heartbreak kid

by worms212

Summary:

As Phoenix Wright hurries off through the courtroom doors, Trucy calls out, “See ya later, old boy!” She gets a wave in return, but behind Phoenix’s easy smile, Apollo can sense a deep uncertainty. He wonders if it’s anything like the worry that swirls in his own stomach, even now.

--
Or: At nine years old, Apollo is shipped off to America to stay with his mother. The rest, as they say, is history.

Chapter 1: PROLOGUE

Summary:

And then, on the third night he spends at home, when reality starts to sink in and it stops feeling like an exciting new vacation, Apollo tugs on her sleeve as she’s tucking him in and says to her, in Khura’inese, “I want Dhurke.”

--
In which the prodigal son returns home.

Notes:

greetings, i have been cooking. this started out as me thinking, "what if apollo and trucy had grown up together?" and then the monkey's paw curled.

in other words, what you see before you is a canon divergence AU in which dhurke and datz managed to locate thalassa before they sent apollo to the states for his safety, and thus everything changes. i have more than 10k of this written already, but not linearly, so i must hold back a little for now. plenty of found family drama inbound, but first, a prologue, because i can't help myself.

fic title from the song of the same name by the vaccines.

And a home that you made where the grandkids could play / But it's never the same without you

- Sam Fender, "Remember My Name"

 

Thalassa Gramarye is endlessly thankful for the few scant Khura’inese phrases she can remember on the day she receives the call.

 

It’s a whirlwind after that, a dizzying cocktail of joy and relief and stress and uncertainty as Thalassa prepares to welcome into her home a nine-year-old boy she once thought dead and buried, only to find that he was alive, and his guardians spent years trying to find her. There’s much to do: birth certificates to unearth, paperwork to file, school registration forms to submit, furniture and clothes to buy, but it’s worth it, because Apollo Justice is very, very easy to love.

 

He is, of course, her baby, so maybe it’s just instinctual, but Thalassa loves him dearly from the moment they pick him up at the airport. Apollo is bright-eyed, curious, smart and a little sassy, just like Jove was. He seems pleased to learn that he has a little sister—almost smug about it, really, but that’s probably how most big brothers are. Overall, Apollo seems to take his new circumstances in stride, despite clearly being a little nervous and a little homesick being in a place where he doesn’t speak the language very well.

 

And then, on the third night he spends at home, when reality starts to sink in and it stops feeling like an exciting new vacation, Apollo tugs on her sleeve as she’s tucking him in and says to her, in Khura’inese, “I want Dhurke.”

 

Thalassa kneels at his bedside. “I’m sorry,” she says back to him in Khura’inese, and then, in English, “He can’t come see you. It’s not safe.”

 

Apollo seems to mostly grasp what she’s saying, because tears well up in his eyes. “When?”

 

“I don’t know,” Thalassa admits, even though she’s been led to believe the answer may be never. It’s not that she wants to keep Apollo from the people who raised him when she could not, but, well—there is a reason they sent him back to America, and that reason is what killed Jove Justice.

 

Apollo’s curious eyes flick up to hers, as if searching; he’s taken his bracelet off for bedtime, though, and she hasn’t really taught him how to use his sight yet, so it’s not clear how much he’s seeing. Thalassa reaches up to smooth out his hair, but he pushes her hand away.

 

“No,” he cries, “not my family, no, no, no,” followed by a string of words in Khura’inese that Thalassa doesn’t understand. She tries not to feel hurt; Apollo is her baby boy, but he’s only known her for a few days. He’s bound to be wary of her affection at first.

 

“Apollo,” she whispers gently. “It’s alright.”

 

“Scared,” Apollo admits in English, and promptly bursts into tears.

 

And Apollo is loud , Jove Justice belting-your-heart-out loud . Just another thing he gets from his dad, although his dad was a laugher and a singer more than he was ever a crier.

 

Tentatively, Thalassa places a hand on his back. When he doesn’t reject her touch, she begins gently running her palm between his shoulder blades in a soothing motion. As much as she wants nothing more than to wrap him in her arms and hold him forever, this is all he will allow her, and Thalassa is willing to be patient. She sits there with him while he cries, and stays there as his sobs turn to quiet hiccups and he slowly gets his breathing under control on his own.

 

When he’s finally stopped, Thalassa says, “It’s okay. I’m scared too.”

 

Apollo looks her in the eye and nods. She takes her hand off his back and gives his little hand a squeeze.

 

“Ready for sleep?” she asks.

 

Apollo nods again and finally settles down. Thalassa tucks the blankets around him and finally stands back up. She presses a kiss to two of her fingers, and then lightly taps those fingers on Apollo’s forehead. He watches the movement with wary, rapt attention, but doesn’t stop her.

 

“Goodnight, Apollo,” she says as she turns to leave the room, and then adds, in Khura’inese, “I love you. It will be okay.”

 

His big, round eyes follow her all the way through the door, until she pulls it shut behind her.

She finds Shadi in the living room, two-year-old Trucy asleep in his lap. It’s hard to get her to settle at night these days, which Thalassa imagines will only get harder with her brother in the house.

 

Her brother . It still feels surreal to even think about it—she’s always wondered what it would have been like to raise Apollo and Trucy together. She just never imagined it might happen like this.

 

“That boy has a set of pipes,” Shadi muses.

 

Thalassa sighs and sits down beside him. She strokes Trucy’s soft hair. “Did he wake her?”

 

“Somehow, no,” Shadi says. “Good thing your old man’s out of the house tonight, though, eh?”

 

Dread creeps into Thalassa’s veins. “Don’t remind me,” she mutters.

 

Shadi’s expression softens. “My love, I’m sure he’ll get over it,” he says, and Thalassa isn’t sure whether he’s talking about Apollo’s crying or her Papa’s bad attitude. She decides she doesn’t want to know.

 

“Are you certain you’re okay with this arrangement?” she asks instead. “You know, with Apollo being here.”

 

Shadi sighs. “He’s your boy, Thalassa. It doesn’t matter what I want.”

 

“Still,” Thalassa insists. “You’re his stepfather now. I’m counting on you, Shadi.”

 

“I’ll do my best, alright? We both will.” Shadi squeezes her hand. “Thalassa. We’re gonna get through this just fine, you hear?”

 

Relieved, Thalassa nods and squeezes back with a watery smile. Thalassa’s brief sojourn with Jove had been a sore spot in the Troupe for quite some time, but Shadi had waited for her. He’s an imperfect man, much like her father, but he’s trying, and for that, she’s always been grateful.

 

“I do hope you're right,” she says. “For his sake.”

Notes:

don't get too attached to thalassa. she's not long for this world.

Chapter 2: PART I

Summary:

Thalassa’s eyes flick down to him. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s alright,” she says, smoothing his hair. “Apollo, baby, please look at me.”

Apollo shakes his head, suddenly trembling.

Thalassa kneels down in front of him and takes his hands in hers.

“I’m going to tell you something really important, okay?” she says, searching his face. The wind whips the collar of her jacket and the stray flyaway hairs framing her face. “Are you listening?”

--
In which the ocean takes everything away eventually, but it'll never, ever take Trucy.

Notes:

cw: there are non-graphic references to and depictions of physical abuse in this chapter. it is very brief and is not the main focus of the chapter.

our boy goes through a lot in this chapter, but fear not, trucy is always there. apollo justice mommy issues speedrun!!!!

Oh, you nеver thought they'd leave you, but they did / Now everybody calls you the heartbreak kid / And you can't believe they really called it quits / And you never thought that you would be the heartbreak kid

- The Vaccines, “Heartbreak Kid”

 

Time passes all too quickly for Apollo.

 

He learns a lot about public school, mostly that it’s terrible and other kids find him off-putting. Most of his time is spent in special English classes, which means his peers have an instant reason to make fun of him. He’s not always sure if they think he can’t understand what they’re saying when they insult him, or if they want him to hear it on purpose.

 

On his first day, his mother kisses her fingers and touches them to his forehead, and tells him that she loves him and it’ll be alright. Then she does this every morning for the next two weeks, and then less frequently when he stops panicking about it every single day. That’s another big change: both having a mother, and panicking.

 

It’s not that Apollo wasn’t an anxious kid before. But before, back in Khura’in, his worries felt grounded in things those around him understood: wild animals, the dangerous stream behind the mountain shack, the royal guard finding their hideout. Now, Apollo finds himself in tears more than ever—and somehow, this translates to him becoming attached to his long-lost mother very, very quickly.

 

He gets used to it. He gets used to having a mother and a baby sister and an annoying but personable stepdad, and he even sort of gets used to having a grandfather who doesn’t seem to want him around. He has his own room now, which is new and exciting, though he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to not hearing Nahyuta’s steady breathing at night as he’s falling asleep.

 

It’s not like he gets to have his room to himself, though, really, because living with a bunch of magicians seems to have presented Apollo with a new problem:

 

Apollo’s baby sister is an “escape artist.”

 

That’s the word Shadi uses for it, although Apollo thinks it sounds silly, because what Trucy is doing doesn’t seem like art at all. Shadi thinks it’s fascinating—hilarious, even—but it makes Mom twirl her braids with worry every time she puts Trucy down for a nap.

 

If anything, Apollo just finds it annoying . That was Nahyuta’s favorite English word to describe Apollo whenever he would make too much noise, and Apollo understands his big brother a little better now. When Trucy climbs out of her crib in the middle of the night, more often than not she ends up in Apollo’s bed, curling up beside him no matter how hot it is. It’s not magic or artistry or sleight of hand, it’s just two-year-old behavior.

 

Their parents’ solution is to dismantle the crib and switch her to a toddler bed, though that only serves to prevent her from falling and hurting herself, not from roaming the house at night. Shadi installs some kind of childproof rail that’s meant to keep her from rolling out of the bed, but Trucy finds her way around that one too. He thinks she’s a little genius, Thalassa worries she’s going to figure out locks next and leave the house, and Apollo thinks they’re both overreacting.

 

Tonight, like most nights, Apollo has already fallen asleep when he suddenly finds himself with an armful of toddler. Trucy’s soft hair is brushing the tip of his chin, and she’s squirming to nestle herself into his grasp as snugly as possible.

 

“Wha—Trucy,” he grunts.

 

“Can’t sleep,” she whispers. “Hold?”

 

With a sigh, Apollo shifts so Trucy isn’t crushing his lungs with her full weight. “Why can’t you sleep?” he whispers back. “Did you have a bad dream?”

 

Trucy shakes her head but does not explain further, which is fine by Apollo, because it really doesn’t matter. She’s going to glue herself to his side no matter what. He climbs over her to go close the door, which she always leaves open even though it means they can hear Shadi’s snoring from the other room. Her round eyes follow him as he pauses in the doorway at the sound of voices down the hall; there’s a light on in the kitchen, and he can hear Magnifi clearly if he takes a few steps out of the room.

 

“I still don’t know what you were thinking,” he’s saying, too loudly.

 

“He’s my son,” Thalassa’s voice hisses back. “How many times must we discuss this?”

 

“As many times as it takes for you to realize taking that boy in was a mistake!”

 

“Would you lower your voice? You’ll wake him.”

 

“He doesn’t understand me anyway,” Magnifi scoffs, and Apollo scowls from his place in the shadows. Everyone thinks his English comprehension is far worse than it is.

 

“That’s not true,” Mom says. “Stop putting him down.”

 

“Thalassa, my dear, you must face reality. He was raised all those years by terrorists in some backwater. Is it any wonder he behaves the way he does, fussing about and screaming all the time?”

 

“Don’t speak of them that way. That man saved him. Papa, he’s traumatized. His teachers say he’s starting to do better. It just takes time!”

 

“Or perhaps he gets it all from his father—”

 

“Leave Jove out of this, Papa. Please.”

 

“You know very well how I feel about you running off with that ruffian,” Magnifi grumbles.

 

“He’s dead ,” Mom snaps. “When will you let me grieve him in peace? When will you let me raise our son without such active contempt ?”

 

“When he starts showing a little gratitude for—”

 

“Gratitude? You expect gratitude from Apollo when all you do is—”

 

There’s a sound like a smack and then Thalassa goes quiet. Magnifi hisses something at her under his breath, but Apollo can’t focus enough to make out what he’s saying because Trucy is tugging at his sleeve, having materialized beside him in the hall at some point. How much did she hear?

 

Apollo presses a finger to his lips in a shushing motion and picks Trucy up. He carries her back into his room and eases the door shut so slowly he barely even hears it click. Without another word, he tucks himself and Trucy into bed and lets her snuggle into his chest.

 

“Polly,” she mumbles. “No sad.”

 

“I’m not,” Apollo says.

 

“Good.” Trucy yawns. “Sleep now.”

 

“You woke me up. Now I can’t sleep, Trucy.”

 

“Is okay.” She wraps her little arms around him as best she can. “I hold.”

 

“Yeah,” Apollo whispers tearily, smoothing out her hair. “You hold.”

 

---

Though they travel for occasional one-off shows throughout the year, the Troupe does the majority of their touring in the summer, when Apollo doesn’t have school. He think it’s his fault, at first, but then he learns that the Troupe didn’t do much traveling at all when Trucy was a baby; now that she’s a bit older and doesn’t need 24/7 attention from her parents, it’s much easier for Thalassa to make it on stage.

 

Or, more accurately, now that she has a big brother to hold onto her in the front row so she can’t toddle off to who-knows-where.

 

When Apollo is ten, the Troupe spends a few weeks in a bus traveling up the west coast, and Apollo spends most of that time either cooped up in the bus with his summer homework or playing with his three-year-old sister in backstage areas and dressing rooms and soundstages. It’s the most travel he’s ever done in his young life, if you don’t count being shipped across the Pacific against his will. They tour the Pacific northwest, and Apollo’s mother takes a photo of him in front of the space needle in Seattle, pouting in his little red rain parka, while they wait for Shadi to return with little Trucy because Apollo had a crying meltdown and refused to go up the elevator.

 

(When he comes back, Shadi reveals that he took his own blurry picture of Thalassa and Apollo from way up high through the glass observation deck, two little smudges of red and blue. This amuses him so much that he has both photos printed at the drug store in the next town they stop in and sticks them both up on the mini fridge in the bus. Apollo kicks him in the ankle for this and somehow avoids getting in trouble.)

 

Today, Apollo’s stepdad shuffles the deck of cards again while he watches with rapt attention, trying to follow his every move atop the pull-out table in the bus. Apollo keeps his sight locked on Shadi’s deft fingers, unaware that his attention is being deliberately redirected from elsewhere.

 

He doesn’t notice footsteps coming in from outside the bus until Shadi looks up, a wry smile on his face.

 

“Thalassa, your boy’s no good at sleight of hand,” he says airily. “He’s got no poker face.”

 

“Poke her what?” Apollo pipes up. Nobody answers him, though his mother does ruffle his hair.

 

“He is also a child,” Thalassa points out. “Apollo, you’re supposed to be studying.”

 

Apollo scowls. “But it’s summer,” he whines.

 

“Yeah, Thalassa, it’s summer,” Shadi concurs.

 

Thalassa glares at him. “ You were supposed to help him with his reading while Trucy naps.”

 

“I don’t want to, it’s too hard,” Apollo snaps, hot tears springing to his eyes. His mom fidgets with her braid, sharing a look with Shadi over Apollo’s head, which only fuels his frustration. He knows they’re both waiting for him to throw a tantrum, and he’s tired of everyone around him speaking in hushed tones about him when they think he isn’t listening or won’t understand.

 

“Thalassa,” Shadi says gently. “His English is fine.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t have to—she thinks Shadi’s wrong, and Apollo must concur. Even if he gets by with spoken English just fine these days, the back of his head still smarts from the last time Magnifi saw his report card.

 

In an instant almost too quick to parse, Thalassa’s frown is replaced with a crafted performer’s smile. “Apollo, baby, let’s get you some air,” she says, holding out her hand. “You’ve been cooped up in here too long, huh?”

 

Apollo doesn’t take her hand, but he does get up and let her put a jacket on him and lead him outside with her palm on the back of his head.

 

It’s cloudy; they’re stopped somewhere along the coast of northern California on their return route to LA, and for the past few days everywhere they’ve been it’s been either miserably hot or terribly gloomy. In either case, everything in the bus has felt like there’s a layer of sweat on it and Apollo’s been getting antsier and antsier holed up in his bunk while everyone gets in each other’s way.

 

Thalassa takes his hand as she leads him out of the lot they’re parked in and down the road toward the coast, even though he’s big and doesn’t need her to; he’s noticed she gets anxious taking him or Trucy out in public alone, like she thinks something will happen to them.

 

“Let’s go see the ocean, okay?” she says. When he frowns, she adds, “From a distance. I know it scares you.”

 

He relents, and they step up to a concrete pier of sorts, a long strip parallel to the coastline with the ocean lapping at the rocky shore some distance away. There’s a strong breeze coming off the ocean, and Apollo holds tighter to his mother’s hand.

 

The day it happened feels like another life at this point, but Apollo fears the water, even still. He’s seen a lot of the ocean on this trip, and it seems like it never gets easier. He always feels like it might just swallow him and take him far away, even when viewed at a distance like this. And then there’s the sheer vastness of it—like the world is so big and still so new and Apollo is small and stupid and insignificant.

 

A terrible swirling sensation crawls through Apollo’s stomach, and he doesn’t know if it’s the ocean that scares him, or knowing that somewhere, way, way on the other side, Dhurke and Datz and Nahyuta are still there, and they’re never, ever coming back for him.

 

Thalassa’s eyes flick down to him. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s alright,” she says, smoothing his hair. “Apollo, baby, please look at me.”

 

Apollo shakes his head, suddenly trembling.

 

Thalassa kneels down in front of him and takes his hands in hers.

 

“I’m going to tell you something really important, okay?” she says, searching his face. The wind whips the collar of her jacket and the stray flyaway hairs framing her face. “Are you listening?”

 

Apollo nods.

 

“You are so, so brave, Apollo. You are smart and strong and wonderful , and I don’t want you to let anyone tell you differently. Anyone , okay? I mean it.”

 

Apollo catches the serious glint in her eyes and knows with certainty that they’re thinking about the same person.

 

“I’m not always going to be able to protect you,” Thalassa continues, having to shout a little over the wind. Her voice is desperate, almost pleading. “In fact, I’ve spent most of your life unable to protect you. And I’m never going to let myself forget that, ever. But…” She pauses and squeezes his hands. “You are my son, no matter what. I want you to remember that, and remember how proud I am of you, even when I’m not there to tell you. Okay?”

 

Apollo frowns. “Are you leaving?”

 

“No, baby, no, I—” Thalassa shakes her head. “I’m not going anywhere, Apollo. I just—I worry about you, okay? I know the past year hasn’t been easy, and I know you get scared and frustrated and you think people don’t understand you. But I do. I love you with all my heart, and I missed so many chances to tell you that. I don’t want to risk missing another. Do you understand?”

 

Tears pool in Apollo’s eyes. His lower lip begins to quiver, chest growing tight. Slowly, he nods.

 

Thalassa gives him a watery smile. Then, in stuttering Khura’inese, she says, “I love you. It’ll be okay.” She presses a kiss to her fingers and taps Apollo’s forehead, like she always does. “Yeah?”

 

Apollo tips forward and collapses, sniffling, into his mother’s waiting arms. She holds him close, shielding him from the harsh ocean breeze and all it threatens to take from him, and does not let go for a very long time.

 

---

After they lose Thalassa, everything begins to change.

 

Magnifi’s health takes a nosedive, and the Troupe’s touring schedule comes to a screeching halt. Zak and Valant are left to perform as a duo, confined to the greater Los Angeles area. Trucy starts kindergarten, and Apollo spends less time studying in the backs of buses and more time in the library. Life becomes simpler and a whole lot stranger all the same, as Magnifi grows temperamental and Zak and Valant are equal parts sick with grief and at each other’s throats.

