ace attorney; short stories
TITLE: Short Stories
CHARACTERS: Adrian Andrews/Franziska von Karma, Alexander von Karma, Miles Edgeworth.
RATING: PG - NC-17
WORD COUNT: 8,576
SUMMARY: A series of short(ish) stories about Franziska and Adrian, made up of scattered scenes throughout their lives.
NOTES: … yes, this is mostly indulgent domestic fluff, phonesex, science babies, and a sprinkling of angst (some slight suicide triggers; it's the second story). I should probably be sorry, but I'm not.
*
Adrian tells her psychiatrist a lot of half-truths and white lies. She does it on purpose, sometimes (“How have you been since the incident, Adrian?” “A lot better, thank you.”), but more often than not, she has trouble identifying how she's actually feeling, what she's really going through. Her psychiatrist tells her not to feel bad about it, as it's all par for the course; she's heard much more spiteful lies in her time, and people unintentionally skirting around the obvious issues is a big part of her job.
“What you're telling me, Adrian, is that while you can appreciate the fact that Ms. von Karma is a very attractive young woman, you yourself aren't attracted to her?”
The office feels a lot more like a living room than it does a place of work, and that helps Adrian to relax, helps her forget that this woman knows more about the last two years of her life than even she's able to deal with. Adrian leans back in her armchair, sipping her coffee.
“That's right. I think I - jumped the gun, as the saying goes. I mistook feelings of gratitude and admiration for something else. It's just been so long since I was willing to allow myself to make a real friend, and even longer since somebody genuinely wanted to be one. I haven't felt that way ever since-”
Adrian pauses, taking another sip.
“Ever since Celeste. You shouldn't hesitate to say her name or bring her up in conversation. The more you do so, the more you make her seem like some guilty secret you're clinging to, and you're creating a world of hesitance and apprehension for yourself. You're subconsciously allowing her to have too much power over your life.”
A third sip. There's too much sugar in the coffee, and Adrian gets this lecture every session.
“I know, Rosemary. Trust me, I know,” Adrian says, and then places her mug onto a coaster. “I haven't been subjected to those sort of feelings since Celeste, and I know that this isn't the same thing.”
“But you were confused, weren't you? Confused enough to bring it up, without me having to drag it out of you.”
“Well-yes. But confusion's all there is to it.”
Adrian glances to the side, adjusting her glasses. Her hands feel strange without the warmth of the coffee cup between them.
“If there's all there is to it, why haven't you been feeling this way for any of the others you've told me about? The ones who helped you out. Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth, wasn't it?”
“With all due respect to the both of them, neither Mr. Wright nor Mr. Edgeworth are beautiful women, Rosemary.”
“Alright, alright,” Rosemary says, raising her hands in defeat, signalling that a topic change is approaching. “As long as you're certain, Adrian.”
And that's very much what Adrian would like to believe. She leaves her psychiatrist's practise somewhat upbeat, glad to finally have it off her chest. The awkwardness can be banished now, she decides; she won't have to feel endlessly anxious whenever Franziska's in close proximity.
Two hours later, and there Franziska is, close enough to touch her if Adrian moves her arm a few inches to the right, and despite the great epiphany she had with Rosemary earlier in the day, she still feels as if every muscle in her body is pulled taut. Her arm is stretched out, her stance wide, and Franziska mimics the pose next to her, though her hand is empty, where she's given her whip to Adrian.
Adrian can't for the life of her remember why she ever thought learning to use Franziska's whip would be a good idea, and then can't remember anything when Franziska places a gloved hand against her hip. She starts, but thankfully her lips are pursed together too tightly for her to make any embarrassing noises; Franziska finds the whole thing amusing, apparently, and Adrian closes her eyes, trying to ignore the way she can hear her laughing so very close to her ear.
“You need to respect the whip, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says slowly, and then reaches out with her free hand to wrap her fingers around Adrian's wrist. If she doesn't like Franziska in that way, Adrian bitterly tells herself, then she doesn't want to know how loudly her heart is going to pound against the inside of her ribs when she comes face to face with someone she is attracted to. “It is not a mere tool with no other desire than to be used as you will it; it is an instrument of justice. Remember that.”
Adrian nods. She doesn't know why she's nodding, but she certainly agrees with whatever it is Franziska's getting at. She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and tries to trick herself into calming down. Just focus on the whip, she tells herself, just focus on hitting your target. A lot easier said than done, though, with both of Franziska's hands against her. And Franziska must be getting something out of this; it can't just be her imagination leading her to believe there's more to this than a simple lesson in technique.
When Adrian doesn't move right away, Franziska does it for her. She lifts their arms in one swift motion, and then the whip comes down, cracking like thunder against the tiled floor. The sound shocks her, enough to bring her back to the senses she had until that point taken leave of, and she glances at Franziska out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't dare turn her head. Not when they're this close.
Franziska doesn't let go straight away. She lingers for a second or two longer than she needs to.
“You are improving, Adrian Andrews,” she says with a grin, “I am almost impressed.”
Adrian thanks her through a smile she can't shake and a blush she can't fight off, and mentally plans out the conversation she's going to have to have with Rosemary. Not that she doesn't already know about this, Adrian supposes; she just needed to admit it to herself before she could find the courage to tell anyone else.
“The first thing - or one of the first things - I remember them saying was that I'd most likely have a scar for the rest of my life. At the time, all I could think was why on Earth did it matter? I had every intention of going through with it again, as soon as I was released from hospital. Of course, I didn't voice those thoughts. Partly because I had difficultly speaking, but mostly because I knew it'd only cause them to keep me in longer.” Adrian isn't certain when she started speaking, or how much she's said. All she knows is that she can't stop, and it surprises her that she's got so much as the first syllable out. Surprises her that she keeps on talking without her throat closing up, and everything comes out oddly distant but coherent, though she isn't thinking the words through first. “I was there for a few months. Physical recovery came quickest of all, as you might expect.”
Behind her, Franziska shifts on the sofa. Not uncomfortably, though Adrian knows that Franziska wants to hear nothing of what she's saying, if only because an unbroken silence will mean it isn't true. Adrian just lets her whole body fall slack against her, exhausted by the effort of even thinking to share these things with her. She doesn't recall what set her off, for the mindless drama they were previously watching was harmless enough, and she's glad that Franziska's managed to mute the television. Adrian's barely speaking enough loudly enough to hear her own voice.
“Anyway, when I got home, I made all the preparations. I ignored everything I was told by the doctors and the psychiatrists, convinced myself that it really wouldn't get better, and then set about reading how to do it properly. Learning to tie knots that would hold, that sort of thing. When it was all done and I was fairly certain it would work, I... kept postponing it. At first, I told myself that I was terrified of ending up in hospital again, or being treated like I was - someone other than myself. Eventually, I realised that I simply didn't have the energy for it. Had I not tried that first time, in that very moment, I don't think I would've been able to go through with it. I thought it made me weak, back then. Such a simple thing to go through with, I thought, and I couldn't even succeed in that.”
Franziska's arms tighten around her waist, and Adrian tenses as a horrible sort of weight presses down on her, along with the realisation that she can't ever take back what she's said, no matter what happens. Franziska knows, and she'll know forever.
“I know that's not- I know you didn't ask me, Franziska, but I know how I've been lately. How I always seem to be pushing you away, and it's not fair. On either of us. So now you know. I have a scar, a horrible, ugly thing, across my throat, and I wish to always keep it hidden.”
She wishes, at times, that things hadn't progressed to this point. That time could've stayed still indefinitely, when the two of them were happy enough with brief, barely-there kisses and the exciting sort of awkwardness that came with hands brushing together. Adrian knows that Franziska's suspected something's wrong for a long time, for every time her lips pass the invisible barrier of her jaw, Adrian's hands are on her shoulders, trying to get her to break her mouth away.
There's silence between them for a long while. Adrian's eyes flicker down, and she stares at the carpet, watching the flashing colours spill out of the silenced TV pool against it. Eventually, Franziska does move again, and though Adrian thinks that she means to get to her feet and leave, she only moves a little to the side, so that Adrian can just about see her from the corner of her eye. She tries not to look. She doesn't want to see the expression tangled up in her features.
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, leaning close, “You will look at me.”
And Adrian does, if only because she doesn't see that she has any other option. Their eyes meet, and for the first time, Adrian thinks she might see a jot of hesitance there. Franziska recovers well enough, and lifts her hands slowly, allowing them to rest against Adrian's shoulders. Adrian breathes in, and when she does, feels as if her chest has been filled with ice.
Franziska tilts her head ever so slightly to the side, thinking to ask for permission for once in her life. Convinced that her only other option is to break down and sob, Adrian nods in response, and then screws her eyes shut, as if her own blindness will stop Franziska from seeing her scars.
She feels the collar of her shirt being rolled down, and then Franziska's fingers immediately press against her skin, gently, tentatively. Adrian is clinging so tightly to Franziska's shirt by this point that she may well cause the both of them to shake, and when Franziska runs her fingertips across paths even Adrian herself will not tread, she wants nothing more than to collapse against her, to have this day be over.
“Hm.”
That's all Franziska says. Not even an actual word. Something in Adrian crumples, and she finally loses all resolve, finally allows herself to fall against her. It doesn't matter what Franziska thinks, doesn't matter how she's going to see her differently, because of this; Adrian just needs the support.
“Sorry,” Adrian murmurs, face buried in her shoulder. “I'm not proud of it, and-you don't have to stay, so...”
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, one hand coming to rest against the back of her head. She's removed her gloves, Adrian notes, eyes welling up, “Hush. Do not think to hide anything from me. Is that understood?”
“Then you-”
“Which part of the concept of being quiet are you failing to grasp? Listen, Adrian Andrews, for I will only say this once: when a von Karma grows fond of an individual, they are never wrong in their judgement. This changes absolutely nothing in my feelings.”
