Work Text:
Staying late at the courthouse is not ideal, but it is a small price to pay for perfection. As one of the last prosecutors left in the office on this dreary, snowy Wednesday evening, Franziska von Karma, perfection incarnate, completes her preparations for tomorrow’s trial.
She only flew in from Germany last night, specifically to prosecute this case, and is still powering through the residual jet-lag. She will probably still be battling it by the time she needs to turn around and fly back home.
Miles Edgeworth has recently proposed to her that perfection is a pursuit more easily sought when one has achieved adequate work-life balance. Because he is a meddling fool, he has forced her to agree that she will not work after-hours on more than three days per week, for a trial period of at least one month.
It is a patently idiotic agreement. Her workload has not decreased: this simply means that on the days she stays late, she will be staying extremely late.
She made sure to point this out to him. She asked: What is the utility in scheduling entire evenings to be spent idle? And he responded: Perhaps, Franziska, you could consider taking up a hobby.
Foolish. She already has a hobby, and that hobby is defeating her opponents in court. Franziska has decided to see this agreement through to the end of the month regardless, if only to incontrovertibly prove that the suggestion was, and always has been, foolish.
Franziska has left the door to her office open. Not because she is making any attempt to seem polite or approachable; rather, because she doesn’t want her office to be forgotten by the janitorial staff. She assumes that nobody will disturb her — the only people still in the building should be too busy to bother her. This is an assumption that will soon be proven incorrect:
There’s a knock at her door, but before she can grant the interloper entry, Klavier Gavin has walked inside and casually propped himself up against her door frame. There’s an easy smirk on his face that, in and of itself, is enough to raise her hackles.
He was hired a matter of weeks ago, and in that scant time he has already managed to overdraw her limited patience. She’s sure Gavin can sense her disdain for him, and suspects that he goes out of his way to exist in her periphery because he revels in it. He is, at least, sensible enough to stand where her whip cannot reach him.
“There is no sense in knocking,” Franziska says, “if you plan to enter without permission.”
“Your door was open.”
“It’s simple etiquette,” she snaps. “Knocking is typically an action that implies you will wait for a response.”
“Ouch. You think I’m typical, Fräulein?”
“Did you come here purely to belittle me,” she says through gritted teeth, “or are you interrupting me for something important?”
He shrugs, but his smile doesn’t budge. He kicks out one leg and leans even more heavily against the door frame, as if out of spite. “Would it be such a crime if I wanted to have a friendly conversation with my new coworker?”
“This is not a friendly conversation. Why are you here?”
“I have a message to deliver.”
“And since when did you become my secretary?”
“Since your secretary went home. Nobody else is here — just you and me, burning the midnight oil, ja?”
“It is six o’clock in the evening.”
He checks his watch. “Ah, so it is,” he says, and re-folds his arms. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Franziska explodes out of her seat, slamming both palms on the desk as she rises. “Why didn’t you say that first?”
“Because you were too busy interrogating me. Do you want me to send her in?”
“Yes,” she hisses. She grips the edge of her desk hard enough to make her gloves squeak, and adds, dripping with disdain, “If you would be so kind.”
He struts off down the corridor, looking completely unaffected by her seething hatred for him. In an attempt to make up for that trainwreck of a conversation, Franziska sits back down, picks up her pen, and tries to fill the intervening minutes with some measure of productivity while she waits for her unexpected visitor.
“Franziska!” calls a bubbly, familiar voice — the voice of Maya Fey.
She puts down her pen. Unbidden, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips — instantly, the residual aggravation from her interaction with Gavin evaporates.
She hasn’t seen or spoken to Maya since their celebratory dinner at Trés Bien following the conclusion of her mother’s murder trial. Her presence now is a surprise — a pleasant surprise, but a surprise all the same.
“Miss Fey,” she greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ooh, formal,” Maya says. “Still on the clock, are you?”
“I am.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. You only just flew in and they’re already working you to the bone, huh?”