 

None of them have much time or much attention to spare for Apollo these days, which is frankly fine by him, since it means he no longer gets roped into helping with magic shows he doesn’t want any part in.

 

Although some of that may be due to the fact that he was there at rehearsal the day Mom was shot. He heard the two shots ring out, he saw the blood, saw her fall, heard Shadi scream as he rushed forward to catch her—

 

Apollo shakes his head to rid his mind of the image. The official story is that Thalassa is missing, and Apollo is forbidden from discussing the matter—including in front of Trucy, who was not present and is too young to understand death. But that’s the undercurrent of truth in everything the adults do and say; Thalassa is dead, either Zak or Valant killed her, and no one is to ever find out about it.

 

“What do you want?” Magnifi says gruffly. “I’m quite busy.”

 

Apollo shuffles on his heels. Magnifi sits in the large armchair in the study, reading a book. He doesn’t seem all that busy, but old men always seem to be fully occupied by even the most menial of tasks.

 

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Apollo says slowly. “I just—I wanted to ask you about Mom.”

 

“She’s not coming back, boy. Would you have me relive my only daughter’s death over and over?”

 

I keep reliving it over and over in my mind, Apollo thinks.

 

“Why didn’t we have a funeral?”

 

Magnifi waves a disinterested hand at him. “Because it risked the public, or Trucy, finding out. If it ended up in the papers, we’d be finished. Need I explain it to you again?”

 

“But there was no body,” Apollo points out. In all of the mystery books I read, you can’t be sure somebody is really dead if you don’t see the body.

 

This piques Magnifi’s interest. He tosses his book aside and it hits the floor with a loud thud that makes Apollo flinch.

 

“What do you mean to tell me?” he asks, low.

 

She was still breathing. I could see it. Zak and Valant couldn’t, not like I could, but Magnifi can. He would have seen. He would have known if—

 

“What if she’s not really dead?” Apollo blurts out.

 

Magnifi’s eyes harden like cold steel. A beat passes in which the tension in the room rises to a sickening fever pitch, and then Apollo’s grandfather has him by the arm, moving with a speed and strength that should not be possessed by a man recently diagnosed with terminal cancer.

 

“Do you even understand what you’re saying, you rotten, insolent child ?” Magnifi spits. He’s tugged Apollo close enough that he can smell the ham sandwich Magnifi had for lunch on his breath.

 

Apollo gulps. In an instant, Magnifi releases him and he hits the hardwood with a terrible slam that’s sure to leave bruises and knocks the wind clean out of him. Magnifi Gramarye towers over him like a monster, and not like the benevolent patriarch he pretends to be.

 

“I don’t know what you think you know, or what you intend to accuse me of, brat,” Magnifi hisses as he lifts Apollo back up by the front of his shirt and shakes him. “But if you ever—and I mean ever —speak of this again, to me or to anyone, I will do what I should have done years ago and throw you out on the street like the illiterate urchin you are. Do you understand me?”

 

“Y-Yes sir,” Apollo chokes, mind reeling.

 

Physical punishment is nothing new from Magnifi—a spanking here, a slap upside the head there, the crack of a ruler over his knuckles when he would bring home poor grades in English. But this is new, to take a beating from Magnifi when no one else is home. By the end of it, Apollo has nearly forgotten all about his concerns about Thalassa. When Magnifi kicks him out of the study, Apollo slinks back to his room and hides under the covers for hours, until Trucy gets home and jumps onto his mattress to pester him.

 

“Polly, Polly, wake up!” she demands, tapping him all over with her tiny hands. After a moment, the lump that is Apollo stirs, and his head pokes out from under the covers to glower at her.

 

“I’m too tired to play right now, Trucy,” he grumbles.

 

Trucy pouts. “Daddy told me you would,” she counters.

 

“Well I never said that. Go play with him, then.”

 

“But he’s busy! He and Uncle Valant are in the shed building a stage prop, and they can't take a break now because Granddaddy said they gotta finish.”

 

“Go bother them, then,” Apollo grumbles.

 

“Pollyyyyy,” Trucy whines, yanking the covers back and snuggling herself beside Apollo. “I want to hang out with you. Are you sad?”

 

“No, I’m not sad.”

 

Trucy stares at him from a nose-length away, all bug-eyed and serious. Her deep blue eyes pierce his like knives, searching. Her little face twists up in a concerned frown.

 

“Polly, you’re hurt!” she cries, poking a bruise on his arm.

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

 

Trucy sits up and huffs, pouting with her fists on her hips like she’s prepared to take on the world in his honor. “Who did that to you? I’ll get ‘em for you, Polly!”

 

Apollo’s heart clenches. How is he meant to tell her the truth?

 

“That’s not necessary, Trucy. It was a disagreement.”

 

Trucy squints at him, and for a moment he thinks his five-year-old sister is about to call his bluff, but eventually she just blows a raspberry and flops back down beside him, kicking her little socked feet against his leg as she squirms her way into a comfortable position.

 

“Fine,” she mumbles. “But you have to snuggle.”

 

“I thought you wanted to play.”

 

“Just want attention.” Trucy grabs his arm and tucks herself beneath it. Apollo must not be doing a very good job of being fine, because she frowns at him again. “What’s wrong? Does your tummy hurt?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Apollo says.

 

“Stop lying or I’ll tell.”

 

“Tell who? Mom’s not here anymore.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Apollo’s breath hitches. The hand that Trucy hasn’t taken hostage comes up to form a fist in his shirt, clutching at his chest. His ears are starting to ring.

 

“Polly?” Trucy grabs at his hand with both of her own. Her eyes go wide with understanding. “You’re scared.”

 

“It’s not for you to worry about,” Apollo says even as his hands are shaking and Trucy knows it. “You’re five.”

 

“You’re scared because Mommy’s not here,” Trucy says, undeterred.

 

And the thing is, she’s more or less right. With Thalassa gone, who does Apollo really have on his side anymore, other than Trucy, who’s a kindergartner? Shadi’s so blinded by grief and anger and his strange feud with Valant that he cares little for Apollo these days. Valant never paid him much attention to begin with, when he’s around. They’re both so loyal to Magnifi that he could probably do anything to Apollo short of killing him and they wouldn’t say a word. And as for Magnifi himself, well—

 

Apollo is startled out of his spiral by Trucy, lightly poking him in the forehead with her pointer finger.

 

“It’s okay, Polly,” she says. “I get scared too. But I have you!”

 

She keeps tapping, until Apollo realizes she’s trying to imitate their mother. He reaches up and captures her hand in his. She tilts her head at him, eyes bright.

 

“I’m okay, Trucy. Come here.” Apollo pulls Trucy to him so her head rests under his chin. She hums happily and wraps both fists in Apollo’s shirt. He resolves to keep it together for her sake; she’s relying on him to keep her safe, to pack her lunch and brush her hair and make sure she gets to school each day while Shadi seems unconcerned with doing so.

 

“You know I love you, right?” he asks quietly.

 

Trucy brightens, looking up at him with a beaming smile. “I know! Love you Polly!” she chirps, then snuggles back into his chest and stays quiet, content to lay there until Apollo decides otherwise.

 

Apollo settles beside her with a heavy sigh. His bruises still sting, and his tailbone aches from falling on the floor. He’s tired, so, so tired. Finally, for the first time since Magnifi grabbed him by the collar, he drops his guard. Apollo lets his eyes slip shut, lets his baby sister’s breathing lull him into a much-needed, well-deserved nap.

 

---

Zak and Valant’s last bow—though none of them know it as such at the time—is a small-time performance at Gatewater Land in 2019. It should be laughable, really; when Apollo was younger the Troupe used to perform to packed houses in theaters up and down the coast, and now that Magnifi’s got three months to live he has his proteges doing parlor tricks for peanuts at some copaganda theme park.

 

(It’s a free trip to an amusement park, sure, but between Apollo’s fear of heights, hatred of crowds, and nervous stomach, it’s not exactly his ideal place to spend a day off.)

 

Nevertheless, they do what they’re told, and Apollo is dragged along on a Saturday morning to “assist,” which at this point is really just code for babysitting Trucy in the park while Zak and Valant set up and rehearse and all the other stuff Apollo refuses to be part of. And so he finds himself in the backseat of the van with Trucy, with a veritable mountain of props and gear piled up high enough behind them that it’s a wonder Zak can see through the back.

 

On second thought, he probably can’t. Apollo’s stomach churns.

 

“If you would only—”

 

“Come on, you know how many times I practiced—”

 

Apollo rolls his eyes. Zak and Valant are bickering like an old married couple again, Zak staring daggers at the road ahead and Valant punctuating all of his stupid statements with a flourish of his baton.

 

“You idiot, we both agreed—”

 

With an exaggerated groan, Apollo leans forward around the passenger’s seat and snips, “Would you two stop arguing for five god damn minutes?”

 

“Watch your fucking language,” Zak says, to which Apollo sticks out his tongue.

 

“Swear jar, Daddy!” Trucy pipes up.

 

“Remind me later, sweetheart,” Zak sighs. He’s doing better these days, less consumed by depression and more able to look after Trucy—not that Apollo doesn’t still resent him for it all, anyway.

 

Apollo huffs, “Why do you always do what Magnifi tells you anyway? It’s not like he’s here to force you.”

 

As usual when he brings this up, Zak and Valant both tense up like they’re hiding something. Apollo’s never been able to suss out exactly what.

 

Valant recovers first. “It’s positively paramount to listen to one’s elders, my querulous fellow,” he says.

 

“There’s no way half of those were real words,” Apollo says, and Valant pokes him in the forehead with the end of his baton to push him back into his seat. “Anyway, that’s a stupid reason.”

 

“Yeah, of course you’d say so,” Zak grumbles. “You never listen to me anyways.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cuz you’re not my dad,” Apollo shoots back with a scowl.

 

Zak frowns. “...I know that, kid,” he says, and he says it so solemnly that Apollo almost feels bad. The air in the van goes tense and still for a moment, but it finally quiets down, and that’s all Apollo really wanted, so he decides not to apologize. Zak and Valant stop sniping at each other, and the rest of the ride is quiet, save for Trucy humming contentedly as she stares out the window, pretending she never heard them at all.

 

When they get to the park, they get their wristbands and Trucy spends the day dragging Apollo every which way so she can ride everything she can alone—which, at eight years old and four feet tall, is admittedly not many of them, so they spend a greater deal of time wandering the park and staring at all the prize booths until they figure out the trick behind each of the games. Trucy’s better at catching sleight of hand tricks and misdirection than Apollo is by a mile (Shadi has been trying to teach him poker, and Apollo still can’t beat him), so she tends to figure it out before he can.

 

She does get to go on a few rides, and Apollo waits for her on the ground each time, just like he did in Seattle almost five years ago now. After that, Trucy drags him around the whole park so she can complete some kind of Blue Badger quest, badgers him into buying her an ice cream cone, and then gives it to him when she decides she doesn’t like the flavor she picked.

 

And yet, the part of the day Apollo dreads most is when evening falls and they make their way to the pavilion stage that’s been set up for the Gramarye show. It’s not that Zak and Valant put on bad shows these days, it’s just—Apollo is just tired of it. He’s never had a real interest in magic, it only seems to cause this family problems, and it took his mother from him. He’s just tired of it, and a part of him wishes they would just stop this duo act farce for good.

 

They’re both trained showmen, but even so, there’s often an undercurrent of tension in Zak and Valant’s movements on stage, something Apollo is able to pick up on but Trucy never seems to—or, at the very least, she’s very good at hiding it. Sometimes it’s enough to make his head spin.

 

“Why do Daddy and Uncle Valant not get along anymore?” Trucy asks before the show starts, as if she can read his mind. Maybe she does notice how they act on stage, and she’s thinking about it now, too.

 

Apollo glances at her from the adjacent seat at the front of the pavilion. “I don’t think we should try to guess that for ourselves,” he says.

 

Trucy hums with obvious discontent. “Why don’t you and Daddy get along, then?”

 

“What? We do,” Apollo insists.

 

“Not really.” Trucy nudges his foot with hers. “Today, in the car.”

 

“Well, him and Valant fighting is annoying. Don’t you think so too?”

 

“Not that, Polly, the other thing. You made him sad. Why?”

 

Apollo wilts under his sister’s stare. Sometimes it’s eerie, when she gets serious like this. Trucy is too perceptive and smart for her own good, sometimes. Apollo thinks he would do well to remember that.

 

“It’s really more complicated than that, Truce,” he says. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

 

“But—”

 

“Drop it, Trucy. Okay?”

 

Trucy pouts and turns her attention to the stage. “Fine,” she grumbles. “The show is about to start anyways.”

 

Apollo pats her on the head and tunes in too, fiddling with his bracelet. He takes a deep breath and prays that he doesn’t get a headache from Zak and Valant today.

 

He really, really wishes he didn’t have to deal with it anymore. He thinks maybe they’ll stop once Magnifi dies, and then feels bad when the idea cheers him up. Just before the show starts, Apollo casts one final, guilty glance at Trucy—he sincerely hopes she can’t actually read his mind.

Notes:

ngl i have spent the entire day finishing this chapter. it was an unexpected blast to write. thalassa gramarye the woman that you are... i miss her... capcom where did she go

Chapter 3: PART II

Summary:

They dump him into a small room with a table and a set of folding chairs, lit by half-burnt fluorescents on the ceiling. The room smells like cheap coffee and stale donuts, like something out of a bad buddy-cop movie. Apollo wrinkles his nose and lays his head on his arms, stomping his feet under the table in a half-hearted attempt at a tantrum.

--
In which Apollo gets his wish, and the monkey's paw curls.

Notes:

heyo. this chapter actually ended up being split in half, can you believe it? the rest is coming along, but since it was getting really long AND tomorrow (4/19) is Phoenix Wright Disbarment Day i decided to split it. (the last chapter was uploaded on Magnifi Dies Day, incidentally)

in honor of that, here is an alternate universe in which phoenix wright does NOT present that forged evidence.

So affections fade away / And do adults just learn to play / The most ridiculous, repulsive games? / On the faith of ruddy sons / And the double-barrel guns / You better hurry, rabbit, run, run, run

- The Shins, “Turn On Me”

 

The house is quiet enough to hear a pin drop as Apollo slinks down the hall, unable to sleep. He steps lightly over the creaky floorboards as he makes his way to the kitchen in the dark, fingers trailing along the wall. He pulls down a cup and opens the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk, and that’s when he hears it: Shadi’s voice talking to someone at the front door. Apollo pauses, stock-still in the light from the open refrigerator, and listens.

 

“Is there anyone you can think of who would want him dead?” the other voice asks, and Apollo’s heart stops. Cautiously, he pokes his head around the corner and peers down the hall. He can’t see very well past Shadi’s broad silhouette, but the red and blue glow of police lights flashing like shadows against the walls and floor is unmistakable.

 

“N-No,” Shadi chokes. “I can’t imagine. I have no idea.”

 

“You sure?” the officer asks.

 

“I-I’m sure.”

 

“Alright, sir. If anything comes to mind, give us a call. We’ll be in touch.” The cop turns from the front stoop. “Real sorry for your loss, Mr. Enigmar.”

 

“Thank you, officer.” Shadi watches the officer get back into his squad car and then shuts the front door, leaning forward against it until the blinking lights recede into the eerie half-light of nighttime LA.

 

Finally, Apollo moves, reaching to close the refrigerator. His hand slips, and the door doesn’t shut as quietly as he means for it to. Apollo bites his tongue, waiting, and then, Shadi’s voice calls out, “...Apollo?”

 

Apollo takes a tentative step out of the shadow of the kitchen. “...Shadi?” he calls back.

 

Apollo’s stepdad runs a weary hand down his face. “Hey,” he grumbles. “How much did you hear?”

 

“He’s—” Apollo gulps. “He died?”

 

Shadi nods. “Shot,” he says.

 

Apollo’s hands start to shake. “What—Who—”

 

“I don’t know,” Shadi says sharply.

 

“What do we do now?”

 

“ You don’t do anything. You’re fifteen. You go to bed and pretend you didn’t hear any of it, understand?” Shadi’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. He takes a step away from the door, and Apollo gets a better glimpse of his face as his eyes adjust to the dark; he looks stunned, almost haunted.

 

“But—” Apollo tries.

 

“Apollo, go back to bed, now ,” Shadi says in a warning tone. “I mean it.”

 

Heart lurching, Apollo makes a strangled noise from his throat and scrambles back to his room as quickly and quietly as possible, nerves alight with confusion and terror that he doesn’t know what to do with. He gets back into his room and sits on his bed with the light on, trembling.

 

Apollo leans back against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. He tries to sort through the noise in his head, figure out what he knows and what he doesn’t and why he’s so scared , but his mind won’t stop going in circles.

 

He doesn’t get much sleep that night; by the time his hands stop uncontrollably shaking and he feels like he can move again, the sun is already beginning to spray its early dawn light through the window blinds. Before Apollo can finally doze off, intent to sleep all of Sunday morning away, Trucy barrels into the room, collides with his chest, and bawls.

---

They don’t get much of a chance to talk about it. The police return in the evening of the fourteenth with a warrant for Shadi’s arrest under suspicion of the murder of Magnifi Gramarye.

 

As they put him into the back of a squad car, with Apollo and Trucy watching from the front stoop, the great Zak Gramarye turns toward them and grins broad and bright into the day’s dying sun. He tips his hat—he wore his full costume today, like he knew they might be coming—but says nothing. Apollo can see it for the mask that it is; Trucy doesn’t. Or, perhaps more accurately, she’s grown up so used to everyone around her putting on airs that she knows no difference between the mask and what lies beneath it.

 

Either way, Trucy is bright-eyed and undeterred when the police lead the two of them towards another officer’s waiting car. Apollo, sleep-deprived and confused and with all of his nerves still standing on end, slaps the first officer who touches him and earns himself a much rougher ride to the station in return.

 

They dump him into a small room with a table and a set of folding chairs, lit by half-burnt fluorescents on the ceiling. The room smells like cheap coffee and stale donuts, like something out of a bad buddy-cop movie. Apollo wrinkles his nose and lays his head on his arms, stomping his feet under the table in a half-hearted attempt at a tantrum.

 

It feels like hours before someone new finally comes into the room where they’re keeping him. A wide man lumbers into the room in a green trench coat that looks like it’s seen better days as much as the man wearing it has. He slumps into the seat across from Apollo and it creaks as if begging for mercy. Apollo can relate.

 

“Hey there, pal,” the man says. “I’m Detective Dick Gumshoe. You’re Apollo, is that right?”

 

“Your name’s Dick?” Apollo blurts, and then promptly slaps his hand over his mouth. He knows what cops do to kids like him for mouthing off, and he already did so much of that on the ride here that his throat hurts.

 

The detective takes it in stride, though, only giving Apollo an unimpressed look. “Yeah, haha, very funny. It’s Richard, actually, but I only get called that when my salary’s gettin’ cut.”

 

Apollo lowers his hand to his lap. “Where’s my sister?”

 

“She’s just in the other room; I checked on her before I came in here. We just wanted to talk to you one-on-one for a bit.” Gumshoe produces a little notepad from somewhere in the depths of his coat and plucks a pen from behind his ear. “I understand you gave some of my men a hard time?”

 

Apollo scowls. “You can’t keep me here. I’m not a suspect and I’m not under arrest, am I? If I am, then I want a lawyer.”

 

Gumshoe’s eyes soften. He looks like a kicked puppy and not a cop, which is very confusing for Apollo. “Well… No, but unfortunately you’re a minor with no one to look after you right now, so… For now we can keep you here, actually. But you’re not in trouble, pal, I promise. Just wanna ask you a few questions.”