Adrian does cry then, only for different reasons. There's too much exhaustion coursing through her to cause her shoulders to shake or her chest to heave, and she clings to Franziska tightly, desperately, so utterly relieved to finally be letting this all out.
She's needed to for a long, long time.
Adrian's all too aware of how uncomfortable the bed is.
It's been this way for the past three nights. She tosses and turns, readjusts the cover and fluffs her pillow, but no matter how she tries, it just doesn't feel right. Out of habit, Adrian sticks to her own side of the bed, and when she's finally too tired to worry about the way the bedsprings seem to have turned against her, she reaches out an arm, letting it drape across the empty space there.
It hadn't been quite as bad the previous nights, because Adrian knew that she had work to get up for in the morning, had something to distract her for at least a solid nine hours. Now, though, she finds herself dreading the fact that it's a Friday - she can see herself staying in bed long past noon tomorrow, and barely even has it in her to scold herself.
This isn't her dependency problems. That she makes sure of. She lives her life and Franziska leads her own, painfully obvious by the way that she's had to take a ten-day business trip back to Germany. She's her girlfriend. Adrian misses her. That's allowed, she reminds herself; absence supposedly makes the heart fonder, and Adrian isn't a quivering, hapless mess without her.
It's just - the way they said goodbye. That keeps repeating itself over and over in Adrian's mind, and she bites down on her lower lip, clinging to the pillow all the tighter. She screws her eyes shut, as if that will stop her from thinking about Franziska's hands or her mouth, or the way she-
For goodness' sake, Adrian thinks sharply, Just get some sleep.
Before drifting off, she stares at the cell phone on her bedside cabinet, and entertains herself with the thought that she'd really be bold enough to call Franziska when she's busy, as if she'd really go as far as to interrupt her during work.
*
Upon waking up, room a discoloured blur around her, it takes Adrian a few moments to realise why she only grabs at empty air when she reaches for Franziska. She groans, rolls onto her back, and then runs her fingers through her hair, trying to get her eyes to focus on the ceiling. They never do, of course, but she manages to adjust to the light at least, and decides that that's enough productivity for one day.
She moves onto her side, sighing in an overly dramatic way that would make it seem like she was pleading for attention, were anyone with her, and realises that, no, ignoring the pressing matters last night hasn't done anything to help make waking up easier. She could indulge herself, Adrian decides. It is, after all, the weekend.
With her mind clouded still, and honestly being on the verge of falling back to sleep, Adrian doesn't take much convincing. On her back once again, she finds that she's far too lazy to tug at her pyjama pants and at least get them around her ankles, and simply lets her hand glide across her stomach, under the waistband.
She isn't wasting any time today. A quick brush of her fingertips against her hipbone, and then they're between her legs, rubbing gently. Her back arches instinctively (and Franziska would chide her for being swooned so easily), and she lets out a barely-there little gasp, deciding that this is a decent enough way to wake up, all things considered. Not as good as the time that Franziska woke her up by running her tongue up the inside of her thigh, she recalls with a soft moan, focusing on the memory as her fingers push harder, and-
And the phone begins to ring, cutting through the bedroom. Adrian starts, panicked, like the door's just been thrown open and someone's walked in, and then for some reason unbeknownst to her, she actually moves to pick it up.
She squints, chest rising and falling heavily as she tries to clear her mind and make out the number lit up on her screen. It's nobody in her contacts, that's for sure, and she doesn't recognise the long string of numbers in the least. In fact, there are so many digits that she'd wager it's not a real number, just one of those automated scams, and she's this close to hanging up before her mind whirls into gear.
Adrian flips open the phone, presses it to her ear, and then all too eagerly says, “Hello?”
There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, before Adrian's greeted by a flat, “Good morning,” far more controlled than her own.
“Franziska!” Adrian says, not deterred in the least. She falls back against the bed, knees tucked up against her chest, and feels herself positively beam, “Good-evening? It's so good to hear from you!”
“It's eleven PM,” Franziska says by means of confirmation, and then there's another pause. Adrian doesn't interject, despite the near-overwhelming urge to, because she knows that Franziska has a good deal more difficultly letting her feelings rise to the surface. She hums thoughtfully, and then asks, “What are you doing?”
“I've only just woken up,” Adrian replies, but sees no reason to go into detail.
“Is that so? Then why, prey tell, is your breathing staggered in such a way?”
“I'm- I'm just happy to hear from you, Franziska.”
“Adrian Andrews. Do not think to lie to me.”
This time, it's Adrian who pauses. She glances to the side, embarrassed, and finally murmurs, “... I miss you. That's all.”
“Hmph. Doing that sort of thing without me,” Franziska says, and Adrian's sure she's imagining it, but she almost sounds jealous.
“Without-? That's the whole reason I'm doing it!”
Franziska huffs into the phone once more, and at first, Adrian thinks there's a disturbance in the phone line. It takes her a few moments to place the sharp, cracking sound, only to realise that it's Franziska's whip hitting the (apparently) tiled ground of wherever she is. Adrian keeps silent throughout, deciding that it's not yet the opportune moment to make a grab at a subject change.
There is silence, at long last, but just as Adrian is about to ask Franziska about how Germany is and how work's going, Franziska speaks again.
“I would like to see,” she says plainly, tone so unaffected that it takes Adrian two seconds longer than it rightly should to work out what she means. Once she finally does, her face burns so red that she's certain Franziska can feel the heat radiating out of her phone's earpiece.
At her words, though, Adrian feels herself subconsciously shift onto her back, toes curling in the bedsheet, impatient. To say that she isn't turned on would be the very definition of a lie, but she doesn't do anything for the time being. Doesn't move her hand beyond the waistband of her pants, nails digging into the fabric. She can't gage what kind of mood Franziska is in, just yet.
“You could,” Adrian begins, allowing the pounding between her legs to make her bold. She'd hate for Franziska to remain in a bad mood, after all. “When you get back, I mean. If that's what you want.”
When Franziska fails to reply straight away, Adrian wants to bury her face into her pillow, but resists. It's silly to be so embarrassed, she knows, especially after all that they've done together, but this is new and exciting, and has every chance of ending really, really badly. Franziska makes that thoughtful humming noise again, and Adrian suddenly realises that she's been holding her breath.
“I think I would like that,” Franziska eventually says, as if she's been mulling over the main course section of a menu. “Tell me, Adrian Andrews: what were you thinking about?”
Adrian's first answer comes out as a flat, dumbfounded errrrr, and she clears her throat before trying again. Thankfully, Franziska chooses not to comment on her sudden loss of words, nor does she scoff down the phone. That would've shattered the last of her already waning confidence.
“I was-” Adrian hooks a thumb around the edge of her pants, but it's more for support then to pull them down. “Thinking that you were here, and I'd-stra-straddle you, hands on your shoulders...”
It's a blatant lie, of course, but it's what Adrian thinks Franziska will want to hear. She trails off momentarily, both to let Franziska voice her opinions on the current course of action, and to lick her own lips. Her mouth has become surprisingly dry.
“Fool,” comes Franziska's voice, almost overshadowed by the crack of her whip. Adrian sinks against the mattress, nearly dropping the phone in the process, “Do not think that such a foolish attempt at domination will allow you to satisfy me, Adrian Andrews.”
“But I-”
But-I-what Adrian doesn't know, and is endlessly grateful when Franziska cuts her off once again.
“It appears you are forcing me to take matters into my own hands,” Franziska says sternly, and despite herself, Adrian wants to come back with goodness, I wish you would. “Now, do as I say. Firstly, remove those foolish pyjamas of yours.”
Adrian isn't sure what her pyjamas have done to offend Franziska, but she kicks them off regardless, heart hammering against her chest. She closes her eyes tight, trying to keep her breathing steady, trying to pretend that Franziska's there. It takes her a moment to realise that Franziska can't see the results for herself.
“Okay. They're gone, Franziska.”
Another huff. “Alright. Now move onto your knees.”
“-excuse me?”
“Your hands and knees, Adrian Andrews. Am I not making myself clear enough?”
In spite of the distance involved, Adrian rather wouldn't hear Franziska's whip crack against the floor again. She can't bring herself to outright object.
“But that... won't be particularly comfortable, Franziska.”
“It's not supposed to feel comfortable, Adrian Andrews. It's supposed to feel good,” Franziska says matter-of-factly, meaning behind her every word. “And put your phone onto loudspeaker before you do so.”
Adrian considers refusing her. She considers lying, but then thinks better of it. Franziska will know, somehow, that Adrian isn't positioned as she says she is, and she reminds herself that she really, really needs this right now. The last thing she wants is for Franziska to hang up. With a shaky breath, she pulls the phone away from her ear, clicks it onto loudspeaker, and drops it by her pillow. It takes more effort than it should to move, but she manages to roll onto her front, knees tucked up beneath her, shins flat against the bed.
She keeps her chest pressed down against the mattress, the side of her face buried in her pillow. Exhaling heavily, she mumbles out “Okay,” hoping that her voice will reach the phone.
It does. Franziska doesn't sound too pleased with her.
“I trust you are on both your knees and hands, and not sprawled against the mattress like a pathetic fool,” Franziska says, and Adrian can practically hear her raising her eyebrows. She grumbles, not sure how Franziska knows her so well, and reluctantly pushes herself up onto her hands. “-better.”
With the phone on loudspeaker, Franziska's voice comes out a little tinnier, the edges of her sentences tinged with static. On the plus side, it's easier to make out the background noises, to hear the little details she might otherwise miss. Just as she's about to complain about the effort of holding herself up, Adrian catches a brief hint of fabric rustling, as if it's been moved, and although she could be mistaking what she's heard, it's enough to make her want to moan.
