[fic] ace attorney; visiting [franziska, manfred]
TITLE: Visiting
CHARACTERS: Franziska von Karma, Manfred von Karma.
RATING: PG.
WORD COUNT: 1,642.
SUMMARY: A father-daughter reunion.
Despite the promise of sun and heat, as soon as Franziska sets foot outside of the California airport's entrance gate, she is greeted with a billowing wind and grimy, heavy-clouded skies that spit down bitter rain at the ground below. It's early autumn, and Franziska can't imagine any possible explanation as to why California weather would be so foul at this time of year, save for, perhaps, the Earth's very wish to spite her.
She hisses as the wind hits against her face, bringing sharp, icy drops of water with it, and pulls her coat tighter around herself as she holds her arm out, waiting for a cab.
Franziska never liked this country.
If only Papa had never come here.
--
The hurried, incessant click-click-click of her heels echoes against the cement floor, and her eyes scan over the sea of faces beyond the glass wall, seeking. As soon as they come to rest on him, she swallows, stopping cold in her tracks -- and when she starts moving again, her steps are slower, measured, the urgency of moments before replaced with a sinking feeling in the pits of the stomach.
She didn't really expect to see him here, Franziska realizes. As though up to this very moment, she has managed to remain convinced this was all some sort of nonsensical joke. Her papa, in prison, sentenced for murder? How could anyone, least of all she, be expected to believe that?
And yet there he is, his image growing clearer the closer Franziska draws, dressed in that horrible, demeaning prisoner's garb. Her fist tightens around the handle of her whip as anger begins to swell within her -- how dare they strip him of his honor like that, to make him face such humiliation, don't they know who he is, don't they have any shame--
Finally stood in front of him, Franziska halts. Papa's sitting there, back locked into a position as straight and rigid as ever -- in his left hand is the receiver, though he is holding it away from him, and his other hand is digging into the sleeve of his uniform.
He's not looking at her. Franziska isn't even certain he knows she's there. His eyes are scrunched shut, the way he looks when he's deep in thought, or simply too vexed to put up with his surroundings ("Not now, Franziska, I'm trying to work"). Regardless, she sits down, picks up the receiver, and presses it to her ear.
Like that, she waits.
The clock hangs directly above her head. Time passes with a relentless tick-tock-tick-tock. Franziska is stiff in her seat. They only have thirty minutes. There's so much she wants to tell him, so much she wants him to explain -- but they can't do any of it as long as he doesn't open his eyes to look at her, and the receiver remains held out at an arm's length from his ear.
Please, Papa, she mouths, though she knows he can't see it, and then repeats it again and again, but only in her head, where she won't be able to make a fool out of herself. For a few long, torturous moments, there is nothing but the ticking of the clock the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of papa's fingers around his sleeve. Please, talk to me.
"Franziska."
She starts at the sound of his voice, but immediately recollects herself, straightening up and clutching the receiver tightly in both hands. He's looking at her, now, his gaze boring into her in a way that makes her chest tighten, and though she anxiously waits for him to say something more, he himself doesn't seem to have any such intention.
Franziska doesn't dare to speak, just yet. She lets the silence continue to hang in the air between the two of them.
He looks paler, she thinks as she looks at him, though it might just be the bleak lightning and the dreary gray walls serving as a backdrop to his normally impressive figure causing that effect. Besides that and the outfit, Papa hasn't changed at all; there isn't a single added line to his features compared to when she last saw him, and despite the conditions she imagines he must live in, not a single hair on his head is out of place. The way his eyes rest upon her is the same, too, making her feel like she's a little girl again, even though she knows that's wrong, that she's changed. She's grown taller, had her hair cut into a much more practical style, exchanged her crop for a whip, accumulated dozens upon dozens of wins -- and she wishes she could see it in his eyes, as unreasonable and downright selfish as that is. Wishes she could see that he's proud of her.
It's been three years, after all, since she's last seen him. Papa was never one to waste precious work time on useless things like vacations, and while Franziska could afford to fly over to visit him when she was younger, once she's reached the age of fifteen she was finally old enough to realize that she should be no different. She kept in touch with him over the phone, of course, but busy as Papa always was, she's gotten used over the years to telling his maids to pass on that 'I won my trial this week, too'.
"I read," she finally begins, clunkily. "In the paper."
He offers no response.
"I... I don't understand--" her voice has this pathetic, trembling edge to it that she hurries to swallow back, averting her gaze from the disapproval she'll know she'll find across his face, "--Papa. Please, I want to understand."
"You want me to lie to you, don't you, Franziska?" he says with a snort, and her eyes widen, flickering back up to meet his, lost. "There is no higher truth to what you've read. That is the truth. There's nothing more for me to tell you."
"But--"
"I've got nothing to say to you, Franziska," he stresses, and then says-- "Go. Don't come here again."
Franziska feels the blood drain from her face. Papa's word is absolute, and arguing against it is not only useless, but something she wouldn't dream of doing, even if it had any chances of yielding a result. The years she spent growing up under him tell her to just quietly accept this, to get up and leave like he wants her to, but despite what might be her better judgment, her body and mind both protest. She doesn't budge from her seat. The receiver trembles in her tightly-clenched hand.