 

“Great, well, Shadi didn’t do it, so you can let him go now. And then you can let me and Trucy go home. Is that all you wanted to know?”

 

The detective doesn’t falter. “Why don’t you tell me more about Zak Gramarye—er, Shadi Enigmar. He’s your old man?”

 

“My step dad,” Apollo spits.

“I see. Can I ask why you don’t think he did it?”

 

“Can I ask why you think he did?”

 

Gumshoe winces. “Well, you see… No, you can’t. But the evidence does point to him as the only possible suspect. Besides, we have a decisive witness. So I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

 

“A witness? Who!?”

 

“I can’t tell you that either, pal.”

 

Apollo crosses his arms over his chest. Why is he so convinced Shadi wouldn’t do such a thing? It’s not like he’s ever been particularly aggressive or violent, sure, but even though it was an accident, he did shoot—he maybe shot—-he—Apollo backtracks, playing last night’s scene over and over in his mind to try and deduce if there is anything he missed. It was dark, sure, and Apollo wasn’t wearing his bracelet, but surely if there was anything worth noticing then he would have picked up on it. Right? Surely even a trained showman can’t fake everything. Right?

 

“He just wouldn’t do that,” Apollo decides. “He’s just not that type of person.”

 

“You know, pal, in my years as a detective I’ve heard a lot of folks say the same thing about people who turned out to be big-time crooks.”

 

“You don’t believe me. Why are you wasting my time if you don’t believe me?”

 

Gumshoe puts down his pen. “I believe you’re telling me the truth as you see it, pal,” he says. “But I also believe what the evidence is showin’ me, and I also know sometimes we only see what we want to see and not what’s really there.”

 

Apollo doesn’t say anything.

 

“Let me ask you something else,” Gumshoe says. “Why don’t you tell me what life at home was like? It was just you, the little sister, old man Gramarye, and your stepdad, is that right?”

 

“That’s right,” Apollo relents. “Well, Magnifi was in the hospital for the past year. But otherwise, yeah, it was just us. Magnifi’s other student was around a lot, too.”

 

“Valant Gramarye?” the detective asks.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Gumshoe rubs his neck. “Ah! Well, you know… The famous Troupe Gramarye, and all! I do my research!”

 

Apollo squints. Gotcha. Valant’s probably the witness, then. Fucking asshole.

 

“I noticed you called him Magnifi. You never called him Grandpa? Or Gramps?”

 

“No,” Apollo admits. “Just Magnifi. Or ‘sir.’”

 

“I see. And how was it growing up with your stepdad? I know it’s tough for a lot of kids when their mom remarries.”

 

Apollo’s stomach clenches. There’s no way he’s going to explain all of that to the cops. If the detective doesn’t already know all the grisly details of where he came from, then Apollo certainly isn’t about to tell him.

 

“It was fine,” Apollo says curtly.

 

“Just fine? You seemed pretty set on what kind of person he is just a couple minutes ago. What’s your opinion of Mr. Gramarye—Er, Enigmar?”

 

“That he’s stupid and annoying,” Apollo snaps. Then he falters. “...But he's not a bad person, and he clearly loved my mom a lot.”

 

Gumshoe scribbles something down on his notepad. He leans forward and asks in a low voice, “I’m sorry to be so blunt about asking this, but do you feel safe at home? There’s never been any…” Gumshoe hesitates, tilting his head as he searches for a delicate way of phrasing it. “Any threats, verbal or physical, or any violence towards you, or to your sister that you know of?”

 

Every vein in Apollo’s body ices over. His chest constricts as he remembers snarled threats and bruises that took weeks to heal, the sound of twin gunfire, the scream, the—the—

 

Apollo’s mind blanks. This is about Shadi, remember, he tells himself.

 

“No,” he says quickly. “Nothing like that.”

 

“That’s good,” Gumshoe says with obvious relief, like an idiot. “Is there anything else you want to share with me?”

 

“No,” Apollo says. “Can I go home now?”

 

“Well… No, pal,” the detective admits. “Not until we get the social worker to sort things out. But I can take you back to your sister, now, if you promise me you won’t pick a fight anymore.”

 

“Tell your officers not to touch me, then,” Apollo grumbles.

 

“You got it, pal. I’ll keep the boys in line. Come on, let’s go.” Gumshoe stands and nods to the door in a gesture for Apollo to follow him out. Apollo shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks out of the tiny room to find Trucy sitting on a bench where other officers are keeping an eye on her. She’s very valiantly—and noisily—attempting to slurp the last bit of juice out of a juice box, and drops it on the ground when she sees Apollo.

 

“Polly!” she cries, throwing her arms around him. She digs her chin into his chest, staring up at him with a serious expression. “Are you okay? Those mean ol’ policemen didn’t hurt you, did they?”

 

Apollo plants a hand on top of her head, feeling a knot untie itself in his chest and his nerves finally settle. “I’m fine, Trucy. Are you okay?”

 

“Mmhm! I told a nice officer lady about Daddy, and we talked about you, and I had some juice. Did you get any juice, Polly? You need your vitamins!”

 

“Hang on, Truce.” Apollo pulls away and holds Trucy by the shoulders. “What were you talking about me for?”

 

Trucy tilts her head. “The lady asked if you yell at me when we’re at home,” she explains. “Which I thought was silly. I told her you take care of me when Daddy’s busy and you only yell at bullies. She said she understood, but between you and me, I think she was lying.”

 

“I… I see,” Apollo says. He turns to glare at Detective Gumshoe, but the man is already engaged in a very animated conversation with someone over the phone.

 

“Did you talk about me with Mr. Detective?”

 

“No,” Apollo admits. Lying to Trucy would be stupid with that bug-eyed stare she’s giving him.

 

“Oh.” Trucy frowns. “Why didn’t you tell him what a great sister I am?”

 

The misdirection comes more naturally than ever before: “Why waste time pointing out the obvious?” Apollo ruffles his sister’s hair.

 

Trucy giggles, and in that moment, her happiness is the only thing that matters.

In the end, it’s agreed upon that Apollo can watch Trucy at home for a few days until the trial, provided a social worker checks in on them periodically. The detective drives them home in his beat-up squad car and leaves them with a jovial smile and a promise that things will work out how they’re meant to. Apollo makes a late-night dinner of boxed mac and cheese and gets Trucy to bed on time. He doesn’t even bother trying to get her to sleep in her own room; she drags her pillow and her favorite stuffed rabbit into his room straight away and makes herself at home in the increasingly cramped space between Apollo and the wall.

 

It ends up not mattering, really—for the next several days, Apollo barely sleeps a wink.

 

---

They finally talk to Zak again the morning of the trial.

 

He’s finally picked a lawyer overnight, it seems—Phoenix Wright, of all people, and Apollo almost wants to reach through the glass and punch his lights out for it.

 

“You got Phoenix Wright as your lawyer?” he squawks.

 

“Yes.” Zak raises a bushy eyebrow. “He’s an honest man.”

 

“That’s Polly’s favorite lawyer,” Trucy chirps. Apollo slaps his hand over her mouth; she licks his palm, and he squawks some more.

 

“Listen,” Zak says. “You can trust that lawyer if you need anything while I’m not around.”

 

Apollo narrows his eyes. “Why’d you take until the night before to decide that?” he asks.

 

Zak laughs heartily. He’s still wearing his stage outfit, even in detention. “You worry too much, boy! A magician never reveals his secrets.”

 

“Did he beat you at poker?” Apollo deadpans.

 

Zak’s laughter cuts off abruptly. “I wish you kids could turn off those eyes of yours.”

 

“Maybe you’re just really obvious.”

 

Trucy pipes up, “Wait, Daddy lost at poker?”

 

“Don’t rub it in, sweetheart,” Zak chuckles. Then his voice takes a serious tone. “Can I talk to Apollo for just a second, Trucy?”

 

Trucy pouts, but relents, scurrying out the door to wait. When the door to the visiting room closes again, Apollo looks at his stepfather, taking note of the subtle slump of his shoulders, that haunted look that’s returned to his eyes. Apollo doesn’t know if he should feel special that Shadi isn’t keeping up his performer’s mask around him, or so insignificant that Shadi doesn’t feel he’s worth performing for.

 

Then again, when has Apollo ever been special to him?

 

“Apollo,” Shadi says. “Have you been looking after her?”

 

“Of course I have.” Apollo frowns. “Shadi, did you—did you actually do it?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

Apollo studies his face, reads his every twitch and tic for some kind of a sign, an answer, but comes up empty. “...I don’t know what I think,” he answers quietly.

 

It seems to be the answer Shadi expected, because he just smirks.

 

“The old man had me in a chokehold these last three years,” he says. “I don’t plan on letting him do so from beyond the grave.”

 

“So did you do it or not?”

 

Shadi shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what you or I think, now does it?”

 

“It matters to me. I want to know the truth.”

 

“Then if you ever listen to anything I tell you, make it this one.” Shadi leans forward. “Sometimes the truth is a real ugly thing.”

 

“I know that,” Apollo says, beating back the memory of twin gunshots and screams and his grandfather’s fist.

 

“Then I’ve got nothing left to say to you. You can tell Trucy to come back in.”

 

“Fine.” Apollo gets up from his folding chair and stalks over to the door. Before he goes, he turns and says, “...I’m going to believe in you. It’s what Mom would do,” and revels in the sickly, defeated expression on Shadi’s face as he leaves the room.

 

Apollo shoos Trucy back inside alone to wish her father luck, and lurks in the hall avoiding the eyes of the guard while he waits. Trucy is gone for a while, and comes back out beaming like her dad isn’t behind bars. Apollo finds that his hand is still shaking, and the urge to punch Shadi hasn’t gone. It doesn’t, not for the entire bus ride to the courthouse, and not for a good while after that.

---

When Apollo leaves the courthouse bathroom, Trucy is standing in the hall bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, holding a sheet of paper in her hands. She’s craning her neck to see past all of the people milling about, focused on the door to the defendant’s lobby.

 

“Trucy, what do you have there?” Apollo asks.

 

“Polly!” Trucy says with a toothy grin. “Did you have a good poop?”

 

“Sure.” Apollo takes the paper out of her hands. “What is this?”

 

“I dunno,” Trucy admits. “A nice man gave it to me just now. He said to give it to the old boy in the blue suit. It’s a very important mission!”

 

Apollo sighs. “What did I tell you about accepting things from strangers? Wait. Blue suit? Phoenix Wright?” Quickly, Apollo scans the document. It looks like a page from a diary—it’s Magnifi’s handwriting, but something is strange about it…

 

“Who?” Trucy pipes up.

 

“Your dad’s lawyer! Phoenix Wright, the attorney?”

 

“Ohhh! Mr. Attorney! Daddy said we could trust him. This must be important, then!”

 

Apollo furrows his brow. “I don’t know, Truce. A random man gave this to you? He didn’t look familiar to you at all?”

 

Trucy frowns. “I don’t think so…” She starts wringing her pink cape in her hands. “Polly, did I do something bad?”

 

“I… No, Trucy, you didn’t know any better. Let’s just forget about this, okay?”

 

“But it could be important! It could help Daddy!” Trucy stomps her feet indignantly, drawing scowls from passersby. Apollo plants the palm of his hand on the top of her head and pushes down until she stops.

 

Apollo studies the paper again. If this is really out of Magnifi’s diary, it has the potential to clear Shadi’s name. It almost seems too convenient; why would some mystery man Trucy didn’t recognize have this in his possession?

 

“We can go show it to Mr. Wright and let him decide,” Apollo concludes. “But no more talking to strangers without me, okay?”

 

Trucy’s face brightens. “Okay!” She grabs Apollo’s hand and tugs. “C’mon, we gotta hurry!”

 

“Okay, okay, jeez…”

Phoenix Wright is alone in the defendant’s lobby when they find him, pacing in circles with a binder full of notes in his hands. Apollo freezes, suddenly face to face with his idol, and Trucy skips forward without a care in the world.

 

“Excuse me, old boy!” she calls.

 

“T-Trucy!” Apollo hisses.

 

Phoenix Wright jolts and spins around on his heel. “Old boy?” He meets Apollo’s eyes across the room, frowns, and then looks down and sees Trucy peering up at him like a bug. “...Oh. Hi there, kiddo. That’s a cute outfit you have on.”

 

“Thank you!” Trucy does a little spin with her arms out at her sides, fluttering her cape. “I’m a magician!”

 

“I see.”

 

“Do you wanna see a trick?”

 

“Oh! Well, uh—”

 

Apollo snaps out of his starstruck trance and darts forward. “Trucy, don’t you dare—”

 

He’s not fast enough; Trucy (very obviously, might he add) reaches around her back and pulls the little lever behind her cape, and that horrible puppet springs forth out of whatever pocket dimension he came from. The famed attorney Phoenix Wright yelps like a schoolgirl and drops his binder on the floor.

 

Apollo’s expression blanks. He feels the hero worship drain out of him forever.

 

“Trucy, put Mr. Hat away ,” he snaps. To Mr. Wright, he says, “I’m sorry, she doesn’t understand boundaries yet.” When Trucy shows no signs of listening to him, he reaches behind her back and packs the wretched thing away under her cape himself.

 

“Um, that’s alright,” Mr. Wright says once he’s regained composure. “Listen, you two, I don’t exactly have a ton of time, so—”

 

“Polly!” Trucy interrupts, tugging on his sleeve. “Give him the paper!”

 

“Right…” Apollo sighs and holds out the sheet. “You should take a look at this.”

 

Brow furrowed, Mr. Wright takes the paper and scans it quickly. “Where did you get this?”

 

“A man gave it to me in the hallway!” Trucy chirps.

 

“A complete stranger ,” Apollo clarifies. “I was in the bathroom. A stranger approached her while she was alone and gave her this, and said it was for you.”

 

The furrows in Mr. Wright’s brow grow deeper still. “Is this…”

 

“I don’t think it’s real,” Apollo blurts out. “I don’t know where it came from, but it can’t be real.”

 

“Okay, that’s…” Mr. Wright trails off. “Sorry, kid, but who are you?”

 

“I’m Trucy Enigmar!”

 

Apollo yanks Trucy aside and holds her behind his back. “Apollo Justice.”

 

“He’s my big brother!” Trucy says from behind him.

 

“ Half. Brother.”

 

Trucy blows a raspberry at his back.

 

Mr. Wright’s face lights up with recognition. “Enigmar, huh? I see.”

 

“Magnifi Gramarye was my—our—grandfather,” Apollo explains. “Shadi is my stepdad.”

 

“Oh! I’m, uh, very sorry for your—”

 

“Don’t be,” Apollo says flatly, even as Trucy’s hand tightens on the back of his jacket.

 

Mr. Wright reels for a moment, and then nods. He glances down at the paper in his hands again, frowning. Apollo can almost see the wheels turning in his mind, drawing conclusions in real time.

 

“If you don’t trust it, then I don’t trust it,” he decides.

 

Just then, the bailiff calls for his attention. Quickly, Phoenix Wright looks over both shoulders and steps closer to Apollo.

 

“Mind if I hang on to this?” he asks. “I’ll look into it later.”

 

Apollo nods. Phoenix slips a business card out of his pocket and presses it into Apollo’s hand.

 

“I gotta go. If either of you remember anything at all about it, give me a call, okay?”

 

“O-Okay,” Apollo says.

 

As Phoenix Wright hurries off through the courtroom doors, Trucy calls out, “See ya later, old boy!” She gets a wave in return, but behind Phoenix’s easy smile, Apollo can sense a deep uncertainty. He wonders if it’s anything like the worry that swirls in his own stomach, even now.

 

---

It’s almost poetic, the way it happens: Zak Gramarye, AKA Shadi Enigmar, AKA Apollo’s stupid fucking stepdad, disappears in a puff of smoke, and the entire courtroom—and Apollo’s life—explodes into chaos.

 

In the resulting mayhem, Apollo instinctively reaches for his baby sister’s hand, only to be met with dead air. He whips his head around to find the space beside him empty, like a little Trucy-shaped hole in the universe. Immediately, panic wells in his chest as he climbs over swathes of onlookers in the gallery and cranes his neck to see around every possible nook and cranny.

 

“Trucy?” he calls out frantically. “Trucy, come back out here!”

 

A few people try to stop him, ask him if he’s alright, but he pushes them all aside and shoves his way into the lobby. It feels like hours have passed by the time he finds Trucy, sitting alone on a bench with her hat in her lap.

 

“Trucy Enigmar!” he yells, running to her side and squatting beside the bench. “Trucy, don’t run away like that!”

 

Trucy tilts her head. “I didn’t run away. I said I was going to the bathroom a while ago and you said ‘uh-huh’ so I left.”

 

Apollo flushes; he was so engrossed in the trial that he didn’t even register what she said. Could you blame him? His stepdad is on trial for killing his grandfather, his idol is up there defending him, and now Valant’s under suspicion, too. Plus, after what happened this morning, Apollo hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that something strange is going on. He supposes now those anxieties have come to fruition.

 

Apollo sighs and rubs his temples, a mannerism Clay tells him makes him seem like a middle aged man. “Truce, you can’t just go wandering around the place without me. I’m in charge of you!”

 

“Well then be in charge of me better,” Trucy shoots back, sticking out her tongue. “Did you like Daddy’s trick or not?”

 

“No, of course I—Wait.” Apollo’s blood runs cold, his mind screeches to a halt. “Did you know he planned that?”

 

“Did I know?” Trucy pouts. “I told you today was my first performance, don’t you remember?”

 

Apollo grips her by the shoulders; she flinches. “Trucy. What do you mean by that? Your first performance?”

 

“I-I was just helping,” Trucy whimpers. “Daddy asked me to!”

 

“What exactly did he ask you to do?” Apollo’s grip tightens. “What did you do , Trucy?”

 

“I just helped with his escape trick!” Trucy insists. “Polly, why are you getting mad? He’ll come back soon, he always does!”

 

Before Apollo can get another word in, the defense lobby doors fly open and Phoenix Wright comes stumbling through, hair flying every which way. His eyes land on the pair and his shoulders droop.

 

“It’s you two kids,” he says, hurrying over. “Do you know where your dad is?”

 

Apollo glances at Trucy, eyebrows raised. She shrugs.

 

“He didn’t tell me where he would disappear to, only that he’d be back!” she says in a tone too cheerful and trusting for someone whose father just vanished without her.

 

Mr. Wright’s face does somersaults. In Apollo’s mind, the pieces slot together: If Shadi reappears, he’ll be arrested not only for his existing charges, but new ones on top of that for evading the police. There’s no way he’s just going to snap his fingers and reappear before them in a puff of smoke; it would be suicide. This was an escape, not just a parlor trick for attention. It could not be any clearer.

 

Shadi’s not actually coming back.

 

"Did you find him, Mr. Attorney?” Trucy asks.

 

Mr. Wright blinks. “Oh. Well… No, not yet. The police and the bailiffs are looking, but it doesn’t seem like he’s anywhere in the building.”

 

Trucy sobers considerably. “Well, he’ll show up eventually. Maybe once all of this court stuff is over!”

 

“I'm sure he will,” Mr. Wright says. Apollo's vision catches on a subtle twitch in his eyebrow; Trucy doesn’t seem to notice.

 

Reality sinks in cold and cloying in Apollo's stomach. Shadi is gone now too, and Thalassa, and—back and back and back, they always disappear. There's never closure, never a coffin, never anything to hold onto. It's all just secrets and subterfuge and broken promises, and if there’s really no one to take custody of them, Apollo and his baby sister are going to end up in the foster system, separated—

 

“Polly?” Trucy's voice beckons. Apollo blinks; she's standing in front of him, patting his knees. Phoenix Wright is arguing with Detective Gumshoe in the corner of the lobby.