It occurs to her for the first time that Franziska could be doing the very thing she's about to, and then Adrian's imagination runs wild. She tries to work out where she is at that very moment, and eventually settles on a chair. An armchair, she decides, with high arms and a higher back, that Franziska could relax into while she herself moves onto her knees, hands spreading Franziska's legs apart-
“Please, Franziska,” Adrian murmurs weakly, “What next?”
Franziska hasn't once forbidden Adrian from touching herself, but Adrian's arms are like lead. She knows better than to move without permission.
“Adrian Andrews, you will have some level of patience,” Franziska says, “Were I with you right now, rest assured, we would not be racing towards the finish line like fools.”
Adrian only groans in response, bold enough to rock her hips forward, once. It doesn't do anything to help.
“Of course, if I were there,” Franziska begins, slowly, apparently far too fond of the sound of her own voice to keep quiet for long, “I would be behind you right now, hands firmly on your hips. I would be wearing my gloves, naturally.”
She outright moans this time, thighs clamped together as if it'll do something to ease the pressure.
“You may proceed to touch yourself whenever you see fit, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says with a laugh that shoots right through her, “On the condition that you do not change your current position.”
Adrian nods over and over, grateful, not thinking for a minute that Franziska isn't aware of how thankful she is. One hand moves from the mattress, and she barely realises how much effort it takes just to support herself with one arm, and allows her hand to find its way back between her legs. It's a little awkward, touching herself on her knees, but she rocks her hips, and slides easily against her own fingers. Too easily, almost; it takes a moment for her fingertips to find purchase, to start rubbing herself.
With a moan, her eyes screw together tightly enough for her to see flashing lights, and her head dips towards the mattress. She resists the urge to rest her forehead against the mattress, because then her whole body would fall slack, and Franziska wouldn't want that.
“-keep going.”
“From the current sound of things, Adrian Andrews, it would not take very much effort on my part. My own hand would be between your legs, and I would continue to grip your hip with the other, so that I could rock your body as I see fit,” Franziska says, and Adrian almost hates how pliable she becomes at the sound of her voice alone. She moves harder against her fingertips, doing her best to imagine that they're Franziska's, moaning out her name to aid the process. “Tell me, Adrian Andrews. How does it feel?”
“It's good...” is about all Adrian can coherently bring herself to say, and hopes that her desperate, pleading whimpers will better stress her point.
“So you like it?” Franziska asks, as if there was ever any doubt, “Is it better than when I do it?”
“N-no, of course it isn't,” Adrian gasps out, not yet far gone enough to have lost her senses completely.
Franziska lets out a low, pleased exhalation, and Adrian feels herself begin to buckle, all the strength gone from her knees.
“Franziska, I'm-” she begins, only to be cut off.
“Not yet,” Franziska says sternly, “Cease your movements, for a moment.”
Adrian lets out a disappointed note, but can't bring herself to argue with Franziska. She slows down the circles she's been drawing with her fingers, though she doesn't know why she's being told to stop, moving so gently that all she's doing is teasing herself, not giving herself enough to be pushed over the edge. She waits for Franziska to say something more, listens close, but the words never come. She's about to ask why she's been made to still like this, but then something catches her attention - another rustle of sound from Franziska's end of the phone. The sound of leather coming into contact with something over and over, Adrian realises, swallowing. She recognises it from the times Franziska's slipped a hand down the front of her pants without removing them first.
She hears Franziska gasp out so quietly she almost misses it, and the sound is soft, satisfied; it's through sheer force of will that Adrian doesn't unravel there and then.
“Very well,” Franziska finally says, and her voice has lost that familiar edge, “You may come, Adrian Andrews.”
And finish she does, elbow finally protesting and falling away from under her, and she crashes against the mattress, feeling it ripple through her so strongly that Franziska may as well be there with her. She clings at the bedsheet with her fingertips, half convinced that she'll never ride it out. Reprieve finally does wash over her, though, and she rolls onto her back, trembling fingers running through her tangled hair.
“Well? I expect that was a better way to spend your morning than you had previously planned, wasn't it?” Franziska asks, and already, her voice is laced with its usual smugness. “It was not the worst way to spend my evening, I must admit.”
“Mm,” Adrian agrees, hazy smile spread across her face. “Do you want me to leave you to sleep?”
“No,” Franziska admits, not without some awkwardness, “But you should. I am expected in the court house by six-thirty tomorrow morning.”
This is the point where Adrian would usually feel overcome with guilt, but there's such a pleasant buzz emanating through her system that she can't allow it. Franziska knew what she was doing. Knew what she got herself into. Adrian takes hold of the covers that are barely clinging to the edge of the bed, pulling them close to her chest.
“Alright. Goodnight, Franziska. I love you,” she says, sighing happily at the end of the sentence.
“As do I, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, and then allows exactly one second to pass before hanging up.
Adrian smiles to herself, thinks nothing of Franziska's phone bill, and wishes through a blush that Franziska would force her out of her self-pitying huddle under the covers that way every morning.
Adrian isn't ashamed to say that she's become lost in Franziska's father's mansion more than once over the past three days. The building is, in short, huge - she feels at times like she's wandering around an apartment complex (albeit one that's decorated as strictly as it is beautifully), with the size of the place. She tries to estimate how many people could comfortably live there, and decides that it must be at least a dozen and a half. More, if couples are taken into account.
Every time she tries to find a bathroom, Adrian ends up in some new room. There are walk-in wardrobes the size of her parent's house, containing clothing enough to wear a different outfit each day of the year for half a decade. Today they're confined to one room. It's a particularly large one, with a ceiling so high that it might as well be the sky, and doors made of such thick, heavy oak that all of her weight pushed against them did nothing to move them so much as an inch.
It's a room full of treasures. The boxes and shelves and display stands are full of more than antiques; there are family heirlooms and boxes full of childhood memories, and Adrian's not certain why Franziska trusts her enough to handle five centuries' worth of von Karma tableware. She's focused so hard on the plate between her hands and not dropping it that she almost doesn't hear Franziska speak.
“Aha,” Franziska says, and Adrian glances up, (still holding the plate, still holding the plate), “This was my very first riding crop.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow, watching the way that Franziska fondly presses the tip of the crop against the curve of her palm. Despite her insistence on carrying a whip with her everywhere, airplane included, it still manages to strike Adrian as strange.
“A riding crop,” Adrian repeats flatly, “Did you try that out before settling on the whip?”
“You are correct, Adrian Andrews.” By now, Franziska is pacing, circling her, and rhythmically whacking the riding crop against the tough leather of her gloves. “As a child, while an impressive height for my age, my stature was inadequate for using a whip to its maximum efficiency. I did the wise thing, and opted to use something more suited. It was a good tool to learn with; it is, after all, all in the wrist.”
Adrian listens carefully, nodding as Franziska continues to speak.
“The fools I studied with thought me lacking in some way, despite my standing as a von Karma. I expect that they did not enjoy being repeatedly shown up by someone who had not yet entered their teens throughout every lesson. I needed a way to aptly - capture their attention, shall we say.”
“Oh. That makes sense,” Adrian says, and the funny thing is that she's been with Franziska for so long that it actually does. Franziska's teacher probably wasn't spared the crop, either.
“Indeed it does. It will make an excellent starting place for our child's introduction to wielding a whip,” Franziska says casually, as if she's given it practised thought.
It's around then that the plate slips from Adrian's hands, where her palms have suddenly become clammy. It bumps against her knee and she manages to catch it, undamaged, but she barely registered what she's done. She blinks. She opens her mouth to speak, and says something along the lines of whabuthowhuuuh.
Franziska brings the crop down against her palm hard, and Adrian tries again.
“Our-child?” is all she manages.
“That is correct, Adrian Andrews. I am excellent and using the whip, and you are only second to myself. I see no reason for our child to be any different, and a von Karma is not a von Karma without a whip,” Franziska explains calmly, and Adrian can't bring herself to point out that nobody else in her family uses a whip, from what she's seen. There's no evidence of it in family portraits, at least.
For some reason, the only thing she can think to ask is “Why would our child take on your name?”
“Hah! Do not be a fool - it is an excellent name. A strong name. A von Karma is perfect, and our child will be nothing less, even in name alone. Adrian Andrews has a lovely ring to it, I admit, but it is an American surname, and tolerable only in conjunction with you.”
“Oh. So our child is going to use a whip, and be called Something von Karma. I see,” Adrian says mostly to herself. She feels surprisingly calm as she says it.
Nodding to herself, the plate finally slips from her hands, shattering against the marble floor.
Well, she thinks to herself as Franziska turns pale. Their child would never do that sort of thing with a surname like von Karma. That's one point in Franziska's favour.
When she steps through the front door, Adrian's greeted by a blurred bundle of unadulterated joy, all happy screams and echoing laughs, and she kneels down, arms open. Alexander comes crashing against her, and she makes a playful little Oof noise as if the impact's enough to wind her, wrapping her arms around him as she gets to her feet. It won't be long until being greeted like that does knock something out of her, Adrian realises, and makes sure to appreciate the moment even more.
“Mom, mom-!” Alex says, squirming in Adrian's arms when she kisses the top of his head, and he sounds so very excited that he can't really have a point to put across. She just hums in question, readjusting her hold so that he rests against her hip. “Where's mama?”
“She's driving home now,” Adrian replies, equally as excited as her son, “She should be there, once we're home.”
Happy enough with this answer, Alex grins so wide that his eyes screw shut, and then leans against her, suddenly drained of any energy he seemed to possess a second ago. Adrian rocks him in her arms, though he may be a little too old for that; she's just never got out of the habit, is all. It's a lovely moment, warm and close, until a door swings open in some part of the house, and Adrian hears sullen footsteps thud against the tilted floor.