She’s bouncing on her toes, unable to stand still. Maya is always brimming with energy, but today her enthusiasm has a distinctly restless quality to it. She is also, Franziska now notices, holding something behind her back.
Franziska leans forward over her desk, casting a sceptical, investigative eye over her guest. Maya squirms under the weight of her attention. She asks, “Is there some reason you are visiting me in my place of work?”
“Oh! Yeah— Yes! Sorry, I know I’m interrupting — you’re probably not staying here late for your health—”
“Miss Fey,” she interrupts. “I can spare five minutes to hear whatever it is you are obviously so eager to tell me.”
“Ah, heh. Well, when you put it like that—” she totters over to Franziska’s desk and slams two objects down on top of it. One is a sealed envelope. The other—
The other has her brain rearing back, like a horse refusing a jump. It’s a teddy bear: pale blue, with a frilly white ribbon tied around its neck. Franziska is, perhaps for the first time in her life, completely lost for words.
“I’ve already put everything I wanted to say in there,” Maya says. “I’m sorry to bother you at work — I sorta thought you’d be wrapping up by now, and I’m not sure how long you’re staying in the country so I wanted to catch you before you fly back to Germany, and— but you’re clearly busy! So I’ll just—” she points to the door, while taking several steps towards it “—I’ll stop bothering you. There’s no hurry for you to read it or anything, just— just call me when you do! See ya later, Franziska!” And then she’s gone.
Franziska absently reaches out to touch the ribbon, clearly modelled after the one she keeps tied at her neck.
“Goodbye,” she says, to the now-closed door.
She could get up and follow her, Franziska realises; but if Maya wanted to stay, she would have stayed. Instead, through sheer force of will, she forces herself to examine the letter. She doesn’t get any further than the heart-shaped sticker used to seal it, before she decides that this isn’t a distraction she can afford.
It’s getting late, and if Franziska doesn’t have this paperwork completed by tomorrow morning, her defendant will have grounds to file for mistrial. Resolutely, she uncaps her pen and gets back to work.
She makes good progress, but her cursive is sloppy. Disgusted by this, she looks away from it, considering starting afresh, but her eyes drift — without her permission — to Maya’s gift. She stares into the teddy bear’s eyes; its relentless, unblinking buttons stare back.
She picks it up by the top of the head and faces it away from her. She is Franziska von Karma, and she is not going to be defeated by a stuffed animal whose fur matches the colour of her hair so closely that Maya must have been working from some sort of reference.
She punctuates her last signature on the document with a little too much force — so much force that the blot of ink leaks through to the page underneath, but she pays this no heed. Slamming her pen down on her desk, she snatches the letter and rips it open, before she can change her mind.
Franziska,
I really admire you. I think I always have, ever since the first time we met. You’re so smart and talented, and sometimes your insults are so funny that I have to struggle not to laugh and set a terrible example for Pearly.
You’ve always gone out of your way to help me, even when you didn’t have to. I don’t know where I’d be without you! Probably dismembered in Shelly de Killer’s cellar, or frozen solid in the Sacred Cavern, but let’s not think too hard about that!
Since I’ve stopped following Nick around during his cases, I’ve found myself regretting that I don’t have many excuses to see you. You’re so gorgeous, and always so put together. You make it look effortless, but I know it can’t be. You’re stunning. You’re definitely out of my league, but when have I ever let that discourage me? >:)
So, I’m writing to ask: will you go on a date with me? I totally understand if it isn’t feasible for you because of work and travel, or if you just don’t feel the same way I do, but I would be over the moon if you wanted to give it a try!
Yours truly,
Maya xoxo
P.S. This is my 14th attempt at writing this. You don’t want to know how much of Nick’s paper I’ve wasted in the last couple of hours. The rubbish bin is absolutely overflowing with paper right now. I’m going to go and shred the leftovers now, before he gets any bright ideas about uncrumpling and reading them.