 

Apollo's fist clenches in his shirt, breath coming fast and short. His chest feels tight, muscles taut; he tries to reassure Trucy, but no words come out of his mouth.

 

“Are you havin’ one of your episodes?” Trucy asks sweetly. “It's okay, Polly. I'll take care of you.” She steps forward and wraps her arms around his middle, nestling her chin on his shoulder. Her hair smells like the fruity children’s soap Apollo buys for her when he gets the groceries, and the reminder of what’s at stake makes Apollo almost lightheaded. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on Trucy’s solid presence, on her even breathing, on the fact that she’s still here with him safe and sound. He can’t help feeling like he’s drowning anyway.

 

“Can you hear me?” Trucy asks. Apollo nods as best he can. “Polly, you’re shaking a lot.”

 

“Uh oh,” Mr. Wright’s voice cuts in from somewhere else in front of Apollo, muffled like he’s underwater. “That doesn’t look good.”

 

“Mr. Attorney, Polly’s not getting better,” Trucy says dismally. “I’m supposed to hug him but it’s not working.”

 

Apollo tries again to say that he’s fine, but he only makes a horrible wheezing sound, which quickly devolves into hyperventilating.

 

“Oh, jeez. Detective Gumshoe? We may need to clear the area. This is like one of Edgeworth’s bad ones.”

 

The detective says something in response, but Apollo can’t make it out over the ringing in his ears. He’s barely slept at all since the night Magnifi died, and now his hands are numb and he can’t see and he can’t hear and he can barely feel Trucy’s arms around him anymore and his chest burns and the only relief he gets is when things finally, finally go black.

He comes to lying on his back on the bench, the fluorescent lights of the lobby beaming straight into his eyes. Trucy's hand is in his, her chin resting on his arm from her spot on the floor beside him. Apollo turns his head toward her, and she lights up.

 

“Polly!” she cries. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” She gets to her feet and starts poking and prodding him.

 

Apollo swats her away and sits up. “I'm alright,” he says. His voice is ragged, and his chest still aches. He rubs the area with the palm of his hand, which makes Trucy frown as she sits on the bench beside him. A familiar blue jacket sits folded up where Apollo's head had been resting.

 

“Where's—where's Mr. Wright? And the detective?” Apollo asks.

 

As if on cue, Mr. Wright turns the corner, tapping furiously at the buttons on his ancient phone with a bottle of water tucked under his arm. When he sees Apollo is up, he shoves his phone in his pocket and picks up the pace, jogging over like a dork.

 

“Welcome back to the waking world,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Drink some water.”

 

“Thanks,” Apollo mumbles, taking a shaky sip. The water is blessedly cool against his scratchy throat. “What happened?”

 

“You were having a panic attack and fainted. Your sister said the passing out is new but the anxiety isn’t,” Mr. Wright explains. He pats Trucy on the head. “Thank you for bravely holding down the fort, kiddo.”

 

Trucy beams at the praise and holds out a thumbs up. “He was a model patient!”

 

“Alright, Dr. Trucy, lay off,” Apollo grumbles, poking her with the toe of his sneaker.

 

Mr. Wright steps back, scratching his head. Without his jacket, Apollo can see the sweat stains soaking through his shirt. Gross.

 

“So,” he says. “Do you, uh. Have any other family you can stay with?”

 

“No,” Apollo answers bluntly.

 

“What about Uncle Valant?” Trucy asks.

 

“One, he’s not actually our uncle, and two, he’s still in police custody.”

 

Mr. Wright seems to pale at that. He was the one who pointed to Valant as a possible suspect, after all. Apollo still isn’t sure what he believes, but he figures people don’t plan escapes if they believe in their own innocence. Or Zak didn’t trust his attorney as much as he claimed.

 

How many other times did Zak have an escape trick planned just in case, and never pulled the trigger? How long has Zak, has Shadi Enigmar, been willing to abandon his family? How long has he been willing to take advantage of his daughter’s trust to do it?

 

“Well, I guess as his attorney it’s up to me to settle his affairs,” Mr. Wright mumbles to himself. To Apollo and Trucy, he says, “I’ll… try to figure out what’s going on. Can you wait here until then?”

 

Trucy nods firmly. “Go do your lawyer stuff, Mr. Attorney! I’ll take care of Polly,” she says with a serious expression.

 

“Aye aye, Trucy.” Mr. Wright picks up his jacket and seems to think for a moment, before shaking it out and draping it over Apollo’s shoulders. “Is that alright with you?” he asks.

 

Apollo gulps. “Do I have a choice?”

 

“You always have a choice, kid. Will you be okay just the two of you? Do you know any, like, breathing exercises, or do you want me to teach you?”

 

“No, I’m sure we’ll be okay,” Apollo lies through his teeth. “I know them.”

 

Mr. Wright nods hesitantly. “Alright, if you’re sure. Gumshoe or I will be by to check on you, obviously, but holler if you need anything. Or, you know, call me. I gave you my card, right?”

 

“Yeah, you did.”

 

“Great. I’ll, uh, I’ll be back.” Mr. Wright pats Apollo on the shoulder and ruffles Trucy’s hair. “Hang tight.”

 

“Okay!” Trucy calls cheerfully after him as he hurries back through the halls.

 

At the last moment, he turns around and adds, “I’m gonna figure out what to do. Everything will be okay, I promise.”

 

Apollo studies him closely and finds no trace of a lie—it’s the commitment to what’s right that drew Apollo to Phoenix as his defense law idol in the first place. That doesn’t mean Apollo believes him, even so.

Hours pass slower than molasses and twice as sticky. They play a few games with the deck of playing cards Trucy keeps in her bag, and Trucy only wins most of them. People mill about in the courthouse, passing in and out of the lobby and staring at Trucy’s outfit as they do. At some point, Detective Gumshoe buys them a pack of Swiss rolls from the vending machine, and Trucy is sure to give Apollo the half with more icing. He doesn’t start panicking again, but it’s mostly been replaced by a numbness—a bone-deep exhaustion that makes the afternoon blur into early evening and leaves no energy for speculation on their uncertain future.

 

Eventually, Mr. Wright comes back to fetch them, with the news that the state is taking custody of them and they’ll be staying in a children’s home for the time being—at least until they find Shadi, or a relative to take them in. Apollo knows that’s code for “indefinitely”, but doesn’t have the willpower to fight it.

 

As they’re being driven away by the social worker, Phoenix Wright watches from the courthouse steps, clutching his jacket like it represents something precious. Apollo watches him in return—the tension rolling off his shoulders, his white knuckles, the pain in his furrowed brow. He chalks it up to effectively losing the case and nothing more.

 

To do otherwise would be foolish, and Apollo’s gotten tired of being played for a fool.

 

---

The second night in the children’s home, Apollo rises from his cot in the room he’s sharing with two other boys and slips away to the bathroom. He sits on the closed toilet, bleary-eyed in the harsh white light, and pulls out his phone.

 

It’s getting late—well past curfew and lights out—but Apollo can’t sleep. But it’s a different sort of insomnia than what he felt in the days before the trial, less exposed nerve ending and more uncontrollable swarm of thoughts. He knows it’s late and no one is going to pick up, he knows he should wait until morning, but he has to know.

 

Apollo spins the crumpled business card between his fingers. This, his only lifeline—a half-folded sweat-worn scrap of paper.

 

Before he can change his mind, Apollo dials the number, and waits. He’s surprised when, despite the hour, he gets an answer straight away.

 

“Phoenix Wright speaking.”

 

“Um. Hi,” Apollo says weakly.

 

“Hi?”

 

“It’s Apollo. Justice? From the Gramarye trial.”

 

“Oh! Hey, kiddo. What can I do for you?”

 

“Why’d you pick up so fast?”

 

“Working late,” Mr. Wright says breezily. “Is everything okay? You and your sister hanging in there?”

 

“Uh. Yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” It isn’t alright. It’s completely terrible. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

 

“Okay, shoot.”

 

Apollo picks at the hem of his pajama shorts. “Do you still believe he didn’t do it?”

 

“I believe in all of my clients, Apollo,” Mr. Wright says without missing a beat.

 

“You’re dodging the question.”

 

Mr. Wright pauses for a beat, and then says, “Yes, I still believe him. I presented all the evidence I could, and I still think I could have won. I’m sorry, Apollo.”

 

“I didn’t call you so you’d apologize,” Apollo says. “...So do you think Valant did it?”

 

“It’s… a possibility. But to tell you the truth, I really don’t know. I don’t know what really happened in that room.”

 

Apollo scrubs at his bleary eyes and is thankful that Mr. Wright can’t see him getting all teary over this. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

 

“I can’t decide that for you. All I can do is present the facts as I see them.”

 

“But the evidence only tells me why he probably didn’t shoot him, not why he wouldn’t. Those are two different things.”

 

“Sure. But you’d know that better than I would—I was only on the case for a day.” Mr. Wright sighs long and heavy. “Do you have a reason why he would ? Maybe whatever it was Magnifi was holding over his and Valant’s heads?”

 

Again, Apollo hears it: two shots, two screams, Thalassa’s body hitting the floor. His vision sharpens, blurs, sharpens—

 

“No,” Apollo says. “I don’t know, sorry.”

 

A heavy beat of silence passes before Mr. Wright concedes, “Alright. If there’s anything else you remember, or anything you need, just give me a call. And if there’s… any news, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Apollo says, knowing very well there will be no news. “Thank you.”

 

“Get some sleep. Goodnight.”

 

“G’night.”

 

Mr. Wright hangs up first. Apollo sits in the bathroom alone for another ten minutes before he finally retreats down the hall, past the room where Trucy is hopefully sleeping through the night without him, and back to his own bed.

 

The mattress is hard and the sheets are scratchy. When Apollo finally drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the hut in Khura’in, the mountain air, the crickets at night—and Nahyuta breathing softly, steadily, warm and safe and alive in the futon next to his.

Notes:

rip bozo

Chapter 4: PART III

Summary:

Phoenix Wright, legendary defense attorney, paces manic circles around his best friend’s office running on four hours’ sleep, two cups of cheap black coffee, and a dream. Or a nightmare, really, one that hasn’t let up for more than a week now and seems intent on lingering.

--
In which Phoenix Wright becomes a father. Well, sort of.

Notes:

hey would you guys believe me if i said i had to cut this chapter in half again. it felt like kind of a weird spot to split it but it makes the next part flow so much better. also otherwise this chapter would be more than 10k. but the next one's actually almost done this time and will be out soon! also isn't it crazy how i've accidentally lined this fic up super closely with the actual dates (not year obv)? genuine accident

anyway here's phoenix wright

Tremble for yourself, my man / You know that you have seen this all before

- Mumford and Sons, “Little Lion Man”

 

Phoenix Wright, legendary defense attorney, paces manic circles around his best friend’s office running on four hours’ sleep, two cups of cheap black coffee, and a dream. Or a nightmare, really, one that hasn’t let up for more than a week now and seems intent on lingering.

 

There’s that mysterious diary page that was probably forged, for one, and Phoenix has no clue where it came from. Something must have been rotten in that trial from the very beginning, something Phoenix couldn’t have predicted with only one day’s notice—which is another peculiarity about the whole case. And then, of course, more pressing is the matter of Zak Gramarye’s disappearance; a part of Phoenix believes he could have gotten him a not guilty verdict if just given a little more time, but Gramarye jumped the gun and dematerialized before the judge even had time to deliberate.

 

But most of all, what haunts Phoenix is not the magician’s vanishing act, but what—or rather, who—he left behind.

 

“Wright, are you certain about this?” Miles asks for probably the fourth time, even though the answer never changes. Phoenix huffs.

 

“Look, I just—I can't just let them fall into the system. They're going to get split up.”

 

“You're certain they don't have any living relatives?” Miles asks.

 

Phoenix stops pacing. “I've checked, Edgeworth. The police have checked. The social worker checked. There's no one.”

 

Miles’ expression softens. “I just want to be sure you understand what you're getting into,” he says. “This isn't going to be like it was with Maya and Pearl. This is formal custody we're talking about—you will be providing for these children, long term.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“And if Gramarye never returns?”

 

“Adoption,” Phoenix says. “If they want it.”

 

“Good god, Wright. You're serious about this.”

 

“Did you really think I wasn't?”

 

“No, I simply—” Miles pinches the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me for being wary of putting two orphans in a foster home without considering the potential for harm.”

 

“Don't compare me to von Karma, Edgeworth.”

 

“I'm not,” Miles says firmly. “I would never do such a thing. I am only imploring you to make absolutely certain you are prepared for an undertaking of such a delicate nature.”

 

“Miles. I won't pretend I'm ready to be the perfect dad or guardian. But I also know that I'd never forgive myself if I let those two kids end up in a situation with someone who doesn't care about them. They deserve someone who wants to give them a normal life. Don't you think?”

 

Miles sighs. “You turned that one around on me quite masterfully, I must say.”

 

“That's what I do.”

 

“Please promise me you aren’t just making a snap decision out of guilt, or some sense of obligation.”

 

“I’m not,” Phoenix insists, and wilts at the unimpressed glare he gets in response. “Okay… Maybe a little bit. But I just—I already care so much about what happens to them and I can’t just throw them to the wolves. Getting tossed around from foster home to foster home—I think the lack of stability would kill Apollo. Honestly, I do.”

 

Miles gets that telltale furrow in his brow, the one he’s gotten since he was nine years old any time he senses some injustice that cuts deep into his heart. It’s touching, really—the man recently dealt with a string of rapidfire international incidents and still has bags under his eyes, and shouldn’t have to concern himself with Phoenix’s bleeding heart. But—fortunately or unfortunately—their history is very much written in blood, sweat, and tears, and so Miles listens.

 

“You really believe so?” he asks, and Phoenix takes to wearing treads in the carpet again.

 

“Eventually, yeah. I’ve stopped over there to check on them, and little Trucy’s hanging in there, but Apollo looks like he doesn’t sleep. Miles . It’s not a good situation—they’re gonna get split up .”

 

After a long beat, Miles says quietly, “The short time I spent in the system prior to von Karma taking me in were some of the very worst days of my youth.”

 

Phoenix stops and finally sits down across from Edgeworth, almost reverently. Miles rarely speaks so candidly about his childhood, and it feels so precious when he does.

 

“I can scarcely remember that time due to the trauma of losing my father,” Miles adds softly. “But I do believe it left me feeling rather unmoored for quite some time after that. I… shudder to think of children growing up in a similar situation. But, Wright… you cannot save all of them.”

 

“I know,” Phoenix says. “But I still have to try.”

 

Miles sighs. He smiles wryly. “You never change at all, do you, Wright?”

 

Phoenix grins. “So you'll help me?”

 

“I-I didn't say that! I'm going overseas again soon!”

 

“But it's true, isn't it?”

 

Miles rolls his eyes and grumbles like he's put out about it, but he's still smiling when he concedes, “Yes, yes, fine, I support you. I'll help you file the proper paperwork.”

 

“You're the best, Edgeworth. There's, uh, there's one more thing.”

 

His voice must give something away, because Miles’ demeanor changes. That furrow in his brow is back, with a solemn frown to match.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“The trial,” Phoenix says. “I think someone tried to set me up.”

 

“ What? ”

 

“Someone gave me a piece of forged evidence and the prosecution tried to bait me into presenting it in court. It's like he knew I had it.”

 

“Who gave it to you!?”

 

Phoenix hesitates. “...That part's not important. They didn't know what it was or where it came from.”

 

Miles stares at him incredulously. “Do you think the prosecution set you up?”

 

“Honestly? I don’t think so. He's 17, it doesn't seem right. Someone must have tipped him off.”

 

Miles sighs. “You're too trusting.”

 

“Maybe. But that's what my gut is telling me. Besides, I was only given the case the day before. How could anyone have known to set me up?” Phoenix leans back in his chair, hands over his face. “It doesn't make any sense , Edgeworth.”

 

Miles taps his forearm pensively, face scrunched in thought. Then he asks, “Who was his attorney before you?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if he had one.”

 

“Do the children know?”

 

“I don’t think so. Even if I knew, what evidence do I have?” Phoenix huffs, crossing his arms. “Do I ask that snot-nosed Prosecutor Gavin who tipped him off?”

 

Miles quickly shakes his head. “No, no, that could be dangerous. You don’t know what sort of individual we’re dealing with, Wright.”

 

Phoenix frowns. “You don’t think they’re listening to us right now, do you?”

 

Miles smirks. “Please. Don’t you know Gumshoe checks my office for wiretaps weekly?”

 

“You know, I don’t think I envy you at all, Edgeworth.”

 

With a chuckle—the sort that’s becoming less rare to hear from him these days—Miles says, “Please just… refrain from delving headfirst into this matter without thinking, alright? I will think about what we should do.”

 

“You’re going to help me?”

 

“Of course. I said I would, did I not?”

 

“No.” Phoenix tilts his head. It’s too easy to get a rise out of Edgeworth. “You pretty categorically did not say that.”

 

“Get out of my office.”

 

“Hah!” Phoenix stands and shoulders his backpack. “Love you too, Miles.”

 

Miles sputters indignantly as Phoenix leaves the room, cackling.

 

---

“Are you sure about this decision, Mr. Wright?” asks the social services representative Phoenix meets at the children’s home, and Phoenix is getting very tired of people questioning his choices. It was endearing when it was Miles, far less so when it’s a social worker who seems to want to keep two children from finding a home.

 

“Yes, I’m certain, Mr. Holm,” Phoenix says like a broken record.

 

“Mr. Justice will age out of the system in a few years,” Holm points out.

 

“So?” Phoenix looks up from the papers he’s signing with an incredulous expression. “He won’t age out of needing a home.

 

“Mr. Wright…”

 

“We agreed that Trucy and Apollo should not be separated, didn’t we? Now you think I should just take Trucy away?”

 

“Certainly not!” Holm waves his hands and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I just want you to be fully cognizant of the situation. What I don’t want is for you to take the kids home and then change your mind—that would be immensely more traumatic for them.”

 

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

 

Holm looks skeptical. “I don’t know, Mr. Wright. I’ve seen it happen a lot—troubled kids, especially troubled teens like Apollo, they don’t last long in foster homes. The adjustment is too much for both the child and the foster parent, and the parent gives them back up to the state.”

 

“If you think I’m going to do that, then you don’t know me at all,” Phoenix says, indignant. He was already dead set on taking Trucy and Apollo in before, but this meeting with Brigham Holm has lit a fire in his chest, hot and unyielding, at the sheer injustice of it all.

 

“No, I don’t. You’re right about that.” Mr. Holm sighs, crossing his arms. “That’s why I have to ask you these questions.”

 

“Everyone I love was a troubled kid at some point. I’m a lawyer , Mr. Holm, trouble doesn’t scare me.” Phoenix slides the finished paperwork across the table and leans back in his chair. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’m not leaving either of those kids behind.”

 

“Alright,” Holm relents. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

---

“...And then he said, don’t say I didn’t warn you, like it was some kind of gotcha!” Phoenix gestures wildly with his free hand, even though only Charley the plant is around to see it. “Can you believe that?”

 

“Yes, seems rather par for the course for the way our foster system operates,” Miles says evenly on the other line.

 

Phoenix stops pacing and huffs. “You’re no fun to complain to, Edgeworth.”

 

“My apologies. I was not aware I was someone you would choose to do so with.”

 

“Well, you picked up! Anyway, it’s despicable, isn’t it?”

 

Miles hums. “Of course, it’s deeply inhumane. Given the way children are treated, however, it’s—”

 

“Par for the course, I know,” Phoenix groans. He slumps in his desk chair and spins to face the bookshelf, still full from edge to edge with Mia’s old case notes and law textbooks. “...What if he’s right, Miles?”