Before she gets the chance to ask Alex what on Earth he's done this time, Miles Edgeworth is stood before her, arms folded across his chest in irritation. He's dressed casually, for once (though casually in his book still involves a tie and pressed trousers), and Adrian wonders if the smile she's trying to form looks like as much of a grimace as it feels.
“Hello, Miles. Thank you so much for babysitting at such short notice-” Adrian begins, as if pleasantries will wipe that death-glare from Edgeworth's face.
“That child,” he begins, pointing at Alex as if there's another in the room, “Is a terror.”
“Miles!” Adrian says sharply, one hand covering Alex's ear, as if that will retroactively stop him from hearing what Edgeworth just said. “He's-he's still a toddler! They're a handful, that's all. You know he only means well.”
“Means well? He-”
But before the words are out of his mouth, Alex is suddenly bolt upright in Adrian's arms, one finger pointed at him. “Uncle Miles Edgeworth!”
Adrian lets out a brief, uneasy laugh, and tries to get Alex to nestle back into her arms. She'd had a few weightless arguments with Franziska about that, recently - ever since Alex learnt to speak, Franziska had been goading him to refer to Edgeworth as Miles Edgeworth, and Miles Edgeworth alone, despite Adrian's insistence that just “Uncle” was fine. Eventually, they'd been able to come to a rather long-winded compromise, and the additional word seemed to amuse Franziska in some way that Adrian still doesn't understand.
“Case in point,” Edgeworth says flatly, raising an eyebrow. “He does remind me of a certain somebody. He spent most of the day correcting me about the most trivial of matters.”
Adrian opens her mouth to say something in Franziska's defence, and then thinks better of it. “... was he right?”
“Was he right? Adrian, he is three years old. When I attempted to cook him lunch, he demanded to know why I saw fit to heat up his ravioli on the stove, rather than in the oven itself, saucepan not withstanding. Halfway into the meal, he decided that he was no longer interested in eating it, and instead decided to run around my living room with a handful of it. My carpeted living room, might I point out. Every time I attempted to chase him, he raised both hands and shouted “Hold it-!” at me, before throwing his lunch my way. This is the third shirt I've had to change into. He only let me pick him up so that he could pull on my tie. Tell me, Adrian - was his first word Objection?”
“Actually, it was...” Adrian's voice drops to a murmur, and she glances away, almost embarrassed. “Well, it was fool. Franziska was on the phone at the time, lecturing someone from her latest case, and he - Alex repeated her, and... And I don't think I've ever seen Franziska so happy, to be honest.”
Edgeworth, unsurprisingly, is neither endeared or amused by the story. He continues to stare at the back of Alex's head, and Adrian doesn't even want to know about the state of Edgeworth's living room, after the ravioli incident. She's all too aware of the fact that he has a cream carpet and off-white walls. Adrian bites down on her lower lip, glancing from side-to-side, not sure whether she should apologise on his behalf or not. For the most part, Alex is good as gold at home. She'll have to talk to Franziska about this, because he certainly doesn't play up when anyone else looks after him.
“I'm sorry, Miles,” Adrian eventually settles on, stepping forward to give him a brief hug with one arm. Edgeworth lets out a short, heavy exhalation, almost like a grunt, but doesn't protest. “He's just-Alex is having fun! He likes being here, you realise. He likes spending time with his uncle.”
For half a second, Adrian thinks Edgeworth's expression might soften, but then decides that it's far more likely the light's caught him at a funny angle.
“Somehow, I doubt that Franziska would agree with you there,” Edgeworth says, shrugging.
“Oh, come on, Miles! Even Franziska tells him how important it is to spend time with you,” Adrian says, offering him a lopsided smile, “Really, it was her idea that we ask you to look after him today.”
Edgeworth's lips continue to press into a tight, flat line for another few seconds, and then something about his expression becomes more readable. Adrian mentally lets out a sigh of relief.
“Is that so?” Edgeworth days, some sort of smugness set into the line of his jaw, “Well, I can't say that today didn't pose a challenge, but...”
Adrian grins, happy enough with that as a resolution. There's no need for her to tell Edgeworth that Franziska's exact words were Know your enemy; it'd only ruin the moment.
Alexander's school is a prestigious place. It calls itself an academy, despite the fact that all of its students are under the age of twelve, and has a driveway leading up to the main building longer than most residential roads. It's a traditional looking institution with ivy growing up the sides of the red-brick buildings, and its walls and floors are decorated in styles and materials finer than most of the houses Franziska has had the distinct displeasure of visiting.
She walks in wide, certain strides down the corridor, almost like a march, without waiting for a guide to arrive. Franziska would never do anything as foolish as send her son to a school without studying the ground plans and lay of the land first. The sound of her heels that should clip against the floor is muted by the carpet beneath her soles, but she walks with her head held high, and no one questions her. The staff and pupils still in the building long after the school day has finished don't ask where she's going, or attempt to stop her.
Parent-teacher conference indeed, Franziska thinks, scoffing. She is a full fifteen minutes early for the meeting she has been asked to attend; if the teacher is not ready to see her, then Franziska will know that nothing she has to say will hold any real value.
She steps into Alexander's classroom without knocking, and the woman sat at the teacher's desk looks up, alarmed. Franziska notes the way that the woman at least has the decency to put down the pen she's been scrawling across the page with down, and without waiting to be greeted, takes a seat in front of her.
The chair offers no comfort, and Franziska sits up straighter than even she usually would.
“Ms. von Karma, I presume,” the woman eventually says. Franziska recognises her voice from the brief phone call they had, after Franziska received a rather poorly worded letter. The woman speaks as if she is from a refined background, but lacks a certain something in her voice. The overall effect is a faux-British accent, and Franziska feels herself mentally cringe every time the woman tries to pronounce a word with more than three syllables in it. It's like nails on a chalkboard.
“You presume correctly,” Franziska says, arms folded across her chest. Not defensively, of course; it's simply to make a show of her disinterest. “I do not have time for such foolishness, you realise. Let us discuss the matter at hand quickly and efficiently.”
“I understand that your - partner isn't here, but-”
“-Adrian Andrews,” Franziska points out flatly.
“Ms. Andrews isn't here, but it's a very important matter. Are you certain there isn't a time that the both of you can attend a meeting?” the teacher asks. After a moment, Franziska remembers that her name is Mrs. Brookland.
“Adrian Andrews is currently directing a weeklong event at Lordly Tailor,” Franziska explains, “And will be busy for the rest of this school term. However, that is of no matter: as a von Karma, I have the parenting skills of no less than four of the fools you are used to dealing with on a regular basis. Tell me, Mrs. Brookland - what do you have to say about my son?”
Franziska makes a point of smiling at the end of her sentence, and the woman honest-to-god flinches. Tilting her head to the side, Franziska taps one finger against the side of her arm, giving the teacher every opportunity to badmouth her son. She dresses in a rather gaudy manner, Franziska idly notices, and doesn't have the figure to pull off a shirt with that sort of cut. Clearly the woman has deluded herself about the matter of her own weight.
“As I'm sure you know, Ms. von Karma, Alexander consistently gets excellent grades. He's at the top of his class in every subject, and all of his work, both what he does in class and at home, is always to a high standard,” she says, making all sorts of unnecessary gestures with her hands. Franziska wishes the woman would just get to the point already.
“I am aware of that. He is also bilingual,” Franziska adds with a proud grin.
“Yes, you're right. As you can imagine, Alexander's problems rest in the more pastoral aspects of his school career. That is, the way he interacts with others,” Mrs. Brookland says, and then takes a deep breath. “This week, we had to confiscate an item from him that is strictly prohibited on school grounds.”
As she speaks, her eyes come to rest on the whip wound around its holster at Franziska's hip. With an arch of her brow Franziska raises one hand, and lets her fingers hover by her side. The teacher immediately starts, and snaps straight back into conversation.
“A whip. Needless to say, we are seriously considering Alexander's future at this academy.”
Franziska mutters something under her breath in German. Not out of habit; it just always succeeds in making people uncomfortable.
“Alexander von Karma is incredibly skilled with the whip,” Franziska explains slowly, proudly, “Much like myself and his other mother. When I was his age, my papa only allowed me to use a riding crop - Alexander von Karma took up his very first whip when he was a mere nine years old! I assure you, he has been taught to use it with discretion. Not by me, so much as by Adrian Andrews, but that is neither here nor there. He would not whip another child unless they were playing the fool.”
Mrs. Brookland sighs, head in her hands.
“Ms. von Karma, while we are happy to respect and accommodate various family traditions, we simply cannot allow Alexander to physically harm his classmates.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Franziska is on her feet, hands slammed down on the top of the desk.
“Fool! If Alexander von Karma did not speak with such high regard for your analytical skills when it comes to dissecting literature, you would currently be experiencing the same treatment as the foolish fools who choose to cause problems for my son on the playground.”
*
Three hours later and Franziska is warm in bed, Adrian curled up against her, hefty blankets covering them both. The poor thing is tired beyond belief, having been putting her all into work this week, and lays with her head rested against her chest, arms looped around her waist. Franziska had the good sense to remove Adrian's glasses for her and fold them up atop the bedside cabinet, and she strokes her hair as she speaks through a smug grin.
“-and that is why, Adrian Andrews, when they claim to be prestigious, the truly mean pretentious,” Franziska concludes, feeling Adrian shift a little against her, as if trying to absorb the information.
“Oh,” she murmurs, nuzzling her face against her collarbone, “Are we going to have to find Alex another new school?”
“That is right, Adrian Andrews. We will find an institution worthy of our son yet.”
Adrian makes an noise like a sound of protest, and then mumbles, “Or we could just take the whip away from him…” before falling asleep.
Franziska laughs, shuffling down the bed so that she can kiss Adrian's forehead. She must be delirious with sleep, she decides; she'll take that back in the morning.
CHARACTERS: Adrian Andrews/Franziska von Karma, Alexander von Karma, Miles Edgeworth.
RATING: PG - NC-17
WORD COUNT: 8,576
SUMMARY: A series of short(ish) stories about Franziska and Adrian, made up of scattered scenes throughout their lives.
NOTES: … yes, this is mostly indulgent domestic fluff, phonesex, science babies, and a sprinkling of angst (some slight suicide triggers; it's the second story). I should probably be sorry, but I'm not.
*
Adrian tells her psychiatrist a lot of half-truths and white lies. She does it on purpose, sometimes (“How have you been since the incident, Adrian?” “A lot better, thank you.”), but more often than not, she has trouble identifying how she's actually feeling, what she's really going through. Her psychiatrist tells her not to feel bad about it, as it's all par for the course; she's heard much more spiteful lies in her time, and people unintentionally skirting around the obvious issues is a big part of her job.
“What you're telling me, Adrian, is that while you can appreciate the fact that Ms. von Karma is a very attractive young woman, you yourself aren't attracted to her?”
The office feels a lot more like a living room than it does a place of work, and that helps Adrian to relax, helps her forget that this woman knows more about the last two years of her life than even she's able to deal with. Adrian leans back in her armchair, sipping her coffee.
“That's right. I think I - jumped the gun, as the saying goes. I mistook feelings of gratitude and admiration for something else. It's just been so long since I was willing to allow myself to make a real friend, and even longer since somebody genuinely wanted to be one. I haven't felt that way ever since-”
Adrian pauses, taking another sip.
“Ever since Celeste. You shouldn't hesitate to say her name or bring her up in conversation. The more you do so, the more you make her seem like some guilty secret you're clinging to, and you're creating a world of hesitance and apprehension for yourself. You're subconsciously allowing her to have too much power over your life.”
A third sip. There's too much sugar in the coffee, and Adrian gets this lecture every session.
“I know, Rosemary. Trust me, I know,” Adrian says, and then places her mug onto a coaster. “I haven't been subjected to those sort of feelings since Celeste, and I know that this isn't the same thing.”
“But you were confused, weren't you? Confused enough to bring it up, without me having to drag it out of you.”
“Well-yes. But confusion's all there is to it.”
Adrian glances to the side, adjusting her glasses. Her hands feel strange without the warmth of the coffee cup between them.
“If there's all there is to it, why haven't you been feeling this way for any of the others you've told me about? The ones who helped you out. Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth, wasn't it?”
“With all due respect to the both of them, neither Mr. Wright nor Mr. Edgeworth are beautiful women, Rosemary.”
“Alright, alright,” Rosemary says, raising her hands in defeat, signalling that a topic change is approaching. “As long as you're certain, Adrian.”
And that's very much what Adrian would like to believe. She leaves her psychiatrist's practise somewhat upbeat, glad to finally have it off her chest. The awkwardness can be banished now, she decides; she won't have to feel endlessly anxious whenever Franziska's in close proximity.
Two hours later, and there Franziska is, close enough to touch her if Adrian moves her arm a few inches to the right, and despite the great epiphany she had with Rosemary earlier in the day, she still feels as if every muscle in her body is pulled taut. Her arm is stretched out, her stance wide, and Franziska mimics the pose next to her, though her hand is empty, where she's given her whip to Adrian.
Adrian can't for the life of her remember why she ever thought learning to use Franziska's whip would be a good idea, and then can't remember anything when Franziska places a gloved hand against her hip. She starts, but thankfully her lips are pursed together too tightly for her to make any embarrassing noises; Franziska finds the whole thing amusing, apparently, and Adrian closes her eyes, trying to ignore the way she can hear her laughing so very close to her ear.
“You need to respect the whip, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says slowly, and then reaches out with her free hand to wrap her fingers around Adrian's wrist. If she doesn't like Franziska in that way, Adrian bitterly tells herself, then she doesn't want to know how loudly her heart is going to pound against the inside of her ribs when she comes face to face with someone she is attracted to. “It is not a mere tool with no other desire than to be used as you will it; it is an instrument of justice. Remember that.”
Adrian nods. She doesn't know why she's nodding, but she certainly agrees with whatever it is Franziska's getting at. She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and tries to trick herself into calming down. Just focus on the whip, she tells herself, just focus on hitting your target. A lot easier said than done, though, with both of Franziska's hands against her. And Franziska must be getting something out of this; it can't just be her imagination leading her to believe there's more to this than a simple lesson in technique.
When Adrian doesn't move right away, Franziska does it for her. She lifts their arms in one swift motion, and then the whip comes down, cracking like thunder against the tiled floor. The sound shocks her, enough to bring her back to the senses she had until that point taken leave of, and she glances at Franziska out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't dare turn her head. Not when they're this close.
Franziska doesn't let go straight away. She lingers for a second or two longer than she needs to.
“You are improving, Adrian Andrews,” she says with a grin, “I am almost impressed.”
Adrian thanks her through a smile she can't shake and a blush she can't fight off, and mentally plans out the conversation she's going to have to have with Rosemary. Not that she doesn't already know about this, Adrian supposes; she just needed to admit it to herself before she could find the courage to tell anyone else.
“The first thing - or one of the first things - I remember them saying was that I'd most likely have a scar for the rest of my life. At the time, all I could think was why on Earth did it matter? I had every intention of going through with it again, as soon as I was released from hospital. Of course, I didn't voice those thoughts. Partly because I had difficultly speaking, but mostly because I knew it'd only cause them to keep me in longer.” Adrian isn't certain when she started speaking, or how much she's said. All she knows is that she can't stop, and it surprises her that she's got so much as the first syllable out. Surprises her that she keeps on talking without her throat closing up, and everything comes out oddly distant but coherent, though she isn't thinking the words through first. “I was there for a few months. Physical recovery came quickest of all, as you might expect.”
Behind her, Franziska shifts on the sofa. Not uncomfortably, though Adrian knows that Franziska wants to hear nothing of what she's saying, if only because an unbroken silence will mean it isn't true. Adrian just lets her whole body fall slack against her, exhausted by the effort of even thinking to share these things with her. She doesn't recall what set her off, for the mindless drama they were previously watching was harmless enough, and she's glad that Franziska's managed to mute the television. Adrian's barely speaking enough loudly enough to hear her own voice.
“Anyway, when I got home, I made all the preparations. I ignored everything I was told by the doctors and the psychiatrists, convinced myself that it really wouldn't get better, and then set about reading how to do it properly. Learning to tie knots that would hold, that sort of thing. When it was all done and I was fairly certain it would work, I... kept postponing it. At first, I told myself that I was terrified of ending up in hospital again, or being treated like I was - someone other than myself. Eventually, I realised that I simply didn't have the energy for it. Had I not tried that first time, in that very moment, I don't think I would've been able to go through with it. I thought it made me weak, back then. Such a simple thing to go through with, I thought, and I couldn't even succeed in that.”
Franziska's arms tighten around her waist, and Adrian tenses as a horrible sort of weight presses down on her, along with the realisation that she can't ever take back what she's said, no matter what happens. Franziska knows, and she'll know forever.
“I know that's not- I know you didn't ask me, Franziska, but I know how I've been lately. How I always seem to be pushing you away, and it's not fair. On either of us. So now you know. I have a scar, a horrible, ugly thing, across my throat, and I wish to always keep it hidden.”
She wishes, at times, that things hadn't progressed to this point. That time could've stayed still indefinitely, when the two of them were happy enough with brief, barely-there kisses and the exciting sort of awkwardness that came with hands brushing together. Adrian knows that Franziska's suspected something's wrong for a long time, for every time her lips pass the invisible barrier of her jaw, Adrian's hands are on her shoulders, trying to get her to break her mouth away.
There's silence between them for a long while. Adrian's eyes flicker down, and she stares at the carpet, watching the flashing colours spill out of the silenced TV pool against it. Eventually, Franziska does move again, and though Adrian thinks that she means to get to her feet and leave, she only moves a little to the side, so that Adrian can just about see her from the corner of her eye. She tries not to look. She doesn't want to see the expression tangled up in her features.
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, leaning close, “You will look at me.”
And Adrian does, if only because she doesn't see that she has any other option. Their eyes meet, and for the first time, Adrian thinks she might see a jot of hesitance there. Franziska recovers well enough, and lifts her hands slowly, allowing them to rest against Adrian's shoulders. Adrian breathes in, and when she does, feels as if her chest has been filled with ice.
Franziska tilts her head ever so slightly to the side, thinking to ask for permission for once in her life. Convinced that her only other option is to break down and sob, Adrian nods in response, and then screws her eyes shut, as if her own blindness will stop Franziska from seeing her scars.
She feels the collar of her shirt being rolled down, and then Franziska's fingers immediately press against her skin, gently, tentatively. Adrian is clinging so tightly to Franziska's shirt by this point that she may well cause the both of them to shake, and when Franziska runs her fingertips across paths even Adrian herself will not tread, she wants nothing more than to collapse against her, to have this day be over.
“Hm.”
That's all Franziska says. Not even an actual word. Something in Adrian crumples, and she finally loses all resolve, finally allows herself to fall against her. It doesn't matter what Franziska thinks, doesn't matter how she's going to see her differently, because of this; Adrian just needs the support.
“Sorry,” Adrian murmurs, face buried in her shoulder. “I'm not proud of it, and-you don't have to stay, so...”
“Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, one hand coming to rest against the back of her head. She's removed her gloves, Adrian notes, eyes welling up, “Hush. Do not think to hide anything from me. Is that understood?”
“Then you-”
“Which part of the concept of being quiet are you failing to grasp? Listen, Adrian Andrews, for I will only say this once: when a von Karma grows fond of an individual, they are never wrong in their judgement. This changes absolutely nothing in my feelings.”
Adrian does cry then, only for different reasons. There's too much exhaustion coursing through her to cause her shoulders to shake or her chest to heave, and she clings to Franziska tightly, desperately, so utterly relieved to finally be letting this all out.
She's needed to for a long, long time.
Adrian's all too aware of how uncomfortable the bed is.
It's been this way for the past three nights. She tosses and turns, readjusts the cover and fluffs her pillow, but no matter how she tries, it just doesn't feel right. Out of habit, Adrian sticks to her own side of the bed, and when she's finally too tired to worry about the way the bedsprings seem to have turned against her, she reaches out an arm, letting it drape across the empty space there.
It hadn't been quite as bad the previous nights, because Adrian knew that she had work to get up for in the morning, had something to distract her for at least a solid nine hours. Now, though, she finds herself dreading the fact that it's a Friday - she can see herself staying in bed long past noon tomorrow, and barely even has it in her to scold herself.
This isn't her dependency problems. That she makes sure of. She lives her life and Franziska leads her own, painfully obvious by the way that she's had to take a ten-day business trip back to Germany. She's her girlfriend. Adrian misses her. That's allowed, she reminds herself; absence supposedly makes the heart fonder, and Adrian isn't a quivering, hapless mess without her.
It's just - the way they said goodbye. That keeps repeating itself over and over in Adrian's mind, and she bites down on her lower lip, clinging to the pillow all the tighter. She screws her eyes shut, as if that will stop her from thinking about Franziska's hands or her mouth, or the way she-
For goodness' sake, Adrian thinks sharply, Just get some sleep.
Before drifting off, she stares at the cell phone on her bedside cabinet, and entertains herself with the thought that she'd really be bold enough to call Franziska when she's busy, as if she'd really go as far as to interrupt her during work.
*
Upon waking up, room a discoloured blur around her, it takes Adrian a few moments to realise why she only grabs at empty air when she reaches for Franziska. She groans, rolls onto her back, and then runs her fingers through her hair, trying to get her eyes to focus on the ceiling. They never do, of course, but she manages to adjust to the light at least, and decides that that's enough productivity for one day.
She moves onto her side, sighing in an overly dramatic way that would make it seem like she was pleading for attention, were anyone with her, and realises that, no, ignoring the pressing matters last night hasn't done anything to help make waking up easier. She could indulge herself, Adrian decides. It is, after all, the weekend.
With her mind clouded still, and honestly being on the verge of falling back to sleep, Adrian doesn't take much convincing. On her back once again, she finds that she's far too lazy to tug at her pyjama pants and at least get them around her ankles, and simply lets her hand glide across her stomach, under the waistband.
She isn't wasting any time today. A quick brush of her fingertips against her hipbone, and then they're between her legs, rubbing gently. Her back arches instinctively (and Franziska would chide her for being swooned so easily), and she lets out a barely-there little gasp, deciding that this is a decent enough way to wake up, all things considered. Not as good as the time that Franziska woke her up by running her tongue up the inside of her thigh, she recalls with a soft moan, focusing on the memory as her fingers push harder, and-
And the phone begins to ring, cutting through the bedroom. Adrian starts, panicked, like the door's just been thrown open and someone's walked in, and then for some reason unbeknownst to her, she actually moves to pick it up.
She squints, chest rising and falling heavily as she tries to clear her mind and make out the number lit up on her screen. It's nobody in her contacts, that's for sure, and she doesn't recognise the long string of numbers in the least. In fact, there are so many digits that she'd wager it's not a real number, just one of those automated scams, and she's this close to hanging up before her mind whirls into gear.
Adrian flips open the phone, presses it to her ear, and then all too eagerly says, “Hello?”
There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, before Adrian's greeted by a flat, “Good morning,” far more controlled than her own.
“Franziska!” Adrian says, not deterred in the least. She falls back against the bed, knees tucked up against her chest, and feels herself positively beam, “Good-evening? It's so good to hear from you!”
“It's eleven PM,” Franziska says by means of confirmation, and then there's another pause. Adrian doesn't interject, despite the near-overwhelming urge to, because she knows that Franziska has a good deal more difficultly letting her feelings rise to the surface. She hums thoughtfully, and then asks, “What are you doing?”
“I've only just woken up,” Adrian replies, but sees no reason to go into detail.
“Is that so? Then why, prey tell, is your breathing staggered in such a way?”
“I'm- I'm just happy to hear from you, Franziska.”
“Adrian Andrews. Do not think to lie to me.”
This time, it's Adrian who pauses. She glances to the side, embarrassed, and finally murmurs, “... I miss you. That's all.”
“Hmph. Doing that sort of thing without me,” Franziska says, and Adrian's sure she's imagining it, but she almost sounds jealous.
“Without-? That's the whole reason I'm doing it!”
Franziska huffs into the phone once more, and at first, Adrian thinks there's a disturbance in the phone line. It takes her a few moments to place the sharp, cracking sound, only to realise that it's Franziska's whip hitting the (apparently) tiled ground of wherever she is. Adrian keeps silent throughout, deciding that it's not yet the opportune moment to make a grab at a subject change.
There is silence, at long last, but just as Adrian is about to ask Franziska about how Germany is and how work's going, Franziska speaks again.
“I would like to see,” she says plainly, tone so unaffected that it takes Adrian two seconds longer than it rightly should to work out what she means. Once she finally does, her face burns so red that she's certain Franziska can feel the heat radiating out of her phone's earpiece.
At her words, though, Adrian feels herself subconsciously shift onto her back, toes curling in the bedsheet, impatient. To say that she isn't turned on would be the very definition of a lie, but she doesn't do anything for the time being. Doesn't move her hand beyond the waistband of her pants, nails digging into the fabric. She can't gage what kind of mood Franziska is in, just yet.
“You could,” Adrian begins, allowing the pounding between her legs to make her bold. She'd hate for Franziska to remain in a bad mood, after all. “When you get back, I mean. If that's what you want.”
When Franziska fails to reply straight away, Adrian wants to bury her face into her pillow, but resists. It's silly to be so embarrassed, she knows, especially after all that they've done together, but this is new and exciting, and has every chance of ending really, really badly. Franziska makes that thoughtful humming noise again, and Adrian suddenly realises that she's been holding her breath.
“I think I would like that,” Franziska eventually says, as if she's been mulling over the main course section of a menu. “Tell me, Adrian Andrews: what were you thinking about?”
Adrian's first answer comes out as a flat, dumbfounded errrrr, and she clears her throat before trying again. Thankfully, Franziska chooses not to comment on her sudden loss of words, nor does she scoff down the phone. That would've shattered the last of her already waning confidence.
“I was-” Adrian hooks a thumb around the edge of her pants, but it's more for support then to pull them down. “Thinking that you were here, and I'd-stra-straddle you, hands on your shoulders...”
It's a blatant lie, of course, but it's what Adrian thinks Franziska will want to hear. She trails off momentarily, both to let Franziska voice her opinions on the current course of action, and to lick her own lips. Her mouth has become surprisingly dry.
“Fool,” comes Franziska's voice, almost overshadowed by the crack of her whip. Adrian sinks against the mattress, nearly dropping the phone in the process, “Do not think that such a foolish attempt at domination will allow you to satisfy me, Adrian Andrews.”
“But I-”
But-I-what Adrian doesn't know, and is endlessly grateful when Franziska cuts her off once again.
“It appears you are forcing me to take matters into my own hands,” Franziska says sternly, and despite herself, Adrian wants to come back with goodness, I wish you would. “Now, do as I say. Firstly, remove those foolish pyjamas of yours.”
Adrian isn't sure what her pyjamas have done to offend Franziska, but she kicks them off regardless, heart hammering against her chest. She closes her eyes tight, trying to keep her breathing steady, trying to pretend that Franziska's there. It takes her a moment to realise that Franziska can't see the results for herself.
“Okay. They're gone, Franziska.”
Another huff. “Alright. Now move onto your knees.”
“-excuse me?”
“Your hands and knees, Adrian Andrews. Am I not making myself clear enough?”
In spite of the distance involved, Adrian rather wouldn't hear Franziska's whip crack against the floor again. She can't bring herself to outright object.
“But that... won't be particularly comfortable, Franziska.”
“It's not supposed to feel comfortable, Adrian Andrews. It's supposed to feel good,” Franziska says matter-of-factly, meaning behind her every word. “And put your phone onto loudspeaker before you do so.”
Adrian considers refusing her. She considers lying, but then thinks better of it. Franziska will know, somehow, that Adrian isn't positioned as she says she is, and she reminds herself that she really, really needs this right now. The last thing she wants is for Franziska to hang up. With a shaky breath, she pulls the phone away from her ear, clicks it onto loudspeaker, and drops it by her pillow. It takes more effort than it should to move, but she manages to roll onto her front, knees tucked up beneath her, shins flat against the bed.
She keeps her chest pressed down against the mattress, the side of her face buried in her pillow. Exhaling heavily, she mumbles out “Okay,” hoping that her voice will reach the phone.
It does. Franziska doesn't sound too pleased with her.
“I trust you are on both your knees and hands, and not sprawled against the mattress like a pathetic fool,” Franziska says, and Adrian can practically hear her raising her eyebrows. She grumbles, not sure how Franziska knows her so well, and reluctantly pushes herself up onto her hands. “-better.”
With the phone on loudspeaker, Franziska's voice comes out a little tinnier, the edges of her sentences tinged with static. On the plus side, it's easier to make out the background noises, to hear the little details she might otherwise miss. Just as she's about to complain about the effort of holding herself up, Adrian catches a brief hint of fabric rustling, as if it's been moved, and although she could be mistaking what she's heard, it's enough to make her want to moan.
It occurs to her for the first time that Franziska could be doing the very thing she's about to, and then Adrian's imagination runs wild. She tries to work out where she is at that very moment, and eventually settles on a chair. An armchair, she decides, with high arms and a higher back, that Franziska could relax into while she herself moves onto her knees, hands spreading Franziska's legs apart-
“Please, Franziska,” Adrian murmurs weakly, “What next?”
Franziska hasn't once forbidden Adrian from touching herself, but Adrian's arms are like lead. She knows better than to move without permission.
“Adrian Andrews, you will have some level of patience,” Franziska says, “Were I with you right now, rest assured, we would not be racing towards the finish line like fools.”
Adrian only groans in response, bold enough to rock her hips forward, once. It doesn't do anything to help.
“Of course, if I were there,” Franziska begins, slowly, apparently far too fond of the sound of her own voice to keep quiet for long, “I would be behind you right now, hands firmly on your hips. I would be wearing my gloves, naturally.”
She outright moans this time, thighs clamped together as if it'll do something to ease the pressure.
“You may proceed to touch yourself whenever you see fit, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says with a laugh that shoots right through her, “On the condition that you do not change your current position.”
Adrian nods over and over, grateful, not thinking for a minute that Franziska isn't aware of how thankful she is. One hand moves from the mattress, and she barely realises how much effort it takes just to support herself with one arm, and allows her hand to find its way back between her legs. It's a little awkward, touching herself on her knees, but she rocks her hips, and slides easily against her own fingers. Too easily, almost; it takes a moment for her fingertips to find purchase, to start rubbing herself.
With a moan, her eyes screw together tightly enough for her to see flashing lights, and her head dips towards the mattress. She resists the urge to rest her forehead against the mattress, because then her whole body would fall slack, and Franziska wouldn't want that.
“-keep going.”
“From the current sound of things, Adrian Andrews, it would not take very much effort on my part. My own hand would be between your legs, and I would continue to grip your hip with the other, so that I could rock your body as I see fit,” Franziska says, and Adrian almost hates how pliable she becomes at the sound of her voice alone. She moves harder against her fingertips, doing her best to imagine that they're Franziska's, moaning out her name to aid the process. “Tell me, Adrian Andrews. How does it feel?”
“It's good...” is about all Adrian can coherently bring herself to say, and hopes that her desperate, pleading whimpers will better stress her point.
“So you like it?” Franziska asks, as if there was ever any doubt, “Is it better than when I do it?”
“N-no, of course it isn't,” Adrian gasps out, not yet far gone enough to have lost her senses completely.
Franziska lets out a low, pleased exhalation, and Adrian feels herself begin to buckle, all the strength gone from her knees.
“Franziska, I'm-” she begins, only to be cut off.
“Not yet,” Franziska says sternly, “Cease your movements, for a moment.”
Adrian lets out a disappointed note, but can't bring herself to argue with Franziska. She slows down the circles she's been drawing with her fingers, though she doesn't know why she's being told to stop, moving so gently that all she's doing is teasing herself, not giving herself enough to be pushed over the edge. She waits for Franziska to say something more, listens close, but the words never come. She's about to ask why she's been made to still like this, but then something catches her attention - another rustle of sound from Franziska's end of the phone. The sound of leather coming into contact with something over and over, Adrian realises, swallowing. She recognises it from the times Franziska's slipped a hand down the front of her pants without removing them first.
She hears Franziska gasp out so quietly she almost misses it, and the sound is soft, satisfied; it's through sheer force of will that Adrian doesn't unravel there and then.
“Very well,” Franziska finally says, and her voice has lost that familiar edge, “You may come, Adrian Andrews.”
And finish she does, elbow finally protesting and falling away from under her, and she crashes against the mattress, feeling it ripple through her so strongly that Franziska may as well be there with her. She clings at the bedsheet with her fingertips, half convinced that she'll never ride it out. Reprieve finally does wash over her, though, and she rolls onto her back, trembling fingers running through her tangled hair.
“Well? I expect that was a better way to spend your morning than you had previously planned, wasn't it?” Franziska asks, and already, her voice is laced with its usual smugness. “It was not the worst way to spend my evening, I must admit.”
“Mm,” Adrian agrees, hazy smile spread across her face. “Do you want me to leave you to sleep?”
“No,” Franziska admits, not without some awkwardness, “But you should. I am expected in the court house by six-thirty tomorrow morning.”
This is the point where Adrian would usually feel overcome with guilt, but there's such a pleasant buzz emanating through her system that she can't allow it. Franziska knew what she was doing. Knew what she got herself into. Adrian takes hold of the covers that are barely clinging to the edge of the bed, pulling them close to her chest.
“Alright. Goodnight, Franziska. I love you,” she says, sighing happily at the end of the sentence.
“As do I, Adrian Andrews,” Franziska says, and then allows exactly one second to pass before hanging up.
Adrian smiles to herself, thinks nothing of Franziska's phone bill, and wishes through a blush that Franziska would force her out of her self-pitying huddle under the covers that way every morning.
Adrian isn't ashamed to say that she's become lost in Franziska's father's mansion more than once over the past three days. The building is, in short, huge - she feels at times like she's wandering around an apartment complex (albeit one that's decorated as strictly as it is beautifully), with the size of the place. She tries to estimate how many people could comfortably live there, and decides that it must be at least a dozen and a half. More, if couples are taken into account.
Every time she tries to find a bathroom, Adrian ends up in some new room. There are walk-in wardrobes the size of her parent's house, containing clothing enough to wear a different outfit each day of the year for half a decade. Today they're confined to one room. It's a particularly large one, with a ceiling so high that it might as well be the sky, and doors made of such thick, heavy oak that all of her weight pushed against them did nothing to move them so much as an inch.
It's a room full of treasures. The boxes and shelves and display stands are full of more than antiques; there are family heirlooms and boxes full of childhood memories, and Adrian's not certain why Franziska trusts her enough to handle five centuries' worth of von Karma tableware. She's focused so hard on the plate between her hands and not dropping it that she almost doesn't hear Franziska speak.
“Aha,” Franziska says, and Adrian glances up, (still holding the plate, still holding the plate), “This was my very first riding crop.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow, watching the way that Franziska fondly presses the tip of the crop against the curve of her palm. Despite her insistence on carrying a whip with her everywhere, airplane included, it still manages to strike Adrian as strange.
“A riding crop,” Adrian repeats flatly, “Did you try that out before settling on the whip?”
“You are correct, Adrian Andrews.” By now, Franziska is pacing, circling her, and rhythmically whacking the riding crop against the tough leather of her gloves. “As a child, while an impressive height for my age, my stature was inadequate for using a whip to its maximum efficiency. I did the wise thing, and opted to use something more suited. It was a good tool to learn with; it is, after all, all in the wrist.”
Adrian listens carefully, nodding as Franziska continues to speak.
“The fools I studied with thought me lacking in some way, despite my standing as a von Karma. I expect that they did not enjoy being repeatedly shown up by someone who had not yet entered their teens throughout every lesson. I needed a way to aptly - capture their attention, shall we say.”
“Oh. That makes sense,” Adrian says, and the funny thing is that she's been with Franziska for so long that it actually does. Franziska's teacher probably wasn't spared the crop, either.
“Indeed it does. It will make an excellent starting place for our child's introduction to wielding a whip,” Franziska says casually, as if she's given it practised thought.
It's around then that the plate slips from Adrian's hands, where her palms have suddenly become clammy. It bumps against her knee and she manages to catch it, undamaged, but she barely registered what she's done. She blinks. She opens her mouth to speak, and says something along the lines of whabuthowhuuuh.
Franziska brings the crop down against her palm hard, and Adrian tries again.
“Our-child?” is all she manages.
“That is correct, Adrian Andrews. I am excellent and using the whip, and you are only second to myself. I see no reason for our child to be any different, and a von Karma is not a von Karma without a whip,” Franziska explains calmly, and Adrian can't bring herself to point out that nobody else in her family uses a whip, from what she's seen. There's no evidence of it in family portraits, at least.
For some reason, the only thing she can think to ask is “Why would our child take on your name?”
“Hah! Do not be a fool - it is an excellent name. A strong name. A von Karma is perfect, and our child will be nothing less, even in name alone. Adrian Andrews has a lovely ring to it, I admit, but it is an American surname, and tolerable only in conjunction with you.”
“Oh. So our child is going to use a whip, and be called Something von Karma. I see,” Adrian says mostly to herself. She feels surprisingly calm as she says it.
Nodding to herself, the plate finally slips from her hands, shattering against the marble floor.
Well, she thinks to herself as Franziska turns pale. Their child would never do that sort of thing with a surname like von Karma. That's one point in Franziska's favour.
When she steps through the front door, Adrian's greeted by a blurred bundle of unadulterated joy, all happy screams and echoing laughs, and she kneels down, arms open. Alexander comes crashing against her, and she makes a playful little Oof noise as if the impact's enough to wind her, wrapping her arms around him as she gets to her feet. It won't be long until being greeted like that does knock something out of her, Adrian realises, and makes sure to appreciate the moment even more.
“Mom, mom-!” Alex says, squirming in Adrian's arms when she kisses the top of his head, and he sounds so very excited that he can't really have a point to put across. She just hums in question, readjusting her hold so that he rests against her hip. “Where's mama?”
“She's driving home now,” Adrian replies, equally as excited as her son, “She should be there, once we're home.”
Happy enough with this answer, Alex grins so wide that his eyes screw shut, and then leans against her, suddenly drained of any energy he seemed to possess a second ago. Adrian rocks him in her arms, though he may be a little too old for that; she's just never got out of the habit, is all. It's a lovely moment, warm and close, until a door swings open in some part of the house, and Adrian hears sullen footsteps thud against the tilted floor.