There’s a little doodle of the teddy bear, next to the Wright & Co. Law Offices letterhead. She has to read the letter over again, in its entirety, twice more. Just to ensure that her eyes aren’t betraying her.
It’s such a heartfelt declaration that Franziska’s heart should be soaring — but it’s soured by something: Maya Fey is wrong. She has obviously misjudged the source of her own feelings. Her writing doesn’t communicate romantic attraction; this is more akin to hero worship. Maya Fey is simply grateful to her for her actions at Hazakura Temple — and nothing more.
It was still a very kind thing for her to do. Clearly a lot of thought has gone into this gesture. Unfortunately, it leaves Franziska in the position of needing to turn her down gently. And, typically, gentle is not an adjective she would use to describe herself.
Folding the paper neatly and tucking it away in her briefcase, she picks up her phone and dials the closest thing she has to Maya’s phone number. Before she can change her mind.
Her answer comes on the third ring: “Wright and Co. Law Offices. Phoenix Wright, speaking—”
“This is Franziska von Karma.”
There’s a heavy silence on the other side of the line. “Prosecutor von Karma!” he eventually manages, “I— I wasn’t— are you—”
“Is this how you greet all of your clients when they call? You should be more decisive,” she scolds. “They’re looking for someone they can put their trust in.”
“I’ll, uh, take that under consideration. Did you need something?”
“I need to speak with Maya Fey. Is she with you?”
“Uh, sure, she—” there’s the distinct sound of a hand placed over the speaker, and a muffled yell, “Maya!” then there’s rustling, and an indecipherable, clipped conversation.
Then, finally, Maya’s voice: “Hey, Franziska!”
Franziska greets, “Maya Fey,” but finds herself at a loss as to how she should continue.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she says, and giggles apprehensively. “How’s it going?”
Despite being the one to initiate it, she is woefully unprepared for this phone call. It is so vanishingly rare for her to be unprepared for anything — and, as a result, she’s not entirely sure how to handle her blunder.
She should have written out a set of notes — Maya evidently figured out that written preparations are a necessity for such conversations. She has half a mind to make an excuse, hang up, and redial once she’s adequately prepared; but now that she’s made the call, she’s not going to back down.
Franziska says, “I read your letter.”
“You—” there’s a pause. “And…? What did you think?”
“And, I…”
She’s still trying to find an acceptable combination of words: something kind, gentle, and appreciative, yet won’t instil false hope, when Maya laughs. “It’s okay. I get it. I’m glad I wrote it, at least. No harm in shooting my—”
“That’s—” If she grips the receiver any harder it’s going to crumble to dust in her hands. “What I mean to say is—”
She can’t do this. She can’t do this over the phone.
Franziska asks, “Where are you right now?”
“I’m— with Nick,” Maya answers slowly. “At the office?”
Franziska kicks herself. Obviously Maya’s at the godforsaken office.
Maya’s laugh has a distinct undertone of uncertainty. “Everything okay, Fran?”
“Meet me at the Gatewater Hotel,” Franziska says. “I can be there in half an hour.”
“Uh— okay! Yes, of course, I’ll be there! See you soon!”
“Goodbye.”
She hears Wright’s incredulous, “Fran?” and then the click of Maya hanging up the landline.
Briskly, Franziska packs her paperwork away. She looks at the teddy bear on her desk; looks at the precisely arranged array of documents in her briefcase; and decides that temporarily sacrificing her perfect organisation is worthwhile, if it will spare her the mortification of the janitorial staff finding a plush toy on her desk.
It takes her a few tries, and the poor bear is horribly squished, but she does manage to close her briefcase.
As she attempts to leave the building, Gavin, with his sixth sense for locating innocent people to annoy, falls into step with her.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” he muses, “that your guest arrived holding—”
“If you aren’t here to work, then go home,” Franziska snaps. She delivers her paperwork to the correct pigeonhole and, without another word — without so much as a backwards glance — leaves the office for the day.