 

“ Wright. Do not tell me you’re already having second thoughts,” Miles intones.

 

“I’m not! I just…” Phoenix sighs. “What if I’m not cut out for this? What if I’m still too naive, and I’m just making things worse?”

 

Miles' voice softens. “I would not have lent you my support if I had any such doubts about you, Phoenix Wright. After all, if you were so unprincipled as to throw in the towel at the first sign of a struggle, I suspect you and I would not be speaking right now.”

 

“...I was never going to give up on you, Edgeworth,” Phoenix says quietly.

 

“See? The social worker simply does not know you like I do. I trust my judgment over his.”

 

Phoenix cracks a fond smile. “Is that so?”

 

“Why should I respect the perspective of someone who would so brazenly besmirch an innocent child? Preposterous,” Miles spits, almost indignant.

 

“See!? It’s ridiculous! Get mad! This is why—” Phoenix’s phone beeps in his hand, and he checks the caller ID. “Uh oh. Maya saw my texts.”

 

“Do you have a will prepared? I shall file it for you.”

 

“You bastard. She’s gonna kill me.”

 

“You will be missed.”

 

“ Miles! ”

 

“Take care, Wright.” Miles hangs up on him. Grumbling, Phoenix picks up the call coming through on the other line.

 

“Hel—”

 

“Nick! Are you fucking crazy!?” Maya shouts down the phone, and isn’t that a refreshing change of pace?

 

“Hiiii Maya,” Phoenix says sweetly, spinning around in his chair and kicking his feet up on the desk.

 

“You are crazy. You are so out of your mind.”

 

“You know, I think you’re right.” Phoenix leans back as far as the old office chair will let him without squeaking like a dying animal. “But I’ve made up my mind. …Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

 

“No,” Maya says. “I think you’ll be a good dad. But you’re kinda freaking me out. This is a big step. What the hell actually happened?”

 

“It’s a really long story,” Phoenix says. Frankly, he’s not sure how much of that story he should tell her, what with that unknown forger’s scheme looming over him. “I’ll tell you in person soon. But… They need me. I don’t think they have anyone else, Maya.”

 

“Nick.” Maya’s voice turns serious in that way that reminds him of Mia. “Do you need me to come down there?”

 

“No,” Phoenix says, then amends, “Not yet. I want to get Trucy and Apollo settled in before I start having too many new people around.”

 

“You make a good point. Darn. I can’t wait to be an aunt, though.”

 

Phoenix laughs. “Apollo’s only a few years younger than you. I think if you tried to play that card, he’d freak out.”

 

“Ugh. Teenagers,” Maya scoffs, as if she herself is not nineteen. “What about Trucy?”

 

“Only if she says it’s okay,” Phoenix decides. “I don’t want to, like… make them think they have to see me as their dad, you know? If they want, I can just be their foster guardian and that’s it. Just so long as I can keep them safe.”

 

“You’re a good person, Nick. They’ll be in good hands.”

 

“Thank you, Maya. To tell you the truth, I’m pretty scared. Do you know what the social worker said to me?”

 

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your panicked wall of text that you sent me informing me that you’re a parent now,” Maya says pointedly. “What a shitty attitude. If someone said that about Pearly I’d be on the news.”

 

Ah, finally, there it is. Sweet, sweet vindication.

 

“Exactly!” Phoenix shouts into the ceiling, fist pumped high in the air. Bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, Charley’s leaves rustle as if in euphoric agreement.

 

---

Trucy leans her arms against the open window, sticking her chin out and watching the streets of LA pass by like an excitable dog. Her toes smack against the back of the passenger’s seat—her leg only stops swinging when Apollo places a hand on it and starts up again as soon as he moves, so by now he’s given up.

 

In the passenger’s seat, decidedly not scolding Trucy for kicking his chair, is Phoenix Wright. Apollo’s courtroom idol slash growing disappointment, and now his foster parent. Guardian. Caretaker. Whichever word Apollo wants to use for it—and he hasn’t decided yet. Driving the car, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in an obvious nervous tic, is famed prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, and somehow that’s even weirder than the whole brand new foster situation.

 

“Hey, thanks for giving us a lift,” Phoenix says under his breath.

 

“It’s no trouble,” Mr. Edgeworth replies in a low tone, casting a glance at Apollo through the rearview. Apollo puts on his best scowl; Mr. Edgeworth raises both eyebrows and returns his attention to the road.

 

“And thank you for not speeding,” Phoenix adds with a wry smile.

 

“I don’t speed,” Mr. Edgeworth sniffs. “How could I possibly? We practically live in LA traffic, Wright.”

 

Trucy’s head pops up, eyes wide and sparkling. “I wanna go fast!” she chirps.

 

Phoenix makes a strangled sound and grips the handle overhead for dear life, but Mr. Edgeworth just chuckles softly.

 

“Perhaps when you’re older, Miss Trucy,” he says.

 

Trucy pouts, fidgeting with the tassels on her cape. Apollo reaches across the backseat and pokes her round cheek until she giggles again. She’s upbeat, but Apollo can tell she’s feeling antsy and anxious about heading to a new home. He rubs his bracelet idly, feeling twice as nervous himself (as he has been about everything, for as long as he can recall).

 

The car makes a sharp turn onto a side street and rolls to a halt outside a stout apartment building. The sun is already sinking low over the other side of the street, reflecting gold and glittering off the windows. Someone rounds the corner walking a dog, and a little black and white cat watches enamored from the windowsill of a nearby townhouse.

 

“We’re here,” Phoenix says, unclipping his seatbelt. In the backseat, Trucy’s knee is already bouncing. “The office is a few blocks west, just a few minutes by bike. Thanks again, Edgeworth.”

 

“Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth!” Trucy pipes up, gathering her backpack from her feet.

“Of course,” Mr. Edgeworth says. “Ah—Just a moment, Apollo.”

 

Apollo tears his eyes away from the cat in the window. “Huh?”

 

Trucy and Phoenix are already out of the car. Mr. Edgeworth quickly pulls something from his pocket and scribbles on it with a pen from the glove compartment, then passes it back to Apollo. It’s a business card, marked with the official seal of the DA’s office. A second number is scrawled beneath Edgeworth’s information.

 

“The card has my office number, but I’ve written my personal number below,” he explains. “I’m often traveling these days, but if you ever need anything…” Mr. Edgeworth’s eyes dart awkwardly to and from Apollo’s reflection in the mirror. “Please don’t be afraid to give me a call.”

 

“...I don’t think I’ll need anyone to prosecute someone for me anytime soon,” Apollo says.

 

“Ah, that’s—”

 

Mr. Edgeworth is interrupted by Phoenix calling for Apollo from the front of the building, voice carrying through the open windows of Edgeworth’s sports car.

 

“Sorry, I think I gotta go,” Apollo says, shoving the card in his backpack and scrambling for the door handle. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Edgeworth.”

 

“Ngooh—Yes, quite,” Edgeworth stammers as Apollo makes a break for it, darting up the sidewalk before Phoenix has a chance to lose his patience.

It gets easier to remember that Phoenix Wright takes so many cases pro bono once Apollo sees how… mundane his apartment is. It's small, two bedrooms with a tiny bathroom and a cramped kitchen. His furniture is mismatched and probably secondhand, stuff he picked up as a college student and probably just kept. There are little knickknacks and memorabilia on shelves and on the walls, clutter on most surfaces. It sort of reminds Apollo, if he reaches far enough into the past, of Dhurke's old office-turned-hideout, but Apollo quashes that thought the moment it breaches the surface of his mind.

 

“So, uh, this is the place,” Phoenix says in that bumbling way of his, dropping his keys into a dish by the door and gesturing broadly at the space. “The guest bedroom only has a double bed for now until I can get a friend in here to help me replace it, so I guess that means you have to share. Or I guess take the couch.” He frowns, scratching his chin. “Or, uh, I guess I could take the couch and one of you can take my bed? Course, you'll end up sharing a room anyway—”

 

“We can share, Polly doesn't mind!” Trucy chirps. Phoenix sends Apollo a questioning look, as if to confirm.

 

Apollo shrugs. “It's fine. She's like velcro.”

 

Trucy blows a raspberry at him.

 

“Well, if you're sure,” Phoenix says. “I'm sorry there's not more space.”

 

“Better than the orphanage,” Apollo says flatly, and Phoenix winces.

 

“Right…”

 

Trucy bounces on her heels. “I think your house is very nice, Mr. Attorney!”

 

“Oh, well thanks.” Phoenix kneels in front of her. “And, uh, why don’t you call me… Nick?”

 

“Since we're a family now, can I call you Daddy?”

 

Apollo's hands twitch—Phoenix clearly spots it even as he's busy making a face like a dead fish, though he recovers quickly.

 

“Oh! Uh, sure! If that's what you want.” He glances meaningfully at Apollo. “No pressure, of course. Neither of you have to take that step if you're not comfortable.”

 

“Okay, Daddy!” Trucy beams.

 

“...Thanks, Nick,” Apollo says quietly, and Nick nods, the message having come across crystal clear. He’s briefly worried Trucy will make a fuss, but Apollo never called Shadi “Dad” before either, so Trucy doesn’t seem too bothered at all by it in the end.

 

“Well!” Nick claps his hands once and stands back up with a grunt like an old man. “I, uh. Make yourselves at home, I guess. I’ll start on dinner. Do you both like spaghetti?”

 

Apollo nods, while Trucy throws her hands up and cheers, “Spaghetti!” and a handful of confetti falls out of the secret pocket on the inside of her cape.

 

“S-Sorry!” Apollo stammers, already reaching down to pick it all up. Trucy, helpful baby sister that she is, pats him on the head. Nick doesn’t say anything at first. When Apollo glances up at him, with Trucy’s hand still running through his hair, Nick is giving him a strange look—head titled, eyes searching, the slightest furrow in his brow he’s trying to suppress.

 

“It’s no big deal,” Nick finally says, ruffling Trucy’s hair. “Feel free to rummage through my DVDs, if you want. I, uh, don’t have cable. Or Netflix.”

 

“DVDs!” Trucy says with awe. “How retro!”

 

Apollo revels in the psychic damage that inflicts on Nick, if the vaguely world-weary, constipated way he frowns is any indication. He finally takes a walk of shame to the kitchen, leaving Apollo and Trucy alone in the small living room.

 

Trucy finally squats down and helps Apollo pick up the rest of the errant confetti. She studies him carefully, cupping little bits of paper in the palm of her hand with great reverence.

 

“Polly,” she eventually says, “are you okay?”

 

“Huh?” Apollo jolts, dropping a few pieces back onto the carpet. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not happy,” Trucy says. “But this is good, right? We can stay here instead of that smelly building. We can trust him, remember? Daddy said so.”

 

“...It’s not that easy for me, Truce.” Apollo frowns at his hand, pushing loose confetti around in his palm.

 

Trucy hums and drops her full weight onto the floor, knees bent with her legs on either side of her. She starts poking at the carpet with her pointer finger, drawing invisible pictures on its scratchy surface.

 

“I don’t want you to be so sad,” she admits. “It makes me scared.”

 

“Trucy, I don’t mean to scare you.”

 

“ You don’t scare me.” Trucy looks him right in the eyes. “I get scared because I can’t make you better.”

 

Apollo’s heart stutters in his chest. “Wh—Trucy, that’s not your job.”

 

“Yeah it is,” Trucy insists. “I’m a magician! Making you smile—”

 

“I don’t care about that,” Apollo says, perhaps a bit harshly. Trucy pouts. “You don’t have to be a magician for me. Just be Trucy, okay?”

 

“But I like being a magician!” As if to prove it, Trucy grabs the last of the confetti out of Apollo’s sweaty palm and shoves it back into her cape pocket like he’s going to take it from her. “Why would you want me to stop?”

 

With a groan, Apollo flops backward onto the carpet. “Forget it. You don’t get it ‘cuz you’re little.”

 

“I’m not little! Watch!” Trucy scrambles to her feet. “I’m gonna pick out a DVD all by myself and we’ll watch it and then you’ll feel better just like magic!”

 

“Fine,” Apollo concedes, because there’s no winning against Trucy once she gets that little determined glint in her eyes.

 

Trucy disappears from view, and Apollo shuts his eyes and listens. He can hear Trucy flipping through DVD cases, and Nick cooking in the other room. It’s starting to smell like tomato and basil and garlic, and Apollo tries (and fails) not to let himself anticipate a proper home cooked meal.

 

After a while, the couch creaks, and Trucy’s head pokes up over the back of it.

 

“Polly?” she asks sheepishly. “I don’t know how to work a DVD player.”

 

“Because you’re little,” Apollo teases with a grin, even as he gets up to help her.

 

“Nuh-uh!” Trucy whines, kicking her feet behind herself. Apollo shushes her half-heartedly and rounds the side of the couch to show her how to work Nick’s elderly DVD player, all the while wondering whether Nick is listening to them from the kitchen—and wondering why that doesn’t scare him quite like it should.

Dinner is an awkward affair. Trucy babbles the whole time about her magic tricks—insisting that if they’re going to be a family, Nick needs a crash course—but Apollo keeps quiet, and Nick doesn’t push him to speak. After they’re done, Apollo politely thanks him for dinner (it was genuinely delicious, though he’s a bit loath to admit it) and retreats to his—their—new room.

 

Trucy’s practically out like a light before the clock strikes 8, so Apollo puts her to bed early. He makes sure she brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and tucks her into the double bed in Nick’s guest room. The sheets smell freshly laundered, in that vaguely clean unscented-laundry-detergent way, not like the overly floral stuff Magnifi used to like that always made Trucy’s skin flare up.

 

She peers up at him through half-lidded eyes, already almost out. “Polly,” she whispers.

 

“Yeah, Truce?”

 

“We get to have a sleepover every night now. Isn’t that cool?”

 

“You say that like we didn’t already,” Apollo says flatly.

 

“Not every night,” Trucy huffs, like it’s obvious. She spreads out like a little starfish. “And there’s more space!”

 

Apollo pokes her in the cheek. “There will be more space once we have our own beds.”

 

Trucy pouts. “You don’t wanna share?”

 

“Trust me, you won’t want to share forever, either.”

 

“Nuh uh. I’ll always want to snuggle, Polly.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah!” Trucy sticks out her tongue before settling down under the covers. Apollo smooths out her hair and reaches for the lamp.

 

“Alright, fine. Go to sleep, okay?”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Later,” Apollo says. “It’s not my bedtime yet.”

 

“Boo.” Trucy yawns and lets her eyes slip shut. “Night, Polly.”

 

“G’night.” Apollo flicks off the light and heads for the door, stumbling awkwardly through unfamiliar darkness.

 

He finds Nick washing dishes, humming off-key to himself. He nods in acknowledgment to Apollo when he comes in and hands him a towel.

 

“Here, I’ll wash and you dry,” he says.

 

Apollo accepts the towel and starts meticulously drying the pot from dinner. They operate in the quiet for a minute, before Apollo says, “You don’t have to worry about looking after Trucy.”

 

Nick almost drops the plate he’s scrubbing.

 

“Huh?” he says, wide-eyed. “Yes I do. What do you mean?”

 

Apollo shuffles nervously, wiping at the same spot on a glass over and over until it shines. “I can take care of her,” he says. “I mean, I have been.”

 

“Really? By yourself?”

 

“Well… mostly.” Apollo sets the glass aside and reaches for another. “Magnifi was sick for a long time, and Zak was just kind of…”

 

“Not exactly reliable?” Nick offers.

 

“Yeah,” Apollo concedes. “Especially without Mom.”

 

Nick hums in acknowledgment and goes back to scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dried tomato sauce. They work in an uncertain silence for a few moments, accompanied only by the sound of running water and the light clattering of dishes, before Nick finally speaks again.

 

“I appreciate that you’re so good with your sister, and it definitely makes this whole thing easier,” he says in a low voice. “But you’re also still a kid.”

 

“I’m fifteen,” Apollo grumbles.

 

“And that’s a kid, trust me,” Nick reiterates. He gets an odd, faraway sort of fond twinkle in his eye, there one moment and gone the next. “I don’t want you to spend all your time taking care of Trucy instead of going out and doing teenager stuff. That’s what I’m for. Don’t you have friends you’d rather be hanging out with?”

 

Softly, Apollo admits, “Just one.”

 

Nick blinks, but then just nods sagely. “Sometimes one’s all you need,” he says with a smile. He shuts off the sink; Apollo realizes that Nick has already finished washing the dishes while Apollo’s been mindlessly wiping the same plate for several minutes. Nick grabs another clean towel and gently pries the offending plate from Apollo’s hands.

 

“S-Sorry,” Apollo says, to which Nick only shushes him gently and hands him another wet plate to dry. Once he’s dried that one, Apollo sets it on the pile and stares down at his hands, wringing the damp towel between them. “She’s my sister. She needs me.”

 

“I know,” Nick says, drying the last of the cups. “You’re practically her whole world. But you don’t need to worry about providing for her every need, alright? That’s not what she needs from you.”

 

“How do you know what she needs?” Apollo snaps, squeezing the towel in his fists. Nick doesn’t miss a beat.

 

“I won’t pretend I know it all. I’m just saying I’ve known people in similar situations before, that’s all. You and I both want what’s best for her. Can we agree on that?”

 

“...Fine,” Apollo whispers, tossing the towel aside onto the counter with a harsh slap. Nick just watches him with an appraising look in his eyes, and discomfort sets in. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

 

“Night, kiddo,” Nick calls after him as he stalks away, nerves standing on edge, and shuts himself in the bathroom.

 

It’s oddly pristine , like Nick cleaned it obsessively before he and Trucy arrived. The toilet sparkles like it’s never been used before. Apollo almost feels like he’s tainting the space with his presence as he sets his toothbrush in the cup beside Trucy’s and washes up for bed, suddenly cognizant of every droplet of water he sprays out of place.

 

While he brushes, Apollo snoops through the cabinets. There are cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper under the sink. The medicine cabinet is stocked with a few spare toothbrushes, a razor, and exclusively medications in liquid form—not a pill or tablet in sight. Apollo shakes his head; can Nick really not swallow a pill at his age?

 

Once in his pajamas, Apollo slinks out of the bathroom unnoticed—Nick nowhere in sight—and returns to the guest room. Trucy’s still out cold; when he climbs into bed beside her, nudging her scrawny sprawled arms aside to make room, she whines but doesn’t wake. It’s still way earlier than Apollo would normally sleep, but the day’s events are catching up to him fast, and the only way he knows to extinguish the anxiety stirring in his chest, other than either having a crying meltdown or screaming, is to sleep it off.

 

The bed is a little lumpy, but still softer than the cheap cots in the children’s home, and Apollo drifts off easier than he has in weeks.

 

Having Trucy there with him, safe under one roof, is a welcome relief at last—not that he’d ever admit it.

 

---

Apollo’s arm brushes Clay’s where they’re squished together on the metro, packed in like sardines in a moving tin can. The hordes of people used to bother Apollo deeply, and though they still do (he much prefers to bike, but the Space Center is just too far from school), it’s nothing like it was before. The first time he took public transit had resulted in a nuclear level meltdown that landed him and his mother in a taxi instead. It’s been five or so years since then, and Apollo’s gotten a little more used to the breakneck pace of LA, though the press of people on all sides of him never fails to make his skin crawl.

 

Clay, being a little taller and a lot less prone to forgetting how to breathe, always makes an effort to shield Apollo from the worst of the crowds, when they can’t be avoided altogether. Apollo appreciates it, even though it usually means getting a noseful of Clay’s terrible, smelly body spray that he thinks makes him seem cool.

 

It doesn’t. Apollo already thinks his best friend is plenty cool, but what does he know?

 

“So,” Clay says, readjusting his grip on the strap above their heads.

 

Apollo squints. He knows that tone. “So what?”