"I'll get him," she mutters through grit teeth, and then her voice rises, filling with certainty. "That man, Phoenix Wright... I'll get him for what he did to you, Papa. Miles Edgeworth, too, I'll definitely--"
"Enough, Franziska." Suddenly, Papa's mouth is contorted into a terrible sneer, and the way his hand is wrapped around the receiver makes it seem like it will soon crack beneath his grasp. His voice has grown harsher, jagged, and Franziska finds herself recoiling into her chair, behind the glass wall. "What, exactly, do you think you will do? Hit them with that whip of yours? You know full well it will achieve absolutely nothing. You are helpless to change this. Spare me your delusional ramblings and leave."
He's angry. He's been angry at her before, but never once has he spoken to her like this. Franziska doesn't know what to do. But she knows one thing, one that is keeping her rooted in place.
"Papa," she pleads, "I can't go. I can't leave you here."
Her papa laughs. It is a sharp, bitter, chilling sound, and Franziska immediately knows she's made a mistake. She said the wrong thing -- has probably spent this entire conversation saying nothing but the wrong things -- and now, there's no taking it back.
"You can't leave me? Hah! You're making it sound as though I need you here. I never once wanted to see you, Franziska--" and it's as though the words have force behind them, knocking the breath from her lungs-- "The only person you're here for is you. You're eighteen years old, now, aren't you? It's time to learn to take care of yourself."
No, Franziska wants to tell him, she can take care of herself, she's an adult-- but as much as she would've liked to believe it, she knows that's a lie. Papa, as ever, is right. She's here for herself, nothing more, nothing less. She's worthless to him. A helpless little girl.
And he never once wanted to see her.
"This conversation is over," Papa says, and rising to his feet, he calls out-- "Guard!"
Not a moment later, and he's led away, not as much as stopping to throw another glance in her direction. Franziska doesn't get up from her seat. She doesn't put the receiver back in its place, either.
It feels like a very long time before she can bring herself to move.
Franziska is dimly aware of the sound of her own heels as she makes her way out of the jail, out of sync with one another, jarring against the rhythm of the world around her. Outside, the sky has cleared up, no more than a handful of pearly-white clouds in it to obstruct the sun's rays as they beat down on the damp pavement, and the top of Franziska's head. It's bright, and the air is warm, and it is as though the mood of the entire city has lifted along with the rainclouds, the previously quiet, deserted street now brimming with people moving to-and-fro as they go on about their daily lives. There's no mistaking it; this is California, lively and bustling, just the way Franziska remembered.
She should have never come here, she thinks.
CHARACTERS: Franziska von Karma, Manfred von Karma.
RATING: PG.
WORD COUNT: 1,642.
SUMMARY: A father-daughter reunion.
Despite the promise of sun and heat, as soon as Franziska sets foot outside of the California airport's entrance gate, she is greeted with a billowing wind and grimy, heavy-clouded skies that spit down bitter rain at the ground below. It's early autumn, and Franziska can't imagine any possible explanation as to why California weather would be so foul at this time of year, save for, perhaps, the Earth's very wish to spite her.
She hisses as the wind hits against her face, bringing sharp, icy drops of water with it, and pulls her coat tighter around herself as she holds her arm out, waiting for a cab.
Franziska never liked this country.
If only Papa had never come here.
--
The hurried, incessant click-click-click of her heels echoes against the cement floor, and her eyes scan over the sea of faces beyond the glass wall, seeking. As soon as they come to rest on him, she swallows, stopping cold in her tracks -- and when she starts moving again, her steps are slower, measured, the urgency of moments before replaced with a sinking feeling in the pits of the stomach.
She didn't really expect to see him here, Franziska realizes. As though up to this very moment, she has managed to remain convinced this was all some sort of nonsensical joke. Her papa, in prison, sentenced for murder? How could anyone, least of all she, be expected to believe that?
And yet there he is, his image growing clearer the closer Franziska draws, dressed in that horrible, demeaning prisoner's garb. Her fist tightens around the handle of her whip as anger begins to swell within her -- how dare they strip him of his honor like that, to make him face such humiliation, don't they know who he is, don't they have any shame--
Finally stood in front of him, Franziska halts. Papa's sitting there, back locked into a position as straight and rigid as ever -- in his left hand is the receiver, though he is holding it away from him, and his other hand is digging into the sleeve of his uniform.
He's not looking at her. Franziska isn't even certain he knows she's there. His eyes are scrunched shut, the way he looks when he's deep in thought, or simply too vexed to put up with his surroundings ("Not now, Franziska, I'm trying to work"). Regardless, she sits down, picks up the receiver, and presses it to her ear.
Like that, she waits.
The clock hangs directly above her head. Time passes with a relentless tick-tock-tick-tock. Franziska is stiff in her seat. They only have thirty minutes. There's so much she wants to tell him, so much she wants him to explain -- but they can't do any of it as long as he doesn't open his eyes to look at her, and the receiver remains held out at an arm's length from his ear.