She dips her head against the light snowfall, pulls her jacket tighter around herself, and hails a taxi. It can’t have taken her more than twenty minutes to arrive at the Gatewater, and yet, Maya is already waiting for her in the lobby.
She’s still wearing her acolyte robes, but there’s no weather-appropriate jacket in sight. Franziska asks, “Aren’t you cold?”
“Me? Nah. Plenty of training,” Maya says, and doesn’t elucidate. “Shall we?”
Franziska leaves her coat in the cloakroom, and they find themselves a seat at the attached restaurant without speaking a word to each other. The silence is heavy with the weight of their impending conversation. It is not ameliorated by any surrounding conversation: there are a smattering of other patrons, but the restaurant is not particularly busy. Perhaps unsurprisingly, seeing as how it is the middle of the work week.
Franziska offers to pay, and orders herself an espresso. Maya orders herself a milkshake: when it’s delivered, it’s an impressive sight — as Franziska would expect from a luxury hotel. It’s piled high with whipped cream and slathered with syrup. Maya rubs her hands together in gleeful anticipation.
“Sooooo,” Maya lilts. “How was work, Franzy?”
Franziska’s jaw twitches. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Uh huh.”
“It is also not the reason we are currently speaking.”
“Mhm. No small talk, got it.” Maya takes a long, loud sip of her drink. A crooked smirk slashes its way across her face. She says simply, “You invited me.”
“Indeed I did,” she says. And takes a long, considerably quieter sip of her coffee.
“I promise I’m not upset,” Maya says, “and even if I were, this—” she gestures down at her drink “—is more than enough to make up for it.” She mumbles, “I know you’re completely out of my league—”
“That’s not— precisely my objection,” she says. And adds, more insistently, “Don’t say such horrible things about yourself, Maya Fey. I’m not out of your league; you’re in a league of your own. Have pride in yourself.”
“You know,” Maya says, “that could be a really clever veiled insult. If you wanted it to be.”
Franziska narrows her eyes. “It wasn’t.”
Maya grins, but she rears back in her seat, almost imperceptibly. “Whoa,” she says, “that’s a scary face. If you’re trying to spook me into improving my self-esteem, it’s definitely working. I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to take it up a notch; do you have your whip with you—?”
“I always have it with me,” Franziska says. “I asked you here for a reason. You keep distracting me.”
“Yeah, that’s sort of my thing.” She picks up her spoon and scoops a large helping of whipped cream into her mouth. “You said you have some sort of objection?”
“I do.”
“Are you gonna tell me what it is?”
“Your motivations elude me.”
At this, Maya’s eyes widen in disbelief. Her surprise quickly disappears behind a pervasive aura of smugness: she moves her drink out of the way, so she can prop her elbows up on the table and rest her face on her hands. “My motivations elude you?” she echoes, smiling ear-to-ear. “I thought I was pretty clear in the letter. You’re beautiful. Stunning. Whip-smart, pun absolutely intended—”
“I read the letter,” Franziska says briskly, though she can feel her face getting hot. “I don’t doubt that you feel some sort of attraction towards me—”
“I get it,” Maya interjects, “you just don’t feel the same. It’s okay, really—”
Impatient, she snaps, “Is that what I said?”
Maya startles. Blinks. Seems to realise that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, and Franziska is waiting for an answer. “I mean, I sort of assumed—”
“And yet,” Franziska huffs, “that isn’t what I said.”
Maya nods stiffly. She picks up her drink, shuts herself up with her straw, and waves one hand at Franziska to tell her to keep talking.
“I’m sure your attachment to me is genuine,” she reiterates, “but I believe you have misattributed it. I believe that you are misconstruing this sentiment as romantic attraction when, in reality, you are simply grateful to me—”
Maya chokes on her drink. She coughs messily, and says, loudly enough to draw the attention of the surrounding tables, “What?”
“Don’t cause a scene,” Franziska insists, but Maya’s still hunched and spluttering. She asks, with as much compassion as she can muster, “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” she wheezes. She thumps her chest a couple of times, then clears her throat. “Eugh. Yeah, I’m good. Phew! Now, let me repeat: what?!”
Franziska is starting to wish she’d selected a less public venue for this conversation. “I believe you have misinterpreted your—”
“Yeah, I heard you,” she huffs. “Look, Franziska — I spent a really long time planning how I was gonna tell you. I promise I thought it all the way through before I did it.”
“I don’t doubt that you did—”
“I mean, I rewrote that letter fourteen times! Do you really think I’m that stupid—?”
“No, of course I don’t,” she insists, now feeling as though she has made rather a grave error in judgement. “I don’t think you’re stupid — not in the slightest. After everything I’ve seen you survive, how could I possibly think that?” Her remorse must show on her face, because Maya’s expression softens somewhat.
She blows out a breath. “I’m like a cockroach.”
“You are not—”
“Nah, it’s alright,” Maya mumbles, “I’m not upset or angry, or anything like that.” She rests her cheek heavily on one palm, and twirls her straw between her fingers. “I’m just kind of irked because Nick said the same thing.”
Franziska shudders — if she has achieved any amount of synchronicity with Wright, she needs to make some sweeping changes to her lifestyle. “What did he say?”
Maya’s chuckle is utterly mirthless. “Man,” she sighs, “I didn’t think this conversation would turn out to be so mortifying. He got sick of listening to me talk about you, and asked if I was only fixated on you because I felt like I owe you for breaking the trick locks.”
Franziska says, “You don’t owe me—”
“I know that,” Maya interrupts. “I’m grateful, but I know I’m not, like—” she wrinkles her nose “—indebted to you. I told him: he should know better than anyone that I’ve been fascinated by you since the beginning — since he got me acquitted for the murder of Turner Grey.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Franziska says carefully, “that these feelings of yours have existed since before I retrieved you from the cavern at Hazakura Temple?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Something about her demeanour skews towards sentimental. “I’ve always been fascinated by you. Even when you were trying to put me in jail — before I really cared about you — I was always fascinated. You’re relentless, and I mean that in a good way — it’s captivating to watch you set yourself a goal and then completely annihilate it.”
“That’s— extremely kind of you to say.”
“I’m not saying it to be kind; I’m saying it ‘cause I mean it. And,” she straightens, “if you still doubt me when I tell you I like you, then I can’t help but think that has more to do with you than it does with me.”
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply.”
“You know exactly what I’m trying to imply. Is it really that hard to believe I might be interested in you? Really, genuinely interested? I mean, you must be shooting people down every other day—”
“I’m not,” she says, more harshly than she intends. “I’m— that isn’t the case. I am not frequently propositioned — most are not foolish enough to make such an attempt after they notice my whip.”
“I guess that makes me one of the brave few,” Maya says.
“And,” she says, “I’ve never…”
“You’ve never…?” Maya prompts, when Franziska, upon realising that this isn’t an admission she is required to make, abandons the sentence altogether. “You’ve never… what? Been… in a relationship?”
Franziska chokes, “That is correct.”
Maya whispers, “Holy shit.”
“Miss Fey—”
“Oh, my god, you can’t be serious,” she chortles. Franziska glares, and reaches for the handle of her weapon, at which point Maya instantly puts her hands up in surrender. “Whoa, wait!” she exclaims, still trying to stifle her laughter, “I’m not trying to make fun of you, I just think that’s crazy. I mean, really? You?!”
“Is it truly so difficult to believe?”
“Yes! Extremely! You didn’t even have, like, a college fling? A high school boyfriend?”
“I passed the bar at age thirteen, and I have been prosecuting internationally ever since,” she asserts. “I simply didn’t have the time.” She adds disdainfully, “Nor would I entertain the idea of romantically pursuing a man, under any circumstance.”
“Oh, yeah,” Maya says, dismissively waving a hand in the air, “me neither,” and then she leans over the table in a manner Franziska would classify as predatory. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling shy.”