Before she gets the chance to ask Alex what on Earth he's done this time, Miles Edgeworth is stood before her, arms folded across his chest in irritation. He's dressed casually, for once (though casually in his book still involves a tie and pressed trousers), and Adrian wonders if the smile she's trying to form looks like as much of a grimace as it feels.
“Hello, Miles. Thank you so much for babysitting at such short notice-” Adrian begins, as if pleasantries will wipe that death-glare from Edgeworth's face.
“That child,” he begins, pointing at Alex as if there's another in the room, “Is a terror.”
“Miles!” Adrian says sharply, one hand covering Alex's ear, as if that will retroactively stop him from hearing what Edgeworth just said. “He's-he's still a toddler! They're a handful, that's all. You know he only means well.”
“Means well? He-”
But before the words are out of his mouth, Alex is suddenly bolt upright in Adrian's arms, one finger pointed at him. “Uncle Miles Edgeworth!”
Adrian lets out a brief, uneasy laugh, and tries to get Alex to nestle back into her arms. She'd had a few weightless arguments with Franziska about that, recently - ever since Alex learnt to speak, Franziska had been goading him to refer to Edgeworth as Miles Edgeworth, and Miles Edgeworth alone, despite Adrian's insistence that just “Uncle” was fine. Eventually, they'd been able to come to a rather long-winded compromise, and the additional word seemed to amuse Franziska in some way that Adrian still doesn't understand.
“Case in point,” Edgeworth says flatly, raising an eyebrow. “He does remind me of a certain somebody. He spent most of the day correcting me about the most trivial of matters.”
Adrian opens her mouth to say something in Franziska's defence, and then thinks better of it. “... was he right?”
“Was he right? Adrian, he is three years old. When I attempted to cook him lunch, he demanded to know why I saw fit to heat up his ravioli on the stove, rather than in the oven itself, saucepan not withstanding. Halfway into the meal, he decided that he was no longer interested in eating it, and instead decided to run around my living room with a handful of it. My carpeted living room, might I point out. Every time I attempted to chase him, he raised both hands and shouted “Hold it-!” at me, before throwing his lunch my way. This is the third shirt I've had to change into. He only let me pick him up so that he could pull on my tie. Tell me, Adrian - was his first word Objection?”
“Actually, it was...” Adrian's voice drops to a murmur, and she glances away, almost embarrassed. “Well, it was fool. Franziska was on the phone at the time, lecturing someone from her latest case, and he - Alex repeated her, and... And I don't think I've ever seen Franziska so happy, to be honest.”
Edgeworth, unsurprisingly, is neither endeared or amused by the story. He continues to stare at the back of Alex's head, and Adrian doesn't even want to know about the state of Edgeworth's living room, after the ravioli incident. She's all too aware of the fact that he has a cream carpet and off-white walls. Adrian bites down on her lower lip, glancing from side-to-side, not sure whether she should apologise on his behalf or not. For the most part, Alex is good as gold at home. She'll have to talk to Franziska about this, because he certainly doesn't play up when anyone else looks after him.
“I'm sorry, Miles,” Adrian eventually settles on, stepping forward to give him a brief hug with one arm. Edgeworth lets out a short, heavy exhalation, almost like a grunt, but doesn't protest. “He's just-Alex is having fun! He likes being here, you realise. He likes spending time with his uncle.”
For half a second, Adrian thinks Edgeworth's expression might soften, but then decides that it's far more likely the light's caught him at a funny angle.
“Somehow, I doubt that Franziska would agree with you there,” Edgeworth says, shrugging.
“Oh, come on, Miles! Even Franziska tells him how important it is to spend time with you,” Adrian says, offering him a lopsided smile, “Really, it was her idea that we ask you to look after him today.”
Edgeworth's lips continue to press into a tight, flat line for another few seconds, and then something about his expression becomes more readable. Adrian mentally lets out a sigh of relief.
“Is that so?” Edgeworth days, some sort of smugness set into the line of his jaw, “Well, I can't say that today didn't pose a challenge, but...”
Adrian grins, happy enough with that as a resolution. There's no need for her to tell Edgeworth that Franziska's exact words were Know your enemy; it'd only ruin the moment.
Alexander's school is a prestigious place. It calls itself an academy, despite the fact that all of its students are under the age of twelve, and has a driveway leading up to the main building longer than most residential roads. It's a traditional looking institution with ivy growing up the sides of the red-brick buildings, and its walls and floors are decorated in styles and materials finer than most of the houses Franziska has had the distinct displeasure of visiting.
She walks in wide, certain strides down the corridor, almost like a march, without waiting for a guide to arrive. Franziska would never do anything as foolish as send her son to a school without studying the ground plans and lay of the land first. The sound of her heels that should clip against the floor is muted by the carpet beneath her soles, but she walks with her head held high, and no one questions her. The staff and pupils still in the building long after the school day has finished don't ask where she's going, or attempt to stop her.
Parent-teacher conference indeed, Franziska thinks, scoffing. She is a full fifteen minutes early for the meeting she has been asked to attend; if the teacher is not ready to see her, then Franziska will know that nothing she has to say will hold any real value.
She steps into Alexander's classroom without knocking, and the woman sat at the teacher's desk looks up, alarmed. Franziska notes the way that the woman at least has the decency to put down the pen she's been scrawling across the page with down, and without waiting to be greeted, takes a seat in front of her.
The chair offers no comfort, and Franziska sits up straighter than even she usually would.
“Ms. von Karma, I presume,” the woman eventually says. Franziska recognises her voice from the brief phone call they had, after Franziska received a rather poorly worded letter. The woman speaks as if she is from a refined background, but lacks a certain something in her voice. The overall effect is a faux-British accent, and Franziska feels herself mentally cringe every time the woman tries to pronounce a word with more than three syllables in it. It's like nails on a chalkboard.
“You presume correctly,” Franziska says, arms folded across her chest. Not defensively, of course; it's simply to make a show of her disinterest. “I do not have time for such foolishness, you realise. Let us discuss the matter at hand quickly and efficiently.”
“I understand that your - partner isn't here, but-”
“-Adrian Andrews,” Franziska points out flatly.
“Ms. Andrews isn't here, but it's a very important matter. Are you certain there isn't a time that the both of you can attend a meeting?” the teacher asks. After a moment, Franziska remembers that her name is Mrs. Brookland.
“Adrian Andrews is currently directing a weeklong event at Lordly Tailor,” Franziska explains, “And will be busy for the rest of this school term. However, that is of no matter: as a von Karma, I have the parenting skills of no less than four of the fools you are used to dealing with on a regular basis. Tell me, Mrs. Brookland - what do you have to say about my son?”
Franziska makes a point of smiling at the end of her sentence, and the woman honest-to-god flinches. Tilting her head to the side, Franziska taps one finger against the side of her arm, giving the teacher every opportunity to badmouth her son. She dresses in a rather gaudy manner, Franziska idly notices, and doesn't have the figure to pull off a shirt with that sort of cut. Clearly the woman has deluded herself about the matter of her own weight.
“As I'm sure you know, Ms. von Karma, Alexander consistently gets excellent grades. He's at the top of his class in every subject, and all of his work, both what he does in class and at home, is always to a high standard,” she says, making all sorts of unnecessary gestures with her hands. Franziska wishes the woman would just get to the point already.
“I am aware of that. He is also bilingual,” Franziska adds with a proud grin.
“Yes, you're right. As you can imagine, Alexander's problems rest in the more pastoral aspects of his school career. That is, the way he interacts with others,” Mrs. Brookland says, and then takes a deep breath. “This week, we had to confiscate an item from him that is strictly prohibited on school grounds.”
As she speaks, her eyes come to rest on the whip wound around its holster at Franziska's hip. With an arch of her brow Franziska raises one hand, and lets her fingers hover by her side. The teacher immediately starts, and snaps straight back into conversation.
“A whip. Needless to say, we are seriously considering Alexander's future at this academy.”
Franziska mutters something under her breath in German. Not out of habit; it just always succeeds in making people uncomfortable.
“Alexander von Karma is incredibly skilled with the whip,” Franziska explains slowly, proudly, “Much like myself and his other mother. When I was his age, my papa only allowed me to use a riding crop - Alexander von Karma took up his very first whip when he was a mere nine years old! I assure you, he has been taught to use it with discretion. Not by me, so much as by Adrian Andrews, but that is neither here nor there. He would not whip another child unless they were playing the fool.”
Mrs. Brookland sighs, head in her hands.
“Ms. von Karma, while we are happy to respect and accommodate various family traditions, we simply cannot allow Alexander to physically harm his classmates.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Franziska is on her feet, hands slammed down on the top of the desk.
“Fool! If Alexander von Karma did not speak with such high regard for your analytical skills when it comes to dissecting literature, you would currently be experiencing the same treatment as the foolish fools who choose to cause problems for my son on the playground.”
*
Three hours later and Franziska is warm in bed, Adrian curled up against her, hefty blankets covering them both. The poor thing is tired beyond belief, having been putting her all into work this week, and lays with her head rested against her chest, arms looped around her waist. Franziska had the good sense to remove Adrian's glasses for her and fold them up atop the bedside cabinet, and she strokes her hair as she speaks through a smug grin.
“-and that is why, Adrian Andrews, when they claim to be prestigious, the truly mean pretentious,” Franziska concludes, feeling Adrian shift a little against her, as if trying to absorb the information.
“Oh,” she murmurs, nuzzling her face against her collarbone, “Are we going to have to find Alex another new school?”
“That is right, Adrian Andrews. We will find an institution worthy of our son yet.”
Adrian makes an noise like a sound of protest, and then mumbles, “Or we could just take the whip away from him…” before falling asleep.
Franziska laughs, shuffling down the bed so that she can kiss Adrian's forehead. She must be delirious with sleep, she decides; she'll take that back in the morning.