 

“What do you mean, ‘so what’? Your new house, dude!”

 

“Oh.” Apollo should have known. “It’s fine. Trucy’s happy.”

 

Clay looks at him like he’s speaking Khura’inese. “Dude. That’s it? Isn’t Phoenix Wright your, like, lawyer crush or whatever?”

 

Flustered, Apollo jabs him in the ribs with a carefully placed elbow. “Keep it down! And don’t fucking phrase it that way, you creep!”

 

“Sorry, sorry, jeez!” Clay whines, rubbing his aching side. “But seriously, he’s like a huge role model, right? And now he’s basically your dad?”

 

“He’s not my dad,” Apollo snaps, louder than he means, and earns a few looks from fellow passengers for his trouble. “...Sorry, Clay.”

 

“No, it’s my bad, I should know better than to tease you about that.” Clay knocks their shoulders together. “But dude. I thought you’d be happier about this.”

 

Apollo sighs. “I am happy. Happy not to be in an orphanage. But that’s—that’s really all it is.” 

 

Someone bumps into his other side, and Apollo nearly yelps. Clay tries to shift in front of him to act as a barrier; the problem is now Apollo can’t so easily ignore the stubborn look he’s giving him.

 

“What’s wrong with him, then?” Clay asks.

 

“Nothing. It’s just… he’s just normal and it’s weird . I don’t want new parents, I don’t want to get attached—Trucy’s already attached, and I just—I don’t know, Clay. Do we have to talk about this right now?”

 

“No, I guess not,” Clay concedes. He glances over at the ticker. “Our stop’s coming up anyway.”

 

“Thank god,” Apollo murmurs. Clay just smiles at him.

 

“Just hang in there, buddy,” he says as the car rolls into their station. “You’re almost through the hard part.”

Apollo makes it home that evening by dinnertime, because he’s trying very hard to be good even though Nick’s already gotten multiple calls about him mouthing off at school.

 

(It’s not Apollo’s fault most of the earliest English words he learned from Datz were swears. It’s also not his fault most of his teachers deserve every foul word out of his mouth. It seems like no matter how diligently he does his homework, or how good his grades are, he’s still the kid with the funny accent and behavioral issues that he’s been since age nine. Why pretend otherwise?

 

The scary thing is that Nick loves to pretend otherwise. Even though Apollo’s caused him a mountain of trouble in only the few short weeks since moving in, Nick somehow still seems to think there’s something worth salvaging in him. It’s a trait that seemed admirable while watching old courtroom proceedings through a screen, but only looks foolish when applied to a kid like Apollo.)

 

“Hey, bud,” Nick says distractedly from the couch, hunched over a veritable mess of paperwork and binders sprawled across the cushions and the coffee table.

 

“Hi,” Apollo mumbles back, dropping his backpack on the floor next to the couch. It’s Friday—he’ll do his homework later.

 

“You came at a good time. Can I ask you something?”

 

Apollo fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Aren’t we gonna have dinner?”

 

“It’s in the oven. Come on, I want to ask you this before Trucy gets out of the bath.”

 

Apollo’s stomach churns. Warily, he nods. “Okay,” he says.

 

“It’s about that mystery diary page we think was fake,” Nick says. “Do you know if that’s the sort of thing Zak would have sought out?”

 

“I don’t think he’s smart enough to think of it,” Apollo says immediately. Then, flushing, he amends, “Well—Uh—He wouldn’t have had time. And I don’t think he could have ever read Magnifi’s diary to even know what to forge.”

 

Nick nods solemnly. “That’s what I figured, too. Thank you. You’re a smart kid.”

 

Apollo bristles, hands clenched into fists in the sides of his pants. “Is that why you wanted to take me in? Just to get information out of me?”

 

Nick’s face falls. “...No, kiddo. Of course that’s not why,” he says slowly. “I just wanted your opinion. Is everything okay?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Apollo says curtly, which isn’t really a lie, per se, but only because Apollo can’t tell what could possibly be wrong. It’s just that same old fear, magnified by the suffocating bus ride home from Cosmos.

 

You are trying to be good, remember? Apollo thinks, willing himself to calm down. No freaking out.

 

Nick is looking at him with a concerned expression, all knotted brow and piercing eyes. “Apollo?”

 

“If he knew about the forged page, he wouldn’t have run away,” Apollo says. “It wasn’t him.”

 

“Hey, I believe you.” Nick clears space on the other end of the couch and gestures for Apollo to join him. On numb legs, Apollo stumbles over to his side, thoughts running wild circles inside his brain.

 

“I don’t understand,” Apollo says haltingly, a hand on his chest. “Did Valant do it?”

 

“Well—The contents of the page would have exonerated Zak and put Valant back in the hot seat,” Nick explains gently. “So I doubt it.”

 

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Apollo forces out. “Did Valant do it?”

 

Nick pauses. His grip tightens on his pen. “I really, really don’t know, Apollo. We talked about this before.”

 

Apollo huffs.

 

“Seriously, is something wrong?”

 

“No, I just…” Apollo shakes out his hands. “Long day. Sorry. Can we stop talking about this?”

 

“Of course.” Nick sets aside his notes. “Hey, I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot and I shouldn’t spring questions on you.”

 

“It’s not a lot, it’s fine,” Apollo snaps, tucking himself into the furthest corner of the couch. He needs to exit this conversation now , so he can go have a mini-freakout alone in his room.

 

“Hey, easy,” Nick says with a placating gesture. “Take a deep breath, alright? Tell me what’s got you freaking out on me.”

 

Apollo shakes his head.

 

“Listen. I promise I’m not just using you for information. I’ll stop, okay?”

 

“No,” Apollo says. “If you stop you’ll never figure out what really happened and Trucy won’t ever see her dad again. You promised to prove him innocent, didn’t you? And you failed.”

 

“It’s—I know,” Nick says, suddenly sounding defeated. He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m gonna figure this whole thing out. Just—promise me you’ll leave it to me. I’ve got it under control.”

 

“Isn’t that what you told Zak?”

 

Nick lowers his voice. “It isn’t my fault he disappeared, Apollo.”

 

“I don’t care whose it is,” Apollo says. It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine, he thinks. I wished Magnifi dead and I should have been watching Trucy and I should have paid more attention and it’s all my fault. “Is that why you took me in? Because you felt bad?”

 

“No,” Nick says quietly, and Apollo doesn’t even have the energy to call him on the lie. Instead, he jumps up from his seat, ears starting to ring, and excuses himself to his room, ignoring Nick’s pleas for him to come back.

 

It’s only a matter of time before Nick tires of him, he thinks once he’s alone. Trucy’s an angel—already calling him her dad, staying out of trouble in school, only crying when it’s appropriate. Apollo? He’s never been someone anyone wanted to keep. Why should he get his hopes up about Nick being any different? How long before he realizes there's nothing about Apollo worth salvaging after all?

 

It would be better to have a clean break, probably. Less painful that way. But he can’t leave Trucy here right away—not until he knows for sure she’ll be safe without him.

Notes:

brigham holm? bring 'em home? is that anything

Chapter 5: PART IV

Summary:

The lights in the bathroom feel harsher than usual, stinging the space behind Apollo’s eyes. He feels worn out and spent and humiliated in a new way—somehow worse than passing out in the defense lobby is waking the whole house up screaming and crying and unable to breathe because he had a scary dream. How pathetic. If Magnifi were here, he’d—

--
In which Apollo makes a fuss, a mistake, and a promise, in that order.

Notes:

as promised, the chapter that got away from me. i'm getting back on the rails. i am on the rails

minor cw for medical talk and references to canon-typical trauma.

Do you also see your future starting with the farthest part / Live your life to close the space between the end and start

- Jhariah, “TRUST CEREMONY”

 

Over the course of the first couple of months Phoenix spends as a father-slash-guardian, he learns a few things.

 

He learns he likes cooking more than he thought, now that he has two very important reasons to cook proper balanced meals. Trucy likes to help, which mostly means mixing ingredients or scrubbing potatoes while trying to see how many times she can make ingredients disappear before he'll actually scold her (the limit is decreasing). Apollo knows his way around the kitchen, given that he apparently did most of the cooking for Trucy for the past few years, but he hates having anyone in the kitchen with him.

 

Phoenix also learns that he has the coolest little daughter in the world, even when she's making the salt and pepper disappear. She's smart and resilient and even though it does worry him that she latched onto him as a father so quickly, he can't say it isn't mutual. Yes, even when she's staring him down so hard he feels like his soul is being studied.

 

That's the thing about his two kids: They've got the most piercing stares in the world, and a nigh supernatural ability to catch him in a bluff. It's endearing when Trucy calls him out for pretending he didn't hide extra broccoli in her dinner, less so when she asks him when her Daddy is going to turn up.

 

Whereas Trucy's gaze is thoughtful, non-judgmental, and efficient in its hunt for misdirection and verbal sleight of hand, Apollo's is twitchy and frantic and always on the lookout for some kind of other shoe to drop, and it makes Phoenix worried. That's the thing with Apollo—it's like trying to socialize a stray cat that wants affection but attacks you when you get near it. Or, you know, gets panicked and shaky and gets into trouble at school. Same thing, really.

 

That's the other thing Phoenix learns, or rather, a series of things. Many of Apollo's teachers, and the social workers, and the staff at the children's home all seem to believe that Apollo is a deeply and irrevocably troubled kid: He has a potty mouth, he doesn't get along with other kids, and he has regular outbursts. But at home, when he isn't fighting Phoenix tooth and nail, he's rather well behaved. He does his homework and frequently has his nose in a book. He looks after his baby sister when asked. He talks back an amount that’s probably normal for a teenager with a guardian only a decade his senior and a million other problems to boot, and Phoenix has spent enough time around teens the past few years that he’s not really expecting the kid to do what he says, anyway.

 

So the thing that worries Phoenix about Apollo isn’t necessarily his behavior, but the things it reveals about him—or, in many cases, what it doesn’t.

 

It takes a while, but eventually Phoenix gets his hands on the kids’ paperwork: birth certificates, medical records, things like that. Trucy’s records are nondescript—the sorts of things you’d expect. But Apollo’s records have an unexplainable eight-year gap between infancy and the age of nine, a void where years of vaccine records and school paperwork and, hell, even photos should be. Phoenix would ask, but he knows with certainty that Apollo will only lash out if he does, skittish and secretive as he is.

 

Nevertheless, neither of the kids has apparently seen a doctor since their mother died (except for once last year, when Trucy got an ear infection), so Phoenix has to take them before summer’s end. And—even though Trucy does get very nervous about the whole affair—it’s not the eight-year-old he’s worried about.

 

In the clinic waiting room, Trucy leans heavily against his side, one hand wrapped around the lollipop in her mouth and the other gripping Phoenix’s sleeve. She got a little sniffly when she had to get her booster shots, but Phoenix is pretty sure the actual crying isn’t going to happen until they’re safely back home. For now, she’s been trying to put on a brave face. The nurses joke that it’s for his sake, being a young parent and all—but Phoenix knows it’s got nothing to do with him.

 

Earlier, Apollo went off to his appointment like a lamb led to the slaughter, all wet eyes and shaking hands. Phoenix offered to go with him, but Apollo rolled his eyes and fake-gagged at the very idea of it, even though they both know it’s going to be Phoenix picking up the pieces if Apollo kicks up a fuss with the doctor.

 

Trucy finishes off the last of her lollipop with a crunch and hops up to throw away the stick. When she comes back, she gives Phoenix a curious look with a little tilt of her head.

 

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” she asks, and god, Phoenix is still not quite used to her calling him that.

 

“Just wondering how your brother’s doing in there, kiddo,” he assures her, opening up his arm again so she can sit back down against his side. Instead, Trucy approaches him head-on, standing between his knees and staring him in the eyes.

 

“Polly’s brave,” she says.

 

“I know,” Phoenix says with a smile. “You both are. He just seemed a little nervous, is all.”

 

Trucy crosses her arms and hums to herself in thought—a mannerism that reminds him of Edgeworth, though there’s no way she picked it up from him so quickly.

 

“He’s probably nervous ‘cuz he doesn’t like to be around strangers,” she concludes. “Being poked by the doctor is kind of scary.”

 

“Yeah?” Phoenix reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind Trucy’s ear. “Do you think I should have gone with him?”

 

Trucy shrugs. “I dunno. You’re the grown-up, Daddy.”

 

Phoenix snorts. “True that, sweetheart.” He pulls her down to sit next to him. Trucy kicks her feet back and forth, leaving little scuff marks on the cushioned bench. The soles of her shoes don’t reach the floor. She’s tiny for her age, the doctor said—growing, still, just littler than most kids. Phoenix thinks all that growing she was supposed to do went to her brain instead; she’s sharp, that’s for sure, and probably more emotionally intelligent than Phoenix is.

 

“Daddy,” she says, tapping him on the arm.

 

Phoenix jolts and looks down at her. “Yeah, kiddo?”

 

Trucy wraps her little arms around his middle. “Do you get bad dreams?”

 

Where’s this coming from? Phoenix thinks. “Yeah, from time to time. Did you have a bad dream last night?”

 

She shakes her head. “Sometimes I do. Polly had a bad dream last night.”

 

“Oh yeah? Did he tell you what it was about?”

 

“No. He thought I was still sleepin’. But I was already awake before.”

 

“Okay.” Phoenix strokes her hair. “Okay. Thank you for telling me, Trucy. Does this happen a lot?”

 

Trucy shrugs. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

 

The thought flashes through Phoenix’s mind to put a baby monitor in their room so he’ll know if Apollo cries, but he immediately shuts that line of inquiry down before he can start thinking of ways to convince Apollo that he’s doing it for Trucy’s sake, even though Trucy is also decidedly not a baby.

 

“I see. You can always come wake me if you need me, okay?” he says.

 

“Okay Daddy.” Trucy curls up against his side once more, quietly waiting.

 

It’s not much longer before Apollo reenters the waiting room, exuding tension from every pore.

 

“Hey bud,” Phoenix says lightly, waving him over to their bench. Trucy perks up at the sight of her big brother, immediately producing a coin from behind his ear and ‘transforming’ it into a little crushed flower in her hand to make him smile. It gives Phoenix a chance to study him; Apollo’s eyes are clear and his cheeks are dry, but he seems shaky and on edge even as Trucy rests her cheek on his shoulder.

 

The doctor emerges from the hall and signals for Phoenix’s attention. Patting Trucy on the head, Phoenix gets up and follows him into a back office.

 

“Doc? Everything okay?” he asks as the doctor ushers him into a chair.

 

“Everything is fine,” the doctor says. “I just want to have a quick word with you about Apollo. Have you considered bringing him in to see a psychologist?”

 

“Huh? Well, no,” Phoenix admits. “He and Trucy have only been in my custody for a couple months.”

 

The doctor nods. “I see. I would recommend it—perhaps for both of them, actually.”

 

“Do you think he’s okay? I mean—I can tell he gets really anxious,” Phoenix says. “I just don’t know how much of that is to be, like, expected, you know?”

 

The doctor sighs. “Many children in foster care have emotional issues, particularly if they’ve experienced the loss of a parent. That those issues are expected does not mean they are not something to address, Mr. Wright.”

 

“I-I know that.”

 

“How is his behavior at school?”

 

Phoenix bristles. He immediately jumps to Apollo’s defense. “He’s a good kid, what’s it got to do with anything?”

 

“Nothing in particular.” The doctor scribbles down some notes for himself in illegible scrawl. “It’s just that these troubles often present as behavioral issues.”

 

Phoenix hums. A beat passes. “I’ll do what I can to help him. Is that all? I want to go make sure he’s okay, if you don’t mind.”

 

Although he frowns, the doctor relents, and Phoenix returns to the waiting room to collect Trucy and Apollo and call them a taxi home.

---

Phoenix doesn’t end up needing a baby monitor anyway. When it’s bad enough, he can hear Apollo loud and clear.

 

He’s yanked out of a deep sleep by Apollo screaming in the other room. As Phoenix scrambles out of bed, limbs tangled in a mess of sheets, each of Apollo’s ragged breaths feels like a jab to his own heart. By the time he makes it across the hall to the kids’ room, Trucy is kneeling on Apollo’s bed with her arms around him, awash in the glow of her little night light that’s just as much for Apollo as it is for her. Apollo is shaking, eyes squeezed shut with one hand clutching his chest and the other trembling limp in his lap.

 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Phoenix half-whispers as he slips into the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. Trucy turns toward his voice, all teary-eyed and solemn.

 

“Daddy, Polly had a bad dream,” she whimpers. “He’s hurting.”

 

“I know,” Phoenix says. “It’s okay. Apollo? I’m going to take your hand, okay?”

 

Apollo nods, letting Phoenix wrap his fingers around his. They’re clammy and shaking, weak even as they squeeze Phoenix’s for dear life, and it all gives Phoenix a painful sensation of deja vu. Every other breath out of Apollo is swallowed by a sob, wrenching its way out of his chest violently. He’s doubled over as if in pain, sweating through his pajamas. Phoenix doesn’t know what could have terrified him so badly—and perhaps he doesn’t want to.

 

“You’re alright, kiddo, try to breathe,” Phoenix coaxes gently. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

 

“Can’t,” Apollo chokes out. Trucy lifts her chin from his shoulder and looks at Phoenix, pleading.

 

He gives her a reassuring nod. “You can. Try to follow me, okay? You too, Truce.”

 

“ Can’t ,” Apollo repeats.

 

“Just try. Breathe in, hold—with me, kiddo, come on. Deep breath.”

 

Trucy follows Phoenix’s lead, prying Apollo’s other hand from his chest and cradling it in her own smaller ones. Apollo takes in one shuddering breath, and starts coughing.

 

“Good, good. That’s okay,” Phoenix soothes. “Give me another, nice and slow.”

 

Phoenix guides his breathing, counting out the inhales and exhales for him while Trucy follows along, holding Apollo’s hand tightly. It reminds him of the early days immediately following Hazakura, not so long ago really, he and Maya shepherding each other and Pearls through breathing exercises when the nightmares were at their worst. Even now, Maya still calls him from time to time asking him to walk her through it.

 

Apollo takes a good while to come down from the panic attack, to get his breathing under control. Slowly, though, he unfurls from his hunched position, and his vice grip on Phoenix’s hand loosens, and he opens his eyes.

 

“That’s it, you’re doing good,” Phoenix says gently. “See? You’re alright.”

 

Apollo nods slowly. He pulls his hand away from Phoenix—but not from Trucy—and rubs at the lingering ache in his chest.

 

“Polly? Are you better?” Trucy asks softly.

 

Apollo gives her a weak smile and pats her head with a shaky hand.

 

“Trucy, can you go get Apollo a nice glass of water?” Phoenix asks. Immediately, Trucy perks up with a serious mock salute.

 

“Aye aye, Daddy,” she says, and scampers off toward the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, Phoenix leans over and grabs Apollo a tissue to clean his face.

 

“You don’t have to tell me about it unless you want to,” he says to the boy’s wary frown. “Do you get nightmares like this a lot?”

 

“Sometimes,” Apollo says, voice hoarse from screaming.

 

“This one seemed pretty bad,” Phoenix says, reaching up to brush a lock of sweaty hair off of Apollo’s forehead.

 

“It’s getting worse,” Apollo admits, staring down at his hands. He clenches them into fists and unclenches them again. “I scared Trucy badly.”

 

“Aw, she’s okay. Your anxiety isn’t new; she told me as much herself.”

 

Apollo just shrugs, glum.

 

“You stayed conscious. That’s always good. How are you feeling now?”

 

“Sore,” Apollo grumbles. “Sweaty.”

 

“Yeah, having a panic attack will do that to you. Do you want to get changed or shower, or just go to sleep?”

