden microphone and eyes glued to the security camera footage playing out on a monitor in front of him.
Franziska and Wright were just entering the ballroom now; Wright had put his arm out in what he probably thought was a gallant manner, and Franziska was resting her gloved fingers gingerly on top.
“If anyone is gonna buy this,” Wright’s voice said quietly, “you’d better start acting like you can actually stand to touch me.”
Even through the security camera, Miles could see the way Franziska’s body tensed up, her hand curling at her side as though to grab a phantom whip. He winced sympathetically. “He’s right, you know,” he said into his own mic.
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Franziska muttered.
“Are you talking to Edgeworth?” Wright asked. (Only Franziska had an earpiece and microphone, since Wright was strictly there as camouflage and not part of the operation.) And Miles was—observing, of course he was, and so of course he noticed the way Wright’s face lit up there, the alacrity with which he turned towards Franziska. He very pointedly did not assign any particular motivation to this action of Wright’s.
Franziska glared at Wright fiercely enough that he momentarily recoiled before reasserting their physical connection.
“Remember when we were children, and we took those ballroom dance lessons?” Miles asked softly. “And they wouldn’t let us partner each other for the final showcase, and you had to dance with that boy with the nose that wouldn’t stop running?”
“...Yes,” Franziska said.
“And you didn’t want to touch him because you thought he was disgusting—”
“He was—”
“But then when it was your turn you looked at me and told me you weren’t going to let me best you under any circumstances, and you danced with him perfectly and won a prize?”
“Of course I did,” Franziska said.
“Well,” Miles continued, “if you could do it then… At least Wright seems to have better control of his sinuses.” Indeed, Wright in a well-tailored suit, dark-eyed and broad-shouldered, made a far more appealing prospect for physical contact than that snot-nosed child had, even if one didn’t happen to be hopelessly biased in that regard.
Franziska evidently agreed, because she hmphed into the microphone before taking a sidelong step closer to Wright and positively wrapping herself around his arm. Wright looked taken aback for a second, but quickly adjusted, letting Franziska lean into him.
“Damn,” he said, only barely loud enough for Miles to hear through Franziska’s microphone. “What did he say to you?”
“It was nothing to do with you, fool,” Franziska said.
Miles couldn’t tell, not through the camera feed and certainly not with the way Wright had learned to hide his expressions these last few years, whether he looked even remotely disappointed at that.
“We are now going to make the rounds,” Franziska continued, still addressing Wright, “and I shall introduce you to several prominent individuals. You will be as charming as it is possible for you to be. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wright said, a touch ironically.
Franziska sneered at him. Wright smiled lazily at her. Miles struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. Why had he agreed to watch this? (Simply because it would be a thousand times worse to imagine than to witness. If Wright had taught him anything, it was that a dreaded truth was rarely so terrifying as the falsehoods one’s mind developed in order to disguise it.)
Wright and Franziska made their way through the crowd, stopping first to greet an elderly man whom Miles thought he recognized from a gala he’d attended with the von Karmas years ago. He vaguely remembered he had something to do with agriculture.
“Herr Bauernhof,” Franziska said, detaching herself from Wright in order to shake the man’s hand. “Such a pleasure.”
“Franziska!” Bauernhof said, smiling vaguely at her. “And—er, I don’t believe we’ve—”
“This is Mr. Phoenix Wright,” Franziska said smoothly. “My—” She hesitated.
“Boyfriend,” Wright chimed in, sticking his own hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
Bauernhof took Wright’s hand in turn, shaking it. “Ah. So you’ve managed to convince young Franziska to settle down, have you?”
Miles couldn’t actually see Franziska vibrating in anger through the security camera feed, but he was fairly certain of it nevertheless.
Wright just smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No one’s taming this wild mare anytime soon, I’d say, huh, honey?”
Wild mare—is he quoting me? Surely not.
Franziska flinched visibly at the use of honey, but rallied quickly. “Yes, sugarplum,” she said.
Wright looked vaguely nauseated. Miles realized he was now learning rather more than he would ever have hoped to about Wright’s (not to mention Franziska’s) preferred terms of endearment.
“If anything,” Wright said, pulling Franziska in towards him again, “I’d say she’s the one bringing me to heel.” He mimed a whipping motion. “You know?”
Franziska laid a hand on his. “Now, darling, I thought we agreed that was private?” She winked at Bauernhof, who seemed entirely befuddled. (Miles couldn’t blame him.) “This fool likes being bossed around a bit,” she said, sotto voce. “And punished!”
Wright went completely red, which was amusing but also sent Miles’ thoughts down an entirely unhelpful rabbit hole wondering just why he seemed so affected, was it that he didn’t like the idea or he liked it rather too much?
He managed to pull himself out of this spiral by the time Franziska had bade Bauernhof goodbye and dragged Wright away.
“Sugarplum?” Wright hissed, once they were out of earshot.
Franziska shrugged. “You started it.”
“You didn’t need to imply that I—um—with the whip—”
“You started that, too.”
Wright narrowed his eyes. “Not like that.”
