A/N: Franziska von Karma, in my humble opinion, is severely under-appreciated. This is my attempt (probably first of many) to remedy that. Among other things.

oOo

Heimkehr

oOo

The von Karmas have made quite a name for themselves, is all Miles Edgeworth finds himself capable of thinking, as the taxi slows to a stop in front of the house that's big enough to be called a mansion. A name like that, with forty years of an unbroken record (save one penalty), brought a certain amount of wealth. Of course, that would go to the successor now. She would no doubt continue the family tradition.

He isn't completely sure why he is thinking about this now. It doesn't really matter. Not in the least. It is a disconnected line of thought that he can't justify, yet he looks at the mansion and keeps thinking, everything goes to Franziska, as it should be.

"… sir? Sir. We're here."

I can see that, Miles thinks, but instead of saying it, he pays the taxi driver, and stumbles out onto the murky street. It is dusk, and it is raining; the combination of the two bring an especially blue atmosphere. It doesn't make much of a difference either. Not much does, at this point. It feels like time stopped at the moment he laid that envelope down on his office desk. It could have been years ago, though it's been less than a day. He spent his flight in a haze, not even completely sure what he was doing.

He still isn't sure. There isn't much of a point to this, now. Not when he has decided.

"Miles Edgeworth," she says when she opens the door. He doesn't think he has ever heard anyone say his name with so much spite. It is, however, unsurprising, in light of the recent events. And, really, being called his full name in that icy tone is the least he deserves for all he's done.

"Hello, Franziska," he says simply. From where he stands, he has to look up at her; there are a few steps up to the main door, and somehow, even despite this position, she somehow looks small to him. Is it grief? he wonders. She is young, after all. That, and she is wearing a gown, which makes her shoulders look especially thin, and her long fingers are curled so tight around the doorknob that Miles is starting to think she might rip it off to throw it at his head. Knowing Franziska, it wouldn't even be surprising. "Can I come in?"

She gives him another long, withering look. Then she steps to the side. As he walks past her, he has to suppress a small shudder; tucked into the belt of her robe is her ever-present whip.

Maybe she was expecting a robber, he tells himself, but he knows better than to believe it.

"So, tell me about this foolish business," Franziska says without preamble. It's literally the first thing she has said since his name in the doorway, and Miles cannot help but wonder slightly at this odd mixture of stranger and familiar. Usually, the colder Franziska feels about someone, the more polite she is to them. With how much she hates him now, he thought she would at least offer him a cup of tea before she gets out her verbal whip. But then, maybe he's lower than the lowest in her eyes now. He doesn't deserve tea. He needs to tell the truth, and then get out of here and get it over with.

"I'm quite sure you've already gathered the gist of it from the papers," he says, which is precisely the wrong thing to say, because he can already see Franziska's hand going reflexively to her belt. A moment later, she halts, though, which is once again a surprise. She always did like cracking that whip of hers; if not on others, then at least to vent her frustrations to thin air. Now, her palm settles onto the arm of the armchair she is sitting in, her gaze searching his as if she can read all the answers she needs from his eyes alone.

"I am asking you, Miles Edgeworth," there it is again, his full name, like it isn't just the two of them, and this time, Miles flinches just the slightest bit.

"Well," he says cautiously, wondering where to even start. But Franziska simply stares, and, in the end, he figures there isn't much more to it than the raw truth. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps if he just lists the facts, objectively… perhaps then… "Your father, Manfred von Karma, was tried and found guilty for the murder of my father, Gregory Edgeworth. He also attempted to frame me for murdering a defense attorney. He was sentenced to a life in prison."

No, he was wrong. Even when he says it like this, it still hurts. What hurts even more, though, is Franziska's utterly unchanging expression. Her face is like it's made of marble; not a flinch, not the tiniest flicker of any kind of emotion. Miles is envious. He wants to be a rock like that. Maybe Franziska really isn't actually feeling anything. Wouldn't that be a great thing? In the past couple of days, Miles has certainly come to this conclusion.

"And?" The question is seemingly out of nowhere, and yet, as he looks at her, Miles suddenly knows exactly what she is asking. She knows, he thinks, and in spite of how apathetic he has been feeling for a while now, his heart is leaping into his throat like he is seventeen years old again, with blood pouring down his back after being whipped by his ten-year-old sister.

(Manfred's idea, of course. Some sort of punishment, for what exactly, Miles doesn't remember anymore, and Franziska had to practice on someone, for self-defense… The scars still litter both his shoulder blades.)

He fixes his gaze on the whip at her side, knowing it can't be much longer before she tosses the hard end of it towards his face. "I've come to say goodbye."

Of all the inexplicable ways she's behaved tonight, now there is surprise, shock even, on Franziska's face. "What," she says, and her tone almost makes it a statement rather than a question, until the pitch of her tone rises at the end to a sudden, shrill level, "is the meaning of this statement?!"

Miles truly doesn't understand. He thinks he was quite straightforward. However, when Franziska rises from her armchair, her expression as livid as he's ever seen it, he realizes they may have been talking in circles. Finally, her whip cracks, and Miles manages, barely, not to flinch. His eyes snap shut, however, and he only opens them again when he realizes the aim was something other than him. He can't really tell what; the whip hangs limply from her hand, and her gaze burns.

"Tell me why, right this instant," she orders, and Miles is forcefully reminded of the way she barks 'name and occupation'. He shakes his head lightly, as if to clear it from confusion.

"I don't understand what you would like to hear – what else is there?"

This is the gist of it. Surely Franziska of all people doesn't need him to explain it to her. She is the true prodigy here, and always has been. She most likely has all the evidence already, and just preparing to hammer it down on him. He knows she had known exactly what happened even before he told her; he knows her well enough to tell that much. And yet, the way she towers over him now, her mouth slightly agape, as if at a loss for words – Franziska? Never – her grip on her whip tightening until her knuckles are white again.

She knows – but she doesn't understand. This is the only path Miles can walk now. He has already cut his ties in America; he cannot saddle any of them with himself anymore. One after another, he has failed every single person he has ever cared about. His father, his friends, his mentor, his sister, then his friends again… He's lucky he's even gotten this far.

"I am," Franziska says, and Miles finds his line of thought completely deserting him in a matter of a second. At the same time, he can't seem to recall where exactly the conversation has derailed, so he can't quite put context to her vehement exlamation.

"You are… what?"

"I am," she repeats, and if Miles didn't know her better, he would have said her eyes have gotten a strange sheen, as if veiled by tears. "I am what else there is, you fool!"

"But – but why would you, I mean, I," Miles stammers, not even capable of grasping one end of his thought process, let alone the other, and tie them together to make sense. "It's all my fault!"

"Damn right it is, Miles Edgeworth!" The whip cracks again, and a vase falls to the ground, crashing into a hundred pieces on the parquet. Miles doesn't flinch this time – his mind is a complete and utter blank.

What?

Franziska's hand shakes. She tightens her grips even further; her digits must be numb by now. "My father is gone, because of you!" It's somehow odd to see her point so firmly without her gloves on. "You would run from the consequences, like a coward? I don't think so! I, Franziska von Karma, am still here!"

Miles feels weak. It's a good thing he is sitting already, because otherwise, his knees would probably give in. What does Franziska want from him here, really? Run from the consequences? There really isn't anything else he can do to satisfy her, is there? Like she said, Manfred von Karma is gone for good. There really is no way to make that up to her.

"Look at me!" Another crack; from the corner of his eyes, he can see a sudden long gash appearing in the tapestry. How upset is she, really? Her aim was always perfect. "Miles, look at me."

It's the tone that does it – Miles is so swallowed in his guilt and self-doubt that he barely recognizes the fact that, for the first time, Franziska chooses to address him more casually, the way she usually does in private. The way her voice softens, though… he is quite sure he hasn't heard her talk like this in the past decade.

"You have won," Franziska says, and finally, Miles manages to meet her gaze. The feeling is akin to having spent ages trying to pry open a metal cage, only to have the layers peel away by themselves, and reveal sheer warmth inside. Once, a long time ago, Miles has seen this warmth, but he didn't think he would ever again. And as she continues, something painful blooms to life in his chest; a feeling that tightens his throat and blurs his eyes, but at the same time, it feels like home. "After all these years, you have finally won against him. You would let him take the prize anyway, have the last laugh? You fought tooth and nail to stop him from getting the last bit of his foolish revenge, and now you would foolishly let him have it anyway, as a gift?!"

Her voice rises again, though not to quite so hysterical heights. And Miles has never felt so confused in his life, and also hasn't wanted to cry this badly since he was a child. "But – you – I mean…"

"You utterly foolish fool," Franziska says, and through the haze that has descended on his mind, Miles sees her sit down on the sofa next to him, and feels her fingers wind themselves tightly into the front of his shirt. "Did you honestly think I didn't know? He's my father."

Of course, now that he really thinks about it, it makes perfect sense that she would know. It makes Miles both happy and sad at the same time. Because, of course she would know, she is the prodigy, the true von Karma heir, the one with all the evidence, how could Miles ever think that she fell into the same trap he was set? His path was a forged one that he followed blindly; obviously, Franziska would make her own choices. Still… somewhere, he knows he is being unfair. There is also the fact that Franziska seems to have chosen a side, and, against all odds, it is not that of her father.

"And I'm still here," she continues, and suddenly, with a painful clarity that takes Miles's breath away, he understands what she meant even before she continues. "What is to become of me if you desert me too? Must I be deprived of my entire family at once?"

"Fran," is all Miles manages to choke out, and then he's wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his lap like when she was ten, and she is clinging to him much the same. I didn't mean to, he remembers her crying, I didn't want you to be hurt, I'm so sorry…

Now, she says, in a small, yet fierce voice, "I will fight for you. I will, so you must stop this foolishness and fight as well, mein Groß."

The nickname is an old one; it originated from mein großer Bruder, which Franziska shortened to poke fun at an indignant Miles who didn't yet have a good grasp on German. And, at any other time, it would at least garner a genuine smile, if not a laugh, from him. But right now, what he sees with his mind's eye is a different person, someone he vowed not to think about (but he's failing, he's failing), his gaze a fierce, brilliant blue as he says, Edgeworth, let me defend you. And he cries.

I will fight for you.

She faces them all with an icy cold glare that could freeze a volcano, and the puny Americans cower before she even touches her whip. Of course, she knows it is partially thanks to her father's reputation – how distasteful – but she has a name of her own now, she is officially the successor, and she is here to conquer.

(She dreams about that evening constantly. Miles had dreams, too. Maybe it's a family curse. She dreams of opening the door to a policeman telling her they found her brother's body.)

Detective Dick Gumshoe actually starts bawling when she tells him the truth. It's not that she wants to, or even thinks it's a good idea, but she made a promise. In spite of his general aura of utter foolishness and incompetence, Detective Gumshoe is a very resilient person. He needs to be told, or he will not stop looking. I'm just so worried about him, you see, pal? he says. Are you sure he's gonna be okay?

(Of course, Franziska has to smack him with her whip a few times, but, even if nobody notices, she knows it's half-hearted at best. Besides, it's impossible to tell the difference just by looking, but she's brought a replacement whip; it's lightweight, a kids' toy, barely enough to sting with. The old one is at the bottom of her wardrobe in Germany, in pieces.)

Mr. Phoenix Wright – what a foolish name! – is a rather bright man, even if Franziska pretends not to notice. It feels like the amount of steel in his spine almost matches hers, and there is something dark about him that she can't put a finger on; it's in the way his eyes seem to literally darken when he looks at her. It must have something to do with her father; Mr. Phoenix Wright has cause to hold a grudge.

(Not as much as Miles, of course. Foolish man! Franziska still gets annoyed when he thinks about it. Did he really think she would hate him? Of course, she cannot just not love her father. But, mein Gott, it is good to be free.)

Franziska is not a forgiving person. She looks at him, and she thinks of everything she knows about him from her brother's letters, and she thinks about the fact that Miles turned up on her doorstep rather than his. In the end, it is probably fortunate, she decides, considering Mr. Phoenix Wright cannot string two coherent sentences together that do not contain a single bluff. But that does not mean it is not his failure.

"I gave up a promising career in Germany and came to this country for one sole reason. Revenge."

Of course, Mr. Phoenix Wright thinks she is talking about her father, and she is content to leave him in his belief. But when she thinks of the fact that he doesn't know the truth, her smirk is most genuine, as well as eerily reminiscent of Manfred's. And when it comes to him, she puts her weight into the whip. You deserve it, foolish fool! If it were up to you, he'd be dead!

Fleetingly, as she watches him drive the case home and get his not guilty verdict, Franziska wonders what Miles would think. She has made a good impression of being just as despicable as her father, and he would probably disapprove. He would probably also disapprove of her treatment of his friend, Mr. Phoenix Wright. This somehow satisfies her. She definitely does not like this cocky beginner attorney with his black-blue eyes and utter foolish cluelessness.

(Next time, she promises herself, next time she'll steamroll him in court, swat him like a gnat. Until then, she contents herself with the knowledge she has that he doesn't.)

Besides, she is free to make her own judgments.

They are free.

A/N: die Heimkehr (German) - homecoming, an instance of returning home.

If you'd like to see more of my Edgeworth-centered angst, I have an rp blog for him on tumblr under the url 'miilesedgeworth'.

Leaving comments is very, very appreciated!