 

“Shower.”

 

“Okay.” Phoenix glances toward the door at the sound of footsteps; Trucy scurries back into the room, a glass of water held reverently between both hands. “Drink up first, alright? Here—thank you, Trucy.”

 

Apollo accepts the cup with trembling hands and takes a few cautious sips. Phoenix keeps one hand poised to hold the glass to his lips should he lose his grip on it. Trucy shuffles from one foot to the other, waiting.

 

With relief, Apollo lowers the glass and says, “Thank you, T—”

 

“Drink!” Trucy commands, pointing. Apollo salutes and scrambles to finish his water. Once he’s drained the entire glass, he sets it aside on the nightstand and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

 

“Trucy,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Trucy shoots back. She darts forward and wraps Apollo in a hug that only makes him flinch for the briefest of seconds. “No saying sorry!”

 

Apollo just sighs and strokes her hair. After a beat, she pulls away, little nose wrinkled in disgust as she shakes her arms out.

 

“Polly, you’re stinky,” she whines.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Apollo says in a monotone.

 

Phoenix steps in and takes Trucy by the hand. “How about we let Apollo get cleaned up a little so we can all go back to bed,” he suggests. Trucy pouts, but nods, insisting upon choosing Apollo’s clean pajamas for him and pushing him out the door.

 

Phoenix just looks on with barely concealed worry as he and Trucy watch Apollo stumble down the hall to the bathroom in the dark.

The lights in the bathroom feel harsher than usual, stinging the space behind Apollo’s eyes. He feels worn out and spent and humiliated in a new way—somehow worse than passing out in the defense lobby is waking the whole house up screaming and crying and unable to breathe because he had a scary dream. How pathetic. If Magnifi were here, he’d—

 

Apollo stops himself, leans forward against the sink, forces himself to breathe. Magnifi isn’t here, and even though it threw Apollo’s life into a tailspin, it’s a good thing. But he should feel guilty for being glad his grandfather is dead, so he does, and this—this is what triggered the nightmare in the first place, thinking about Magnifi and two guns and that bruise on his ribs that never really went away after three years.

 

The bathroom mirror is foggy—Apollo took a hot shower, even though it’s late July—so he isn’t forced to look at his own reflection, at the swirling mass of shame and jagged scars that seems to live where his heart should be.

 

Once he’s managed to pull himself together and dress himself, Apollo stumbles back to the bedroom. Nick is seated beside Trucy on her bed, leaning back against the headboard and her mountain of pillows while he reads aloud a chapter of Percy Jackson with her. They both shoot Apollo a smile when he comes in, Trucy punctuating it with a little wave.

 

Apollo flops back into bed—his sheets have been changed, too, and they smell like linen closet—and tucks himself in on his side, facing the wall. He listens to Nick reading aloud, and hates to admit to himself that it lulls him. By the time Nick sets the book aside, he’s already in that floating state somewhere between asleep and awake, half-aware of what goes on around him.

 

“Alright, kiddo. Let’s get you back to bed,” Nick is saying.

 

“Is Polly okay?”

 

“I think he’s asleep. Time for you and I to do the same, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Trucy mumbles. “Thanks for readin’, Daddy.”

 

“Of course, sweetheart.”

 

There’s a rustling as Trucy hunkers down in her blankets. “Polly and I always read together,” she says. “He doesn’t do the voices, though. And he reads slower ‘cuz he’s not as good at English.”

 

“Is that… so,” Nick says, and if Apollo were fully conscious, he’d be jumping up to give an explanation that doesn’t reveal him as the abandoned son of a terrorist.

 

Trucy hums in confirmation. “Mommy made him start when I was little so he could practice reading.”

 

“I see,” Nick says, and thankfully lets the subject go.

 

“Daddy,” Trucy says, “can you read to me again tomorrow?”

 

“Sure. But if that’s Apollo’s thing—”

 

“He doesn’t like to. He gets annoyed because I make him reread stuff.”

 

“If you’re sure. But let’s ask him tomorrow, alright?”

 

“Fine. Daddy? Is Polly sick?”

 

“Huh? No, sweetheart, he’s not sick. Some people just get really bad dreams, or they get scared and their body makes things feel scarier than they really are.”

 

“So Polly’s gonna be okay?”

 

“Of course, kiddo. If you’re worried about him, you can always tell me anything, alright?”

 

“I know.” Trucy huffs. “We were supposed to go to the park tomorrow.”

 

“You still can.”

 

Trucy whines, “But we’re gonna be too tired. And Polly’s gonna be grumpy.”

 

“Another day, then.”

 

“I guess so…”

 

Nick lets out a heavy sigh. Apollo feels a cold, intangible sensation of guilt crawl into his stomach like dry ice. “I know it’s hard, Truce. But you have to be patient, okay?”

 

“I know.”

 

“Atta girl. Come on, now. Ready for sleep?”

 

“Yeah. G’night, Daddy.”

 

“Goodnight, kiddo.”

 

The lamp clicks and the room darkens behind Apollo’s eyelids. He’s barely aware, just drifting on the edges of consciousness, as Nick tucks Trucy in properly. A warm hand brushes Apollo’s damp bangs aside, fingers carding lightly through his hair. He slips under before the soft touch is even gone.

 

---

Apollo’s never snuck out of the house before.

 

It’s not that he’s never thought about it—if Trucy got to be a brilliant little baby genius escape artist, surely Apollo had every right to make his own attempt. He’d never have done it when Thalassa was around, because it’d terrify her, but after she was gone, he used to think about running off just to spite Shadi. But Magnifi would have had his head if he did, and besides, Trucy needed him.

 

All of that is no longer an obstacle.

 

He’s lucky Trucy sleeps like the dead; she doesn’t notice Apollo rummaging through their room in the middle of the night, packing his backpack with only the essentials. He doesn’t know where he’s actually going to go—maybe to Clay’s, maybe back to the children’s home, hell, maybe he’ll get on a plane and go back to where he came from like Magnifi always wanted. But the first place he goes is out —leaving his cell phone by his bed and not even a note behind.

 

It’s a typical crisp, cool summer night in LA, clear skies blotted out by light pollution and city smog. The neighborhood is quiet, save for someone’s dog barking a block away and the low hum of distant traffic. Apollo heads on foot towards downtown, scuffed sneakers scraping against the pavement as he walks.

 

“I thought you were up to something,” a small voice says behind him. Apollo whips his head around, and there’s Trucy, standing a few yards away on the sidewalk in her pajamas and her boots, school bag hanging on her back. No cape, no Mr. Hat, just little Trucy, like it’s pajama day at school.

 

“T-Trucy!” he hisses. “What are you doing here?”

 

Trucy scowls. “Following you, obviously. Where are you going this time of night, mister?”

 

“Go back to the apartment, Trucy,” Apollo says.

 

“No!” Trucy stomps her foot. “If you’re running away from home, I’m coming too!”

 

“You shouldn’t have come after me by yourself. What the hell were you thinking?”

 

Trucy points an accusatory finger at him. “And what the honk were you thinking leaving me behind?”

 

“It’s not—” Apollo sighs. “Just go home, Truce. Forget you ever saw me, okay?” He turns and continues walking down the street. Trucy’s footsteps chase after him.

 

“Why are we running away, Polly?” she asks.

 

“ We aren’t doing anything. You are going back to Nick’s.”

 

“But we’re supposed to stay together,” Trucy insists. “You promised! I know you don’t like it here, but it’s just until Daddy comes back, remember?”

 

Apollo stops walking and whirls on Trucy. “He’s not coming back , Truce!” he snaps. She flinches. “He disappeared and he’s never coming back because he doesn’t care about us. When are you going to get a clue?”

 

Trucy’s eyes well up with tears. “You’re mean,” she whisper-yells. “He does care and he promised. Just like you promised to stay with me and now you’re leaving me here with Daddy.”

 

“Stop calling him that. He’s not your dad and he’s not—not anything. He’s just—temporary, okay? So either give it up and come with me, or go back home and keep waiting. See if I care, just quit bothering me.”

 

“Fine!” Trucy clenches her hands into tiny fists at her side, cheeks wet with tears. “You shoulda disappeared instead, Polly. I hate you!”

 

Apollo’s eyes widen. “Wh—Trucy, wait—” he calls, but Trucy darts off around the corner, and when he chases after her he finds that, in true Gramarye fashion, she’s already disappeared.

 

“Shit,” Apollo hisses under his breath. “Shit. Fuck! Trucy? Trucy, come back!”

 

He runs laps around the block and down side streets and can’t find any trace of her. Apollo’s hands start to shake at his sides as reality sinks in. He’s just lost Trucy in the middle of the night, and now he’s gotten so turned around that he has no idea where he ended up either, and it’s dark and eerie at 2am in this corner of Los Angeles, and Apollo was just the meanest he’s ever been to the most important person in his life.

 

Finally, after close to an hour of searching, Apollo collapses against the wall of an alleyway, trying to stop himself from hyperventilating. It occurs to him to call someone for help, so he roots through his bag for several long moments before remembering he deliberately left his phone behind. He presses his knuckles into his forehead, shaking back and forth where he sits and desperately trying to hold it together.

 

Bright headlights beam down the alleyway, fluorescent and piercing. Apollo blinks in the sudden white light, hand coming up to shield his eyes.

 

The car door opens and shuts.

 

“Mr. Justice!” A voice calls. “Apollo!”

 

A tall silhouette steps into the alley, cutting a strong figure against the blinding lights.

 

“Apollo.” The figure steps forward. It’s Mr. Edgeworth, white-knuckling his phone at his side. “Come, get in the car.”

 

Apollo feels sudden fear shoot through him like rivers of ice. He shakes his head. Mr. Edgeworth’s posture softens.

 

“Come on,” he repeats, gentler this time. “If you get in the car without argument, I’ll refrain from telling Wright just how far from home I found you.”

 

Apollo doesn’t even know how far he’s walked in the last hour, to be honest. Nevertheless, he drags himself to his feet.

 

“I need to find Trucy,” he wheezes.

 

“She’s already found her way home on her own.” Mr. Edgeworth gestures toward the car. “Let’s go. Are you injured?”

 

“No, I-I’m fine.” Apollo follows Mr. Edgeworth to the car. Mr. Edgeworth very politely does not comment on how much Apollo is still shaking, instead giving him space to settle his nerves. The drive back to the apartment isn’t long, but dread builds in Apollo’s gut as the minutes drag on anyway. He’s never done something that would piss Nick off like this. He’s gotten snippy and mouthed off before, plenty, and he’s gotten in some hot water at school for swearing and generally being difficult, and Nick hasn’t lost his temper with him yet. But this is bad, this is about Trucy , and if this is the thing that finally pushes Nick over the edge, Apollo doesn’t know what he’ll do.

When the door creaks open, Nick doesn’t even move at first, hunched over on the couch with his head in his hands. It’s not until Apollo steps in and Mr. Edgeworth shuts the door behind them that Nick looks up, face pale and eyes wide.

 

“ Apollo, ” he croaks, leaping up and crossing the room in a few long strides. Apollo squeezes his eyes shut, flinching, clenching every muscle as he braces for a blow that never comes. Instead, strong arms wrap around him and tug him down to his knees. His chin comes to rest on Nick’s shoulder, and when he opens his eyes, he finds that they’re both on the floor. Nick is shaking; Apollo is so close he can feel his heart racing.

 

“Apollo,” Nick repeats. “Thank god you’re safe.”

 

“I-I’m fine,” Apollo squeaks.

 

Nick pulls back and grabs him by both shoulders. His hair is a mess and his eyes are bloodshot. “What were you thinking?” he whispers. “You—It’s the middle of the night! You lost your sister in Los Angeles in the middle of the night! You could have—you both could have been hurt, or kidnapped, or worse!”

 

“I didn’t know she was going to follow me,” Apollo says weakly.

 

“That’s not—Apollo, you should have turned back the moment you realized she was with you. Hell, you shouldn’t have even been out there on your own! You didn’t—You didn’t even bring your cell phone! ”

 

“I know.”

 

“You had me scared shitless! Look—I know I’m not your dad. I get it, I do. But I’m still responsible for you. Do you—Do you understand what would have happened if we couldn’t find you? If child services had found out I let two minors get lost in LA on my watch?”

 

Apollo’s stomach churns. “You’re threatening me,” he says.

 

“What— No. ” Nick wraps him in a hug again. “I’m not going to call them. I just—Don’t scare me like that, okay? Don’t do stuff like this. I was worried something happened to you.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo mumbles.

 

A strong hand pries Phoenix Wright away from him. It’s Mr. Edgeworth, having shed his jacket by the door and placing a hand on Apollo’s shoulder.

 

“Wright,” he says calmly. “It’s late. Perhaps we should let Apollo get some sleep and table this discussion until morning, once you’ve regained your composure.”

 

Nick sighs heavily. “Okay,” he relents. “Okay. Apollo, go to bed, alright? No more sneaking out.”

 

Apollo feels tears in his eyes. “I was really mean to Trucy,” he confesses.

 

Nick’s expression softens. “I… I know. She told me. Just… apologize in the morning, okay?”

 

“Fine,” Apollo whispers. He picks himself up off the floor and trudges off to his room. Before he shuts the door, he hears Mr. Edgeworth’s voice drifting down the hall, calm and steady.

 

“Where is your kettle?” he’s saying. “I’ll make you some tea.”

 

Nick makes a noise that sounds like a sob before the door clicks shut.

 

The bedroom is dark, save for Trucy’s nightlight. She’s curled in a ball under the covers, facing the wall. Apollo dumps his backpack on the floor, sets his bracelet on the nightstand, and climbs into his own bed.

 

It’s quiet, at first. Then, sheets rustle on the other side of the room, and small feet pitter-patter across the short gap between his bed and Trucy’s. The covers shift and Apollo’s twin mattress dips. He opens his eyes and there’s Trucy, curling up right next to him. He notices she’s wearing different, clean pajamas now.

 

“Hi,” he says weakly.

 

“I was scared you weren’t gonna come back,” Trucy says, voice a little hoarse.

 

“I’m sorry,” is all Apollo can say. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

 

Trucy tears up and her bottom lip quivers, visible even in the relative darkness. “I’m sorry I said those mean things to you, Polly,” she whimpers. “I don’t hate you, I don’t want you to disappear, I–I—”

 

Apollo snakes an arm out from under the covers and gently pulls her close. “Shh. I know. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I know he’s not coming back, Polly,” Trucy sniffles into his shirt. “Everyone says he will but I know they’re lying. Just like Mommy’s never coming back, either. So you can’t go away too, okay? You promised.”

 

“I'm sorry, Truce. Really, really sorry. I promise I won’t leave you, okay? I mean it this time.”

 

“I miss them,” Trucy confesses, and her voice breaks into a quiet sob. Apollo’s heart wrenches violently in his chest. He rubs the spot between her shoulder blades, uncaring for the snot she’s getting on his pajamas.

 

“Shh, Trucy,” he whispers. “I know you do.”

 

Trucy continues to weep into his shoulder. She’s always been the quieter crier of the two of them, subdued and reserved whereas Apollo’s always been a wailer. Thalassa used to fondly say he got it from his father, but Apollo has anything but fond memories of the trouble it’s always brought him.

 

“ I love you .” The phrase slips out easily, in time-worn Khura’inese. “ It will be okay. ”

 

Trucy sniffs and raises her head to look at him. “What’s that mean?” she asks wetly.

 

“Ah.” Apollo blushes. “It’s something Mom used to say whenever I was scared.”

 

“Oh.” Trucy sticks her nose back into the fabric of Apollo’s shirt and lets out another tiny cry.

 

Apollo keeps rubbing her back. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I’m sure. Why don’t we go to sleep, okay?”

 

After a beat, Trucy nods against his shoulder.

 

“Good.” Apollo adjusts his hold on her and shuts his eyes. “I love you, Truce.”

 

“Love you too,” Trucy mumbles. “You promise you’ll still be here when I wake up?”

 

“I promise I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.”

 

“Okie. G’night, Polly.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

It’s Trucy who falls asleep first, breaths coming slow and even, snuffling quietly against his shirt. Even as she gets bigger, his presence still soothes her to sleep with ease. Usually, Apollo’s not so lucky, but tonight—even in the crowded warmth, even as he lies awake for a long while after Trucy’s drifted off—he feels a sense of calm peace that eventually drags his eyelids shut, and when he does finally fall asleep, he does not dream.

In the morning, Apollo wakes before Trucy. Ever the heavy sleeper, she doesn’t stir one bit as he detaches her from his shirt and climbs over her out of bed. He tucks her back in rather than carry her back to her own bed, then quickly changes his t-shirt into one that isn’t smeared with eight-year-old-girl snot and tears before he slips out of the room.

 

He finds Nick already up, standing around in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and a spatula in the other. There’s a pan on the stove and a growing stack of messy-looking pancakes on the counter beside it. Apollo knocks on the doorframe, and Nick jolts, yelping and almost dropping his spatula.

 

“Jesus! What’s with the quiet footsteps?” he says in a hoarse voice. His eyes have bags and he looks like he’s pulled several all nighters in the span of a few hours.

 

Apollo frowns. “I didn’t know I walked so silently,” he says.

 

Nick winces. “Nothing wrong with it, you just startled me, sorry. You, uh…” He flips a pancake. “You’re up earlier than I expected.”

 

“I could say the same to you.”

 

Nick blows out a sigh and takes a gulp of his coffee. “I didn’t sleep much to begin with.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, me neither.”

 

“Listen, Apollo, I…” Nick clears his throat and turns off the stove with the last of his pancakes done. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you last night. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You gave me a huge scare, and I went a little overboard with my reaction. I apologize.”

 

“What? But I came to apologize to you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Nick fixes him with that knowing stare. “Kid, I have eyes. Well… Edgeworth does.”

 

Apollo takes a step back, frowning. In response, Nick turns away and carries the pan to the sink to wash it.

 

“You don’t have to spill your guts to me. It’s none of my business,” he says over the sound of running water. “I just wanted to apologize for losing my cool and making you nervous. And… sorry if Edgeworth was a little pushy at all. I was making him nervous, too.”

 

“It’s—It’s fine,” Apollo mumbles. “I wasn’t nervous.”

 

Nick doesn’t say anything, which is admission enough that he doesn’t believe him. No mind; Apollo grabs a cup from the pantry and pours himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. If he asks for coffee, Nick will sputter and trip over his words trying to decide if he should say yes as an olive branch of sorts or stick to his usual “no caffeine for teenage boys with anxiety” rule.

 

Apollo doesn’t even really like coffee—making Nick squirm as he tries to implement some kind of house rules is just too funny to pass up most of the time. The fact that he doesn’t do so now is his own sort of olive branch, and Nick recognizes it for what it is and lets the subject drop.

 

There are little footsteps down the hall as Nick is digging for the butter and maple syrup. Trucy finds her way to the kitchen moments later, hair puffed up on one side and rubbing her eyes with her hands.

 

“G’morning,” she grumbles. Trucy hobbles over to where Apollo is standing against the fridge with his cup of juice and clings around his middle. He puts a hand on her head and tries to smooth her curls with his palm.

 

When he looks up, Nick is watching them with an impossibly fond smile on his stupid face. Apollo shoots him a glare.

 

“Morning, Trucy,” Nick says, wholly unfazed. “You want pancakes?”

 

Slowly, Trucy nods. Apollo leads her, sleepy and boneless, to the kitchen table and gets her seated in a chair before sitting opposite. Her feet don’t reach the floor, and she kicks them back and forth beneath the table, toes occasionally tapping against Apollo’s shins.

 

Trucy yawns wide and mumbles a quiet thank you when Nick puts a plate of pancakes in front of her. She pushes the bottle of syrup toward Apollo and pouts until he opens it for her and douses her pancakes in a big spiral shape, just the way she likes, even though it immediately runs off from edge to edge.