“Hmph,” said Franziska. “Are you saying you’re uncomfortable?”
“No,” Wright said petulantly. “I just didn’t want you to be.”
“Do not concern your foolish self with that,” Franziska snapped. “All I require is your presence. Not such foolish solicitousness.”
“Okay, then,” Wright said. “So, you don’t mind. Got it.”
“Good,” Franziska said. “Now, come along.”
“You don’t have to actually boss me around,” Wright grumbled, but followed Franziska over to a younger couple Miles didn’t recognize.
“Madame et Monsieur Argent,” Franziska said, curtsying. “How is the banking business?”
“Ah, you know,” the wife (Madame Argent, presumably) replied, shrugging her shoulders. “We get by.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met my escort?” Franziska said, indicating Wright. “Mr. Phoenix Wright.”
The name was evidently familiar to the Argents, who both appeared visibly taken aback. “Ah,” Monsieur Argent said, carefully. “The…defense attorney, no? But…ahem, I thought I’d heard…”
“That he was disbarred?” Franziska finished helpfully. “It is true. However, that is of no concern to me. My career is successful enough for two.”
“That’s right,” Wright said. “I’m just a trophy boyfriend now.”
Miles couldn’t tell from his tone or expression whether the reminder stung for him. It was hard to imagine it wouldn’t, but then, it was Wright, so one truly never knew.
“His daughter started calling me Mother right away,” Franziska was saying. “I told her she didn’t have to, of course. But she did. We are a perfect family.”
Miles wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anything less convincing in his life, and the way Wright was nodding along, expression mostly blank, did nothing to sell Franziska’s story. But the Argents seemed disinclined to contest the story (it would certainly have been a faux pas, Miles conceded), and after exchanging a few more pleasantries they moved on.
“Do not,” Wright muttered at Franziska, “bring my daughter into this, Jesus!”
“Sorry,” Franziska said, not sounding sorry in the least. “But clearly they knew who you were, and thus they might have known you have a daughter, and so it was necessary. Besides, Trucy Wright is the one thing about you worth bragging about.”
Wright’s expression cleared slightly. “That’s true enough.”
Franziska and Wright circled the ballroom again, greeting a few more of Franziska’s acquaintances.
“What do we do now?” Wright asked, when they’d exhausted the pool of willing small-talkers. “Is it time for the thing yet?”
“No,” Franziska said, glancing around, “and I do not wish to get in position too early and risk being observed by some foolish passer-by.” She looked evaluatively at Wright. “Come, Phoenix Wright. We are going to dance.”
“Uhhh,” Wright said, allowing himself to be dragged towards the dance floor. “I don’t really—I mean, whatever this fancy kind of dancing is, I probably can’t do it. My skills kind of max out around the Macarena.”
“I expected as much,” Franziska said. “Do not worry, fool. I am skilled enough to cover for you.”
They started waltzing; Wright evidently wasn’t understating his skill, barely managing to follow Franziska’s lead.
“Not like that,” Franziska told him, wincing as he stepped on her foot. “Like this.”
“Huh,” Wright said, adjusting (at least he seemed to be picking it up easily enough). “You are good at this.”
“Of course I am,” Franziska said. “I dance perfectly. I defeated Miles Edgeworth every time.”
“I didn’t think it was competitive—wait, Edgeworth? Edgeworth took dance lessons?”
Why would he want to know about that?
“Your sense of rhythm is abysmal,” Franziska said. “Surely even your foolish self is capable of listening to the music and following some semblance of a beat?”
“Hey,” Wright snapped, “I said I would come here and help you, I didn’t say I would or could waltz, you just kind of sprung this on me!”
“What sort of thing did you think would happen at a gala of this sort?” Franziska shot back.
“Gee, I don’t know,” Wright said, sarcastically. “Maybe I didn’t have any idea because I don’t exactly get a lot of invitations to this kind of thing!”
“That’s obvious to any fool with eyes—”
They were both speaking quietly, but the agitation was clear, and Miles realized that the couples around them were beginning to notice.
“Franziska!” he said, into the microphone. “Control yourself. And tell Wright to do the same. Your bickering is attracting attention.”
Franziska looked for a second as though she were about to turn her insults to him, but instead glanced around, presumably verifying Miles’ observation for herself.
“What?” Wright asked. “Did he say something?”
“No, sweetheart,” Franziska said, smiling at Wright with sickening sweetness. “I was just thinking it isn’t seemly for us to be arguing like this in public.”
Wright, always quick with a bluff, smiled right back at her. “Oh, you’re so right, cupcake,” he said, meeting her eyes with a saccharine gaze of his own. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
“A sensible notion,” Franziska said, and then added, quickly, “lovebug.”
“Honeybun,” Wright countered.
“Baby.”
“Cutie-pie.”
“Muffin.”
“Fran-Fran.”
“Nicky.”