“I am not, nor have I ever been,” she sneers, “shy.”
“You totally are.”
“I am not.”
Maya leans back in her seat, smugly unconvinced. “So,” she drawls, “we’re definitely on the same page about how I feel, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Now it’s your turn. What did you think of my letter? You haven’t actually told me yet.”
Her answer should be trivially easy for her to provide: over the course of this conversation, it has occurred to her in stunning clarity. However, this conversation has taken several turns that not even she could have foreseen, and she’s left floundering.
She answers, somewhat indirectly, “I wasn’t expecting you to be the type to confess your attraction via a gift and handwritten letter.”
“Aw,” Maya pouts, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
Refusing to be moved by this, she says, “I only mean, while the effort is certainly sincere — and appreciated,” she tacks on, with some measure of self-consciousness, “you strike me as the type who declares her feelings to the world with reckless abandon — who will act on your desires in whichever way feels most honest to you, instead of concerning yourself with the more traditional trappings of romance. Would you consider that to be an accurate assessment?”
Maya’s theatrical pout is starting to wobble under the effort of countering her smile, and she allows the performance to drop entirely. “Yeah, I would, I guess. The letter actually was what felt right — I really wanted to make sure I said everything I wanted to say — but the plush was Pearly’s idea.”
“She—” Franziska stumbles. “I find it extremely difficult to believe that your cousin would approve of your choice of recipient.”
“Why? Did she say something to you?”
“I simply don’t get the impression that she approves of me, in general.”
If Maya noticed that this isn’t actually an answer to her question, she has the good grace not to call her out on it. Franziska still remembers every word of Pearl’s dressing-down.
“Uh, heh,” Maya says, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “You’re right about that, too. She doesn’t know.”
Franziska lifts one eyebrow, and patiently waits for an explanation. As patiently as she ever waits for anything, at least — Maya can probably hear her boot tapping underneath the table.
“I don’t know if she understands what— gay people… are,” Maya wavers. “I don’t know if her aunt put any backwards ideas about the whole concept into her head. It wouldn’t surprise me, considering everything she seems to think about dating.” She fidgets with her straw. “Her whole concept of romance feels like it was lifted from an advertisement for a valentine’s day sale.”
“Forgive my curiosity,” Franziska says, “but I must ask: if not me, who did she think you were attempting to court?”
Maya says, “Was that pun intentional?”
She takes great offence at the mere suggestion that she would ever engage in the lowest form of humour on purpose, but catches herself before she can be drawn into such an unimportant argument. “Are you avoiding the question?”
She hesitates. “You’re not gonna like this.”
“Try me.”
“She… thinks,” Maya cringes, and hides her face behind her drink. She mumbles, “She thinks I’m giving it to Nick.”
Franziska tries to keep her lips sealed. Though, once the first chuckle has been startled from her throat, she’s fighting a losing battle. A peal of laughter erupts from her, and though she tries to cover her mouth with one hand, she can’t contain herself.
“She’s been calling him my special someone for years now, I don’t know how to make her stop without completely destroying her spirit!” Maya groans. She’s trying to pout, but Franziska’s laughter is too infectious for this effort to succeed. “I told her I was going to write a letter, and she said I should buy a gift to go alongside it and wouldn’t hear any argument!
“When we went shopping, she pointed at the rack of teddy bears and I just couldn’t get over the thought of seeing you with one. I picked up a blue one, and Pearly said, Oh, that’s Mr. Nick’s favourite colour, isn’t it? but all I could think about was the white ribbon in the gift aisle we’d just walked past.”
Franziska, who has finally managed to contain herself, comments, “The colour was an impressive match. I admit, I wondered if you were working from a reference.”
“Nah,” she says, and taps the side of her temple. “This thing’s like a steel trap.” She folds her hands on top of one another, but her fingers still tap the table in a restless rhythm. “C’mon, you’re killing me. What did you think of the letter?”