 

“Trucy,” Nick says as Apollo is serving himself his own portion, “I’m sorry if I scared you a little last night with how upset I was. I was just very, very worried about you.”

 

Trucy’s mouth makes a little ‘o’ shape, but then she smiles brightly and says, “It’s okay, Daddy! I was just glad Polly came home.”

 

Nick smiles and ruffles her hair. “Me too, kiddo.” He turns and gives Apollo a very pointed look, and then makes himself a plate.

After breakfast, Trucy falls asleep again on the couch, halfway through some morning children’s show on public television. Apollo sits beside her, phone in hand, scrolling through the litany of missed calls he received from Nick last night before he realized Apollo’s phone was still in his room.

 

“You should delete those,” Nick’s voice pipes up behind him.

 

Apollo yelps in surprise, nearly dropping his phone. Trucy wiggles her feet but otherwise doesn’t stir.

 

“Sorry,” Nick whispers.

 

“You’re a jackass,” Apollo hisses. “Aren’t you going into work today?”

 

Nick winces. “No, taking a, uh… mental health day. Doctor’s orders.”

 

“By ‘doctor’, do you mean Mr. Edgeworth?”

 

“Maybe. He’ll sicc the detective on me if he finds out I went in today, so.” Nick shrugs. “I’ll be in the other room. Holler if you need anything, alright?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And if you do go somewhere later… Please just take your phone with you this time, kiddo. Okay?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Nick pats his shoulder and leaves the room, smiling.

A few episodes of some nature-themed public access television show and a morning news segment later, when Trucy still doesn’t stir, Apollo turns off the TV and goes to his room. He shuts the door and climbs into his bed, pulling up his call history on his phone again. He scrolls back to the earliest of the voicemails, recorded not long after Apollo snuck out of the house. Each gets more and more frantic as the calls get closer together, before they stop just before 2am.

 

“ Apollo, what’s wrong? Where are you and Trucy? I woke up and you’re both gone. Call me back.”

 

“Apollo, pick up your phone. I mean it. You can’t—You can’t just run off without telling me. Bring your sister home.”

 

“I’m not—I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re—” Nick’s voice cracks “—if you’re safe. Please call me ba—”

 

“A-Apollo, if you’re getting any of these, p-please—”

 

In the next message, Nick is clearly struggling to breathe: “I-I called Edgeworth, he’s going to c-come find you, Apollo, I can’t—I can’t—”

 

“Apollo, whatever it is, I-I’m sorry—”

 

“Kiddo, please, just come home—”

 

“Apollo—”

 

Shaking, Apollo deletes all of the messages. He lays down on top of the unmade blankets and tries to breathe, fists pressed against his forehead. Once he feels calmer, Apollo gets up and slips across the hall to Nick’s door, which he’s left ajar. Peeking inside, he finds Nick slumped over at his rickety computer desk, head pillowed on his arms. His laptop is open, bathing his face in a sickly blue-white glow. Apollo steps forward on quiet feet, scanning the papers scattered on his desk.

 

There are files about Magnifi’s murder case, old articles and advertisements about Troupe Gramarye—and, because Nick can never leave anything well enough alone, printed out articles about the trial. Apollo gets a good look at the tabs open on Nick’s computer, too: similar articles, documents full of notes, lists of contacts. But beyond what he expects, there are also pages open about childcare, and nutrition, and tutoring options, and youth counseling, and even frantic google searches like “what to do when kid tries to run away from home” and “is my kid scared of me” and “how to spot child abuse”.

 

That last one makes Apollo’s stomach swoop, so he finally looks away, shutting the laptop’s lid. Nick lets out a snore. With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, Apollo grabs a spare blanket from the foot of Nick’s bed and drapes it over his shoulders. Nick, drooling onto his arm like a baby, doesn’t react.

 

Apollo gives him one last guilty look, and goes back to the living room to check on Trucy.

 

She’s still fast asleep. Apollo grabs her little foot and gives it a light shake. Trucy whines and kicks at him, but she doesn’t wake up. With a smile, Apollo tucks a throw blanket over her and goes to the kitchen to make lunch.

Notes:

need y'all to know that the scene of apollo blowing up at trucy on the sidewalk popped into my head one day and was the catalyst for writing this entire fic. in the original version in my mind he was actually intending to bring her with him, and he was a lot meaner about it; that all seemed not quite right, though, when i actually got to it. after all, apollo's behavior is largely motivated by self-blame and personal guilt and trauma over his own repeated abandonment. his beef with phoenix--unlike in canon where he is specifically lied to and manipulated by him at first--is primarily a potent mixture of teenage angst, the inherent disappointment of meeting your heroes, and nuclear levels of unaddressed trauma and untreated anxiety. my specialty: making apollo have a bad time!

Chapter 6: PART V

Summary:

Even with the fresh start of a new school year with Clay by his side and a relatively stable home life, it doesn’t take long for Apollo’s sophomore year to take a nosedive. Before he even has the chance to turn 16, Apollo finds himself embroiled in a teenage rivalry the likes of which he thought only existed on TV.

--
In which Apollo throws his first punch, Phoenix navigates a 16-year-old's unaddressed trauma, and things begin to coalesce into something resembling a stable family, at last.

Notes:

ooohhh boy, this chapter was a doozy, as you might have been able to guess from the word count and how long i made you wait. it just kept... getting longer, and i really had to work to trim it back some, but i think the contents are ultimately important for establishing some things. when i started this fic i wasn't necessarily intending for apollo's emotional issues to take such center stage--but it just feels right! hashtag clay terran!!

cw for mentions of abuse and injury, and some brief derogatory language.

things will sort of smooth out in the next chapter, so if 10k of apollo coping with trauma is less your cup of tea, rest assured it won't be the norm!

I was far too scared to hit him / But I would hit him in a heartbeat now / That’s the thing with anger / It begs to stick around

- Sam Fender, “Seventeen Going Under”

 

The summer drags out its last dying breath all the way through Labor Day, hot sun still drawing new freckles on Apollo’s neck as he bikes to school each day. He heads out each morning when the sun is still low on the horizon, before the heat sinks its teeth into the pavement.

 

A last-ditch heat wave wraps its tendrils around Los Angeles in the first week of September. Apollo wakes before sunrise, bleary-eyed from an unrestful night of sleep spent tossing and turning. Trucy will be asleep for a while longer yet, but Nick is already up making coffee when Apollo gets dressed and goes to the kitchen to scrounge for a quick breakfast.

 

“Morning,” Apollo greets through a yawn, pulling the milk out of the fridge and giving it a quick sniff test.

 

Slumped wearily in a chair, Nick raises his mug in greeting. There are bags under his eyes that Apollo swears have been growing heavier all week, and even glancing at Apollo seems to take more mental energy than it should.

 

Nick has Apollo seeing a counselor once a week, now. Apollo is starting to wonder if Nick needs the same.

 

“Sleep okay?” Nick’s voice rumbles.

 

Apollo shrugs and shovels Cheerios into his mouth. “More or less,” he says. “Did you? You look like shit.”

 

“Mind your business, and your language,” Nick chides half-heartedly.

 

“Are you okay?” Apollo asks, and something in his voice or in his posture must betray the worry he feels, because Nick’s expression softens.

 

“I’m alright, bud,” he says. “Go on and get ready for school.”

 

Apollo pauses and scowls, spoon hanging out of his mouth.

 

“Don’t give me that stare, Apollo.”

 

“Just trying to see if you’re lying,” Apollo says with his mouth full, specifically because he knows it will piss Nick off, and then maybe at least he won’t look so dour.

 

But Nick just sighs, exhaustion rolling off of him in waves. “Look, don’t worry about me, okay? Just… some rough memories this time of year.”

 

Apollo chews, and chews, and swallows. All the while, Nick stares him down, as if waiting to see if he’ll push. He gets stubborn like this sometimes, cagey—Apollo thinks he’s a hypocrite, considering how much he’s constantly prompting Apollo to spill his guts and open up and tell his therapist how he really feels.

 

Everyone else in Nick’s life—Maya and Mr. Edgeworth, mostly—tells him not to take it personally, and he doesn’t. But Apollo can be pretty stubborn if he wants to be, too, and it’s led to more arguments than he would like to admit.

 

Twirling his spoon in his hand, Apollo asks, “Are you going into the office?”

 

“Yeah,” Nick says. “Gotta stay busy.”

 

“Maybe you should sleep more,” Apollo suggests.

 

Nick raises his eyebrows.

 

Apollo falters. “I’ll tell Mr. Edgeworth you’re not taking care of yourself.”

 

Nick shakes his head. “Don’t you dare, Apollo. He knows, and if you call him and make him worry he’ll be on the earliest flight possible. Don’t. ”

 

Apollo nods shakily. “Fine,” he concedes. “Just… don’t make Trucy worry.”

 

“I promise to try,” Nick sighs. “You know it’s hard when she’s a genius.”

 

“She’s not a genius,” Apollo says on instinct. “You just don’t know how to lie to her.”

 

“Really, Apollo? Because I’m renowned for my ability to bluff,” Nick says, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“Except you can’t fool a third grader with kinetic vision.”

 

“Maybe I’m actually just that good at fooling both of you. Ever think of that?”

 

A snarl of something cold and thorny unfurls in Apollo’s chest at that, threatening to squeeze. He finds himself taking a step back, uneasy, and Nick must pick up on something in the shift of his posture, because he drops his shoulders and knits his brows.

 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say stuff like that to you. It was a joke, I’m not trying to pull one over on you,” he says, more gently than before.

 

Apollo just nods, subtly trying to shake some of the tension out through his hand at his side.

 

“You’re going to be late if you don’t get going,” Nick says.

 

“Right,” Apollo relents. He deposits his bowl in the sink and readies himself to leave, but he can’t shake the deep sense of foreboding resting at the base of his ribcage.

The air conditioning in the office is better than at home, so after Apollo picks up Trucy from school he brings her back to Wright & Co., where at least they’ll be able to get some homework done before Nick closes up for the night. Trucy clings to his hand and chatters a mile a minute the whole way there despite the oppressive heat sticking her bangs to her forehead, skipping along down the sidewalk in the new pair of sneakers she received as a back-to-school gift from Maya.

 

“And the third graders get to go to the museum this year!” Trucy chirps, bouncing on her heels as Apollo locks up his bike outside the office. “Did you go to the museum in third grade too, Polly?”

 

“I didn’t go to third grade, Truce,” Apollo reminds her offhandedly.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Trucy sounds disappointed for a moment. Then she bounces again and asks, “Did you get to go on field trips at your old home?”

 

Apollo tilts his head as he fastens the padlock around his bike chain. He and Nahyuta were essentially homeschooled in the mountains, since they couldn’t attend a proper school in town. “We used to go on mountain hikes,” he offers. “No museums.”

 

“Can we go on a mountain hike?”

 

Apollo stands up and nudges Trucy toward the front door. “Maybe Maya will take you on a training excursion up in Kurain Village.”

 

Trucy pouts as she climbs up the stairs ahead of him. “Daddy told me if Aunt Maya ever offers me to do training with her I’m supposed to say no.”

 

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best. No mountain hikes then, Truce. Sorry.”

 

“I don’t think that’s the only—”

 

“Nope, there’s only the one mountain.”

 

Trucy grumbles, stomping her way down the hall to the law office. Apollo follows her, snickering. Pushing the door open, Trucy calls out, “Daddy, Polly won’t take me hiking!”

 

There’s no response, although Nick’s bike was outside and there’s no way he would leave the office unattended and unlocked.

 

“He probably fell asleep in his office again,” Apollo suggests to a frowning Trucy, who nods and slumps on the floor at the coffee table before digging her workbooks out of her backpack.

 

“Can you help me with my geography worksheet?” she asks.

 

“No,” Apollo says. “I have to do homework too.”

 

Trucy pouts. “So mean.”

 

Apollo sits across from her, ruffling her hair. “Just kidding, Truce. I’ll help you a little, but I do have to get my own work done too, alright?”

 

“But yours is so boring.”

 

“That’s true.” Apollo sighs and pulls out his algebra homework.

They work in relative quiet for a while, with Apollo occasionally stopping his work to help Trucy with a particularly difficult question. After about 20 minutes, Apollo hears what sounds like weeping coming from the back office, and perks his head up to listen. Trucy, wearing headphones and happily bouncing her knee to music playing off of Apollo’s phone while she makes math flashcards with gel pens, doesn’t notice. She doesn’t even break her focus when Apollo gets up from the floor to go check.

 

Apollo raps his knuckles against the door, and the crying abruptly stops.

 

“Nick?” he calls. “I know you’re in there.”

 

Nick coughs. “C-Come in!” he calls back hoarsely.

 

Apollo creaks the door open and slips inside. Nick is seated at his desk, late afternoon light spilling in through the blinds. His clothes are more rumpled than usual, hair unkempt as though he’s been running a hand through it, and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy in that tell-tale way.

 

“Apollo!” Nick says with such horribly feigned cheer that Apollo’s wrist briefly loses circulation. “I didn’t know you were here.”

 

“Trucy and I got here a while ago, and you didn’t seem to hear us. What’s going on?”

 

“Huh? I’m working.”

 

“Bullshit,” Apollo fires back. “I know you were crying. You don’t get to lecture me about hiding my feelings and then turn around and do the same.”

 

Nick sighs, scrubbing roughly at his eyes to dry them.

 

“Alright, bud, you caught me. I was crying. A grown man can cry in his own office, okay?”

 

“Nick, what’s wrong? You’ve been like this for days.” Apollo crosses his arms. “Please. Just tell me so that I can stop worrying.”

 

“I’d rather you not pry, Apollo.”

 

“You pry into my life all the time!”

 

“That’s because you’re 15.”

 

Apollo scoffs. “That’s stupid.”

 

“Daddy?” comes Trucy’s soft voice from behind Apollo. Her face is peeking around the door, brows knit and eyes round. “What’s wrong? Why are you sad?”

 

Apollo turns back to Nick and raises his eyebrows. “Can’t even fool a third grader,” he mouths.

 

Nick slumps in obvious defeat. “Come here, babygirl. It’s okay,” he says gently, holding out an arm.

 

Trucy scrambles forward and tucks herself under Nick’s arm, letting him hoist her into his lap. Her hands clench and unclench in the fabric of her shorts; so much for not worrying Trucy, Apollo thinks.

 

“You know your Aunt Maya had a big sister, don’t you?” Nick asks, stroking her hair.

 

Trucy nods. “Aunt Mia. She told me about her.”

 

Nick smiles. “Well, she used to run this office. She was my mentor when I was just starting out.”

 

Apollo’s brain short circuits, and he suddenly feels mortified at having pried, because as a Phoenix Wright fanboy he should have remembered Mia Fey, but to admit that would be to admit to having been a Phoenix Wright fanboy, which would require disclosing his interest in law, which would make Nick insufferable forever.

 

“...Ah,” he squeaks unhelpfully.

 

Nick sighs wistfully, wiping fresh tears. “She passed away three years ago this week. It was very sudden and difficult for me, but that’s how I met your Aunt Maya. I just get sad this time of year thinking about her, okay? Nothing you need to worry about.”

 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Trucy says, leaning her head down against his shoulder.

 

“That’s okay, sweetheart.” Nick pats her back. “I think it’s sweet that you and Apollo were worried about me. I’m sorry I haven’t been my usual self.”

 

Apollo flushes red. “Sorry for prying,” he says.

 

Nick shakes his head. “It’s alright. You were probably right to pry, kiddo.”

 

“Daddy, can we go visit Aunt Maya?” Trucy asks. “I wanna go on a hike.”

 

“You have school.” Nick gives her a little squeeze, and she giggles. He sends Apollo a wink over the top of her head. “Maybe we can go up next weekend and see her, how’s that sound?”

 

Trucy cheers, kicking her feet with giddiness. Nick suppresses a wince and nudges her off of his lap—Apollo steps forward and scoops her up himself, hoisting her under her knees and plopping her down on the floor. Trucy glues herself to his side, still bouncing.

 

“You’re comin’ too, right Polly?” she asks, staring up at him like a bug.

 

“Of course,” Apollo says, ruffling her hair.

 

Trucy giggles. “Do you feel better, Daddy?”

 

Nick blinks, an expression of pure fondness quickly being replaced by simple contentedness in a flash. “I do feel better, lovebug, thank you. Do you two wanna head home early?”

 

Trucy and Apollo both groan, and Nick just blinks at them some more.

 

“It’s cooler here,” Apollo explains. “That’s why we came.”

 

“And here I thought you just wanted to see me,” Nick says with mock offense.

 

“Both!” Trucy pipes up, despite the fact that they both agreed to come strictly on the basis of temperature. Nice save, Truce.

 

Nick smirks. “I’ll bet. Alright, back to work then. I can order dinner from the noodle shop down the street, Mia’s favorite. In her memory.”

 

Apollo nods, shepherding a cheering Trucy back to the main room, but deep down a part of him warms at the thought of being let in on this important tradition. He tries not to put as much stock in it as he feels it deserves.

 

---

(They do take that weekend trip to Kurain. Apollo spends most of it, like he usually does when Maya’s involved, trying not to let on how familiar he is with the culture, insofar as it still overlaps with Khura’inism. He figures it’s probably not actually necessary, because Maya spends the majority of their mountain hike infodumping to him and Trucy about her spirit training regardless.

 

For Nick’s part, he pulls something in his back trying to lift ten-year-old Pearl in greeting when they arrive, and stays in the Fey manor doing crafts with Pearl and pouting like a stray dog while Apollo, Trucy, and Maya spend their time exploring. Trucy slips and falls in the mud halfway through their hike, though, and in a rare display of fussiness bursts into tears. They’re forced to cut the hike short and turn back so Trucy can take a bath, but she’s already calmed down and is giggling and smiling again by the time they reach the house.

 

Maya snaps a candid of him and Trucy with her Polaroid—a shot of Trucy trying to smear mud on him as he’s trying to rinse some of it off under the spigot out back before they go inside—and slips it to him that evening with a sly grin. Apollo sticks it in his wallet for safekeeping—and tries to ignore the faint twinge of recognition scratching at the back of his mind, the tendrils of a distant memory left to languish in cold storage, where it belongs.)

 

---

Even with the fresh start of a new school year with Clay by his side and a relatively stable home life, it doesn’t take long for Apollo’s sophomore year to take a nosedive. Before he even has the chance to turn 16, Apollo finds himself embroiled in a teenage rivalry the likes of which he thought only existed on TV.

 

Apollo and Clay eat their lunch outside in the school’s courtyard the way only possible in the dry temperance of Southern California in the fall, sprawled across peeling picnic benches with the mediocre cold-in-the-center cafeteria meals that Apollo gets for free through the state foster care system. Convenient, really, even though the texture feels gritty and foreign in Apollo’s mouth.

 

He gets up and crosses the courtyard to throw out his trash, and a butterfly somewhere flaps its wings—Apollo comes face-to-face with his childhood enemy, loitering by the garbage where he belongs.

 

Jack Ash stands at half a foot taller than Apollo and a hell of a lot stronger. If this kid is a brick wall, then Apollo is a thin pane of glass, which is more or less how he feels most days: fragile, invisible, always primed to shatter and collapse regardless of who around him gets hurt.

 

“If it isn’t the little foreign boy,” he sneers, grinning with pride like it’s remotely an original comment. Apollo is small, Apollo is weird, Apollo is from a tiny foreign country, Apollo can’t read, blah, blah, blah. Other kids have been spitting factual information at him since the day he walked into the fourth grade, Jack included. Apollo ignores him and throws out his tray.

 

“Aw, come on, don’t ignore me!” Jack sing-songs, stepping round in front of Apollo and blