Work Text:
Some dipshit has the radio tuned to Christmas music again. Maybe it’s fair, because it’s technically Christmas Eve, but they’re at work.
Ema glares venomously at the speaker as the music shifts from a mediocre rendition of Jingle Bells to a mediocre rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, wishing she had the office clout to pitch the damn thing out the window. But she wouldn’t get away with that even back home, and for all her current coworkers’ terrible taste in music she likes working with Interpol and Prosecutor von Karma, so she’ll just have to put up with it.
The weight of her phone in her pocket feels like it’s mocking her. Two hours until it’s time to call Lana.
They won’t talk on Christmas. Ema doesn’t remember the last time she and Lana managed to have their holiday call on an actual holiday. Between Ema’s work schedule and the prison’s call restrictions, they take what they can get; calling the day before Christmas is tradition, at this point.
Kind of a sad tradition, really. But that’s the Skye sisters for you: they haven’t had a happy holiday since Ema was fourteen, and it doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon.
Even, or maybe especially, if she sits through a thousand mediocre covers of Christmas songs she didn’t really like in the first place.
The door to their borrowed office swings open with a force generally reserved for invading armies. Franziska von Karma sweeps in, gives the radio a look like it personally stole the last cup of coffee out from under her nose, and snaps, “Turn that foolish racket off immediately,” to no one in particular.
Sometimes, Ema really likes Prosecutor von Karma. And not just because she’s the kind of beautiful and terrifying that Ema’s always thought a prosecutor should be, though that’s part of it.
The nearest Interpol agent scrambles to comply, like people usually do when Prosecutor von Karma gives an order. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am, we just thought, since it’s almost –”
Prosecutor von Karma raises a hand. The man shuts up. “Enough. I am aware that a holiday is approaching. I do not require a poorly recorded reminder. Why are you here?”
The agent flounders. “Ma’am?”
“You were ordered to search the crime scene again an hour ago. Detective Skye is going through the forensic reports, but that does not require five of you. Why are you fools still here?”
Ema has never seen a handful of supposedly fearless Interpol agents flee a room so quickly. In minutes, it’s just her and Prosecutor von Karma, staring at each other over Ema’s stack of folders.
“Foolishness,” Prosecutor von Karma huffs. It makes her jabot flutter, drawing Ema’s eye to the curve of her chest before she can catch herself. Stop it, Ema. Yeah, you’re bi, and you’re at work and you don’t even know if she swings that way. “I will speak to Lang about sending me better agents.” Her hand rests on the whip when she says speak to, and Ema’s not sure if she should feel sorry for or jealous of Shi-Long Lang (stop it, Ema). “What do you have for me, Ema Skye?”
Relieved that she actually has something to share, Ema pushes her open folder across the table. “None of the bullets we recovered from the crime scene match the one found in the victim. Same caliber, different gun. You’re right – someone wants us to think this shooting took place in the garage, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t.”
“Interesting.” Prosecutor von Karma doesn’t soften, exactly, but Ema’s worked with her often enough to see that she’s pleased. “Go on.”
“Well, the thing is, we know the murder happened outside,” Ema starts. Prosecutor von Karma listens intently, and nods at all the appropriate points, and for a few minutes, Ema can almost forget what time of year it is, and that she’s going to have to call her sister. Positive attention from prosecutors in general is rare, and even rarer from this one in particular; when Prosecutor von Karma looks over her case notes and pronounces them more than adequate, I will consult you again in the future, Detective, Ema almost – almost – preens a little.
But there’s no avoiding it. Eventually, just as they’re wrapping up the last details to pass on to the Interpol agents, the timer on Ema’s phone chimes a pointed reminder.
Ema clears her throat, avoiding Prosecutor von Karma’s curious look. “Sorry. I have to – I have a phone call I need to make in ten minutes. I’ll – it won’t take too long, I promise.”
“Don’t be foolish. You needn’t rush. We will be finished in ten minutes, and until those foolish agents find something, there is nothing more we can do.” Prosecutor von Karma pins Ema with a pointed stare. “Your family is back in America, correct? I have no objections to you making your holiday calls.”