Please, Papa, she mouths, though she knows he can't see it, and then repeats it again and again, but only in her head, where she won't be able to make a fool out of herself. For a few long, torturous moments, there is nothing but the ticking of the clock the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of papa's fingers around his sleeve. Please, talk to me.
"Franziska."
She starts at the sound of his voice, but immediately recollects herself, straightening up and clutching the receiver tightly in both hands. He's looking at her, now, his gaze boring into her in a way that makes her chest tighten, and though she anxiously waits for him to say something more, he himself doesn't seem to have any such intention.
Franziska doesn't dare to speak, just yet. She lets the silence continue to hang in the air between the two of them.
He looks paler, she thinks as she looks at him, though it might just be the bleak lightning and the dreary gray walls serving as a backdrop to his normally impressive figure causing that effect. Besides that and the outfit, Papa hasn't changed at all; there isn't a single added line to his features compared to when she last saw him, and despite the conditions she imagines he must live in, not a single hair on his head is out of place. The way his eyes rest upon her is the same, too, making her feel like she's a little girl again, even though she knows that's wrong, that she's changed. She's grown taller, had her hair cut into a much more practical style, exchanged her crop for a whip, accumulated dozens upon dozens of wins -- and she wishes she could see it in his eyes, as unreasonable and downright selfish as that is. Wishes she could see that he's proud of her.
It's been three years, after all, since she's last seen him. Papa was never one to waste precious work time on useless things like vacations, and while Franziska could afford to fly over to visit him when she was younger, once she's reached the age of fifteen she was finally old enough to realize that she should be no different. She kept in touch with him over the phone, of course, but busy as Papa always was, she's gotten used over the years to telling his maids to pass on that 'I won my trial this week, too'.
"I read," she finally begins, clunkily. "In the paper."
He offers no response.
"I... I don't understand--" her voice has this pathetic, trembling edge to it that she hurries to swallow back, averting her gaze from the disapproval she'll know she'll find across his face, "--Papa. Please, I want to understand."
"You want me to lie to you, don't you, Franziska?" he says with a snort, and her eyes widen, flickering back up to meet his, lost. "There is no higher truth to what you've read. That is the truth. There's nothing more for me to tell you."
"But--"
"I've got nothing to say to you, Franziska," he stresses, and then says-- "Go. Don't come here again."
Franziska feels the blood drain from her face. Papa's word is absolute, and arguing against it is not only useless, but something she wouldn't dream of doing, even if it had any chances of yielding a result. The years she spent growing up under him tell her to just quietly accept this, to get up and leave like he wants her to, but despite what might be her better judgment, her body and mind both protest. She doesn't budge from her seat. The receiver trembles in her tightly-clenched hand.
"I'll get him," she mutters through grit teeth, and then her voice rises, filling with certainty. "That man, Phoenix Wright... I'll get him for what he did to you, Papa. Miles Edgeworth, too, I'll definitely--"
"Enough, Franziska." Suddenly, Papa's mouth is contorted into a terrible sneer, and the way his hand is wrapped around the receiver makes it seem like it will soon crack beneath his grasp. His voice has grown harsher, jagged, and Franziska finds herself recoiling into her chair, behind the glass wall. "What, exactly, do you think you will do? Hit them with that whip of yours? You know full well it will achieve absolutely nothing. You are helpless to change this. Spare me your delusional ramblings and leave."
He's angry. He's been angry at her before, but never once has he spoken to her like this. Franziska doesn't know what to do. But she knows one thing, one that is keeping her rooted in place.
"Papa," she pleads, "I can't go. I can't leave you here."
Her papa laughs. It is a sharp, bitter, chilling sound, and Franziska immediately knows she's made a mistake. She said the wrong thing -- has probably spent this entire conversation saying nothing but the wrong things -- and now, there's no taking it back.
"You can't leave me? Hah! You're making it sound as though I need you here. I never once wanted to see you, Franziska--" and it's as though the words have force behind them, knocking the breath from her lungs-- "The only person you're here for is you. You're eighteen years old, now, aren't you? It's time to learn to take care of yourself."
No, Franziska wants to tell him, she can take care of herself, she's an adult-- but as much as she would've liked to believe it, she knows that's a lie. Papa, as ever, is right. She's here for herself, nothing more, nothing less. She's worthless to him. A helpless little girl.
And he never once wanted to see her.
"This conversation is over," Papa says, and rising to his feet, he calls out-- "Guard!"
Not a moment later, and he's led away, not as much as stopping to throw another glance in her direction. Franziska doesn't get up from her seat. She doesn't put the receiver back in its place, either.
It feels like a very long time before she can bring herself to move.
Franziska is dimly aware of the sound of her own heels as she makes her way out of the jail, out of sync with one another, jarring against the rhythm of the world around her. Outside, the sky has cleared up, no more than a handful of pearly-white clouds in it to obstruct the sun's rays as they beat down on the damp pavement, and the top of Franziska's head. It's bright, and the air is warm, and it is as though the mood of the entire city has lifted along with the rainclouds, the previously quiet, deserted street now brimming with people moving to-and-fro as they go on about their daily lives. There's no mistaking it; this is California, lively and bustling, just the way Franziska remembered.
She should have never come here, she thinks.