“I think,” Franziska says, “that you were lucky to intercept me at all. How did you know where to find me?”
“What, how did I know you were working late? Because you’re you.”
“I mean,” she amends, “how did you know I was in the country at all? I only flew in yesterday morning, and I’ll be leaving again on the weekend.”
Maya twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. “Nick told me.”
“And how did Phoenix Wright stumble across this information?”
She says, with a lopsided smirk, “I think you know who told him.”
It is frankly mortifying to contemplate the ballooning number of people involved in Maya’s gift-giving plot. Franziska makes a mental note to castigate her little brother at the earliest opportunity. Over the phone, if absolutely necessary; preferably in person, to tacitly remind him that she is always armed.
“You know what else I think?” Maya asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think you’re stalling.”
“I am not stalling, and I resent the insinuation,” Franziska says haughtily. “I would never resort to such an immature tactic. There is never any sense in stalling: in all circumstances where stalling is tempting, the only logical course of action is to complete the unpleasant task as quickly as possible.”
Maya only cocks an eyebrow. There’s something pointed about the way she stirs her drink.
“Miss Fey—” she begins, but Maya looks so completely devastated by this form of address that she feels the need to amend, “Maya—” but then the frown is supplanted by a smile so effortlessly that Franziska can’t help but feel like she’s just fallen for an incredibly juvenile trick, “I think that you are wonderful. You’re tenacious. You are unapologetically yourself in every situation; you aren’t afraid to take a risk if it promises to earn you what you desire. These are all traits that I greatly admire.”
“You’re so sweet,” she mumbles. “Why do I feel like there’s a but coming?”
“Because your insecurity is a flaw you have yet to expunge.”
She snickers. “Thanks, Franzy.”
“That is all to say,” Franziska powers on, valiantly ignoring both the diminutive nickname and her racing pulse, “that I accept.”
Maya’s eyes are wide and sparkling. “You—”
“I would like to go on a date with you, at your earliest convenience. I’ll send you a copy of my calendar. Though, I should warn you: my itinerant schedule will most probably preclude—”
“I totally don’t mind doing things long distance,” Maya interrupts, “I know you’re a busy lady. Spirit training’s going to keep me super busy, too — if you don’t mind working around that, as well…?”
“Not in the slightest,” Franziska reassures her. And reiterates, “I’ll text you a copy of my calendar.”
It is probably for the best that Miles Edgeworth has bullied her into reserving some free time in her schedule. She decides to never, ever tell him this.
Maya suggests, “You might need my phone number for that.”
“Ah,” Franziska says, “you may be right. I’ll give you mine,” and opens her briefcase to retrieve her business card.
As she does this, the compressed teddy bear spills out of her bag, and lands by her feet. Maya looks at it, and slowly looks up at Franziska with a massive, shit-eating grin.
Franziska snatches it off the floor. She tries to keep her voice even when she says, “I didn’t want to leave it at the office.”
“I can see that.”
Lip wobbling with embarrassment, she says, “It was a very sweet gift, and I will treasure it,” as she crams it back inside her briefcase. This is an action she has to repeat, when she belatedly remembers the reason she opened it in the first place.
“Sweet, thanks,” Maya says, sliding the business card into her purse. After putting it away, she ducks her head to catch her straw between her teeth. She takes another, long sip, leaving the leftover syrup to draw a sticky trail down the inside of her glass; but, the whole time she does this, she holds Franziska’s gaze. Her eyes twinkle with something that Franziska can’t precisely decode.
Her face heats under the scrutiny. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Maya swallows. “Like what?” she asks, but it is patently obvious that she doesn’t require an answer. “It’s just a little funny.”
“What is?”
She chuckles to herself. “That felt more like a shareholder meeting than a love confession.”
This statement isn’t delivered as a compliment. Nonetheless, Franziska decides to interpret it as one. “Maya Fey,” she says, folding one leg over the other, and leaning back smugly in her chair, “would you expect anything less of me?”