“Right. I – it’s not really – it’s not exactly that kind of family holiday thing.” Ema listens to herself in growing horror, because Prosecutor von Karma doesn’t need to know any of this, but it’s like she can’t stop talking once she starts. “My sister’s in prison, and calling hours are limited. It’s not exactly festive, but...”
She finally trails off, too late. Well done, Skye. She almost thought you were a professional for a minute there.
“Ah,” Prosecutor von Karma says. It’s a surprisingly neutral sound. “I had forgotten.”
It’s all she says for a moment. Ema breathes an internal sigh of relief that cuts off abruptly as Prosecutor von Karma continues, “My hotel has an excellent bar, and I plan to make use of it, since I expect those fools won’t turn up anything else tonight. You are welcome to join me when your phone call is finished.”
Ema blinks at her, unsure if she heard that correctly. “You...join you? For a drink?”
“Unless you do not drink.” Prosecutor von Karma pins her with that stare again, gray eyes icily thoughtful. “I, too, dislike this holiday. And your company is...not unpleasant.”
Ema thinks that’s the closest Prosecutor von Karma has ever come to giving her an outright compliment. “I, uh...”
Lana’s going to ask her if she has friends. If she’s getting out, seeing the world, enjoying her overseas assignments. Ema’s always managed to brush it off with one excuse or another, but now…
Maybe it’d be nice not to have to dodge the question. And if nothing else, Ema is not in the habit of turning down beautiful women who invite her out to get drinks (even if it’s not that kind of invitation).
“All right,” she says, and wonders if she’s imagining the way Prosecutor von Karma’s expression seems to ease a little. “Meet you at seven-thirty?”
There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the phone call. Lana is Lana; she hasn’t changed much, even after five years in prison. Ema thinks she smiles a little more than she used to, but it’s hard to tell over a tinny phone connection.
Lana asks all the usual questions. How are your cases, are you getting any time off, is Interpol treating you well. There’s always a note of worry to that last one, like Lana thinks that if she doesn’t ask Ema will slip down the same path of forged evidence and lies – but she never openly asks, and so Ema never actually answers.
She doesn’t tell Lana that she’s getting a drink with Franziska von Karma so that the two of them can not enjoy the holiday together. She tells Lana she’s meeting “a friend”, and the genuine delight in Lana’s voice makes her feel a little guilty about the evasion.
The call ends the way these holiday calls always do. Merry Christmas. I love you. I’ll see you soon. They don’t know when they’ll see each other again, but that’s tradition, too.
Prosecutor von Karma’s hotel isn’t actually far from the office, but it still takes Ema longer than she’d expected to get there. She shows up five minutes late, and has to scan the bar for a moment before she sees a familiar slim figure seated in a private alcove with a drink already in front of her.
Prosecutor von Karma looks as formal as ever, still in her work suit, not a single pale hair out of place, gazing contemplatively into the glass in her hand. Ema clears her throat awkwardly; the woman in front of her doesn’t quite jump, but she does lift her head sharply. “Uh, sorry I’m late, Prosecutor –”
“Franziska, please.” A black-gloved hand motions to the seat next to her. Ema sits down awkwardly, brushing imaginary lint off her lab coat. “We are not on duty.”
Ema swallows. “Um – sure. Sorry. My phone call ran a little long.”
Franziska waves a hand in a vague gesture that’s probably meant to be reassuring. The two of them sit in awkward near-silence while Ema orders a drink, watching little clusters of people dressed in glittering clubwear, severe business formal, and everything in between float through the bar like flocks of birds at a birdfeeder.
“How was your call?” Franziska says abruptly, without quite looking at Ema. It’s so sudden Ema forgets how to speak for a few seconds, and Franziska looks sharply away. “Never mind. I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Ema gulps down what’s left of her drink, just to buy herself some time. It’s strong, and she has to inhale sharply to avoid choking. “Sorry. It was – Lana’s fine. It was your typical prison phone call, you know?”
She winces internally as soon as she says it, but Franziska just nods. “You would think those fools could at least install phones with decent sound quality. Calling my father was almost more trouble than it was worth.”
Right. Because Ema isn’t the only one who’s had family in prison.
She takes a breath to apologize. Franziska turns the fierce stare she normally reserves for someone fucking up a crime scene in Ema’s direction, and Ema shuts her mouth immediately.
The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Franziska sighs and looks away. “I think we both require another drink.”
They make it through another round in near-silence, broken only by the occasional scrap of conversation about the case or about the bar’s surprisingly decent selection of alcoholic drinks, before Franziska says, “Your sister will be released next year, yes?”
It’s not really a question. Ema nods anyway. “Yeah, around this time, I think. If I can, I’ll go back to the US for it.”
“Good,” Franziska says briskly. “Perhaps you will enjoy this foolish holiday more with your family.”
There’s nothing wistful in her tone. Maybe it’s in her eyes instead, gray and steely and – filtered through the two drinks Ema’s already had – beautiful. Ema knows why; everyone knows that Manfred von Karma was executed years ago, and Prosecutor Edgeworth doesn’t take time off for Christmas.
Maybe that’s why she says, “I dunno, really. It’s not like Lana and I were doing much for the holidays before she went to prison, either.” Not since SL-9. Ema misses it, sometimes, even if she tries not to. “We’ll probably just...do phone calls.”
Franziska doesn’t quite raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t celebrate even when you were young?”
“Oh, we did Christmas stuff when I was little.” Ema sighs, staring into her half-empty glass. “But that was a long time ago, you know? With...our parents. It was different back then.”
Franziska nods. There’s another long pause before she says, “My father liked Christmas, so we celebrated. I loved it, as a child.” She gazes down into her own glass, the lines of her face softening almost imperceptibly. “Foolishness, of course. A holiday for children.”
Ema doesn’t really think about it. Her hand moves almost of its own accord, and suddenly it’s resting over Franziska’s, chapped knuckles looking even rougher against smooth dark leather.
Franziska looks up at Ema, expression caught somewhere between surprise and something Ema can’t name. Ema almost expects her to pull away, but she doesn’t.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the touch. Ema says, “I used to love it, too, when I was little. Christmas, I mean. All the lights and the decorations and the presents. It was fun.”
Franziska’s expression softens a little bit further. “I always wanted to be the one to decorate the tree. I would not allow anyone else to help, even when I wasn’t tall enough to reach more than a third of the way up the tree. Eventually my father would convince me to let him lift me up, because we couldn’t have a half-decorated tree.”
The mental image pulls half a smile across Ema’s face. “Lana used to bake cookies on Christmas Eve. I made her bribe me with chocolate chips to leave her alone so she could make them in peace, but I’d keep coming back the whole time for more.”
Somewhere in the bar, a mediocre cover of O Christmas Tree starts playing. Ema swallows, smile fading.
Gloved fingers wrap around hers. When Ema looks up, Franziska is motioning impatiently at the waiter for another round of drinks, but the fingers intertwined with Ema’s don’t loosen.
This time, the silence over their drinks is almost comfortable. Companionable, in an odd way, two women sitting in a hotel bar on Christmas Eve a universe away from anyone else they might have spent their holidays with. It almost feels intentional, as if they chose to spend it together instead of simply stumbling into it by circumstance.
Ema can’t help noticing the curve of Franziska’s jaw, sharp and elegant and highlighted by the line of pale blue hair cropped perfectly parallel to it. Her jabot hides most of her neck, but there’s a hint of pale skin showing above silky fabric. The hand under Ema’s is warm, even through the gloves, and some part of her – the part that’s clearly had a little too much to drink – wonders what Franziska’s skin would feel like under her own. (Probably better than Ema’s. Ema can just tell that unlike her, Franziska von Karma is the sort of woman who remembers to use moisturizer and hand lotion.)
And maybe it’s Ema’s imagination, but she feels like Franziska is studying her back. Even when she looks down at her glass, she can feel the weight of those gray eyes on her, assessing her, and maybe – maybe – not disapproving.
(Or maybe she’s just tipsy. Scientifically speaking, it could be either.)
The music shifts into yet another mediocre Rudolph cover, and the spell breaks. Franziska’s lips turn down in displeasure (and when did she start to smile, however faintly?). “One would think a hotel of this caliber could at least provide decent music.”
Ema huffs something that’s half agreement and half a laugh, and feels Franziska’s gaze settle on her again, assessing. There’s another pause, before Franziska speaks again.
“Would you like to come up to my room?”
Ema nearly chokes on the last of her drink.
“You mean -”
“It means whatever you want it to mean,” Franziska snaps abruptly, drawing her hand away. There’s a faint flush across the bridge of her nose; Ema wonders if that’s the alcohol, or if Franziska is genuinely flustered. “I think I have had enough Christmas Eves alone, Ema Skye. You may come up to my room and we can talk in a setting without this foolish musical accompaniment, if you are so inclined.” She pauses again, and when she continues, her voice softens a little. “If you – are not interested, of course, I will not hold it against you.”
“No! No, that’s not it. I – I –” Ema grabs for every bit of coherence she has, brushes her hair behind her ear, and takes a deep breath.
Prosecutor von Karma just asked her up to her room. And whatever she says about talking, Ema knows that’s not really where this is meant to end.
She’s not used to being propositioned by beautiful women. It’s not that she’s inexperienced – of course she isn’t – but...
But, what? Franziska is looking away, eyes firmly fixed on her glass, avoiding Ema’s gaze, and with the sudden clarity that she gets sometimes when she’s looking at a crime scene or talking to a suspect, Ema knows that just asking was a step out of Franziska’s comfort zone, too.
I think I have had enough Christmas Eves alone.
Ema thinks about Lana on that phone call, saying wistfully that she hoped Ema would do something nice this year, and about all those Christmases as kids, and about the curve of Franziska’s jaw and that little strip of pale skin and the softness of the glove under her hands, and her heart flutters with something that isn’t – entirely – nervousness.
Franziska von Karma is beautiful, and terrifying, and interested, and even if it feels a little bit like a dream, even if Ema never expected it would actually happen -
“I’d like that. I’d really like that.” Ema takes another deep breath and reaches out for Franziska’s hand. Franziska blinks at her, and doesn’t pull away again. “It’d be nice to have...company.”
This time, she knows it’s not her imagination when Franziska’s face softens. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s somewhere in the neighborhood.
Ema genuinely means to start with a conversation, when they reach Franziska’s seventh-floor room (much fancier than Ema’s own hotel room, not that she’s comparing). After all, it’s not like they know each other all that well. If this was some sort of Christmas romance movie, they would talk, in the elevator and in the hotel room. They’d find more things they have in common, open up about a few memories, maybe -
But instead, there’s a few seconds of almost excruciating silence after the door closes behind them, their fingers still entwined and that flush of pink still spreading across Franziska’s face. Ema is suddenly very aware of her own pulse in her throat and in her wrist, of the glitter of city lights and Christmas decorations through the window on the other side of the room, and of how long it’s been since she actually slept with anyone.
Before she can think better of it, Ema brings a hand up to touch Franziska’s cheek. Her skin is just as soft as Ema imagined, and warm, and it’s only then that she realizes her fingers are trembling ever-so-slightly.
“Ema Skye,” Franziska says softly. Her voice is a little deeper and rougher than usual, and it sends another warm flutter through Ema’s chest. “If you are not sure about this, if you would rather –”
They’re so close Ema can nearly feel Franziska’s heartbeat against her own. Maybe that’s what gives her the courage, or maybe it’s just the alcohol.
She leans in, and the space between them closes in a kiss.
Franziska tastes like her drink, alcohol with a touch of something sweet, and there’s something just as intoxicating about kissing her. Suddenly there’s a gloved hand tangled in Ema’s hair, pulling her close, and Ema’s hand is on Franziska’s back, nails digging into the silky-soft fabric of Franziska’s vest with something akin to desperation.
“I’m sure,” she gasps, when they finally break apart for air. For the first time, she sees Franziska with a strand of hair out of place, falling in her eyes, and it’s so pretty Ema almost forgets how to talk. “Of course I’m sure.”
Franziska’s gray eyes burn into Ema’s, and this time Ema knows beyond any shadow of a doubt: she’s being assessed, and Franziska very much likes what she sees.
“Then come with me, Ema Skye.”
And as Franziska pulls her toward the bed, Ema’s last coherent thought is that maybe, for once, this Christmas Eve won’t suck.