Miles felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. He frankly hadn’t thought it was possible for either Wright or Franziska to wear expressions of such idiotic besottedness as now adorned both their faces. Their smiles—he’d seen Franziska smile sort of like that once, perhaps, when she’d met the pony that had come to her eighth birthday party. But Wright? Never. And of course it was an act, Miles was perfectly aware that it was an act, but he still found himself wondering whether there was anything at all in Wright’s look, in his voice, that might appear the same as the real thing.
Fortunately, it was only a few more minutes before it was time for Franziska to get into position to observe the information exchange. Wright wandered over to the refreshment table while Franziska disappeared into the hallway; there were no security cameras where she was headed, so Miles could no longer see her, and because Wright had no microphone, he could no longer hear Wright (not that Wright was saying anything).
“I am almost there,” Franziska said under her breath; they’d agreed it was best for her to give updates that way while she still could. “Ah—here we are. Ugh, this nook is far too small. I will be having words with whatever fool made the foolish decision to place me here…”
Miles listened with half an ear, his gaze still stuck on Wright in the ballroom. He’d left the refreshment table now and appeared to be glancing around the room looking for something or someone. What does he want? Wright didn’t look worried or distressed, so why was he—
Wright’s eyes landed at last on the security camera, and he winked.
Was—was he looking for me? He can’t have known I was still watching. But there doesn’t seem to be anything else it could be…
“Miles Edgeworth!” Franziska said, very slightly louder than before. “Are you listening to me?”
“Ah—my apologies,” Miles said. “Did you get what you needed?”
“The exchange has not happened yet, fool!” Franziska snapped. “Are you not paying attention?”
“I was watching Wright on the camera feed,” Miles said, only realizing how horribly revealing that was after the words had come out. He winced, anticipating Franziska’s response.
“Is he all right?”
“Y-yes, he’s perfectly fine.”
“Then why are you staring at him? You know what he looks like.”
Miles put a hand over his mouth to muffle his sigh of relief. Oh, Franziska.
“Ah! Here they come,” Franziska said, voice dropping lower.
Through her microphone, Miles could hear muffled voices; he had the impression they were both men, or both low, at any rate, but Franziska must have been far enough away and concealed well enough that he couldn’t comprehend more than a word or two of their conversation.
After a few minutes, the voices were silent, and Franziska said, still quietly but with a distinct tone of triumph, “I have what I need.”
“Excellent,” Miles said. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch any of what they said—”
“That’s quite all right,” Franziska said. “I did. And it’s not as though it’s your case, after all. But rest assured, Interpol will be very happy.”
“Oh good,” Miles said dryly, “we can all rest easy tonight, then.”
Franziska huffed, but it was her amused huff rather than her annoyed one.
Through the camera, Miles saw her re-enter the ballroom and locate Wright.
“Get what you need?”
“Of course,” Franziska said. “Come. We can return to the van now.”
“Sure, okay,” Wright said, and they made their way out of the ballroom.
Once they’d left the range of the security cameras, Miles hit the power button on the monitor. He was about to take off the headset he’d been wearing when he heard Franziska speak.
“Thank you for your assistance, Phoenix Wright,” she said.
“Yeah, no problem,” Wright said. “I mean, like I said to Edgeworth, I definitely owe you. Glad I could help.”
Has he missed it? Miles wondered. Being on the ground, investigating like this, not just poring over papers with me in a stuffy office?
“I—” Franziska hesitated. “I, er. I am grateful that you were available. I was…slightly more comfortable with you than I might have been with many others.”
“Aw,” Wright said, audibly touched. “That’s really—”
“However! Being seen with someone who waltzes as foolishly as you will have ruined my social standing, so perhaps…”
Wright snorted. “Yeah, that’s the thing about me that’ll do it.”
“What happened to you was not fair,” Franziska said firmly. “Any fool who can’t see that is a fool whose opinion is worth nothing.”
“Yeah,” Wright said, sounding slightly distant. “Well. Thanks for asking me, anyway. I had a good time.”
“You belong back in the courtroom,” Franziska continued. “Most of these foolish defense attorneys are not even worth debating. You at least provided some minor challenge.”
“Hang on. I seem to remember I beat you every time we—”
“Two cases is too small of a sample size,” Franziska said haughtily. “You cannot draw any statistical conclusions from that—stop laughing, Miles Edgeworth!”
“My apologies, Franziska,” Miles said, biting back another laugh. He took the headset off for good measure; better that than be caught again.
A knock came at the van’s side door. Miles leaned over and slid it open; Wright was standing in front, and as his eyes met Miles’ he smiled in greeting.
It was a different smile from the ones he’d given Franziska when they were dancing. A different one, too, from the smaller smiles, never quite reaching his eyes, that Miles saw far too often these days. More…real, Miles thought. He smiled back.
“What are you two grinning foolishly about?” Franziska demanded from behind Wright. “Are you laughing at me still? Move aside, Phoenix Wright!”
“Sorry,” Wright said, and climbed into the van, Franziska following quickly after him, sliding the door shut behind her.
As they pulled away, though, Miles found Wright’s eyes again, just for a moment. It was hardly conclusive, the way he looked just now. But as Wright smiled again, Miles decided that the available evidence pointed to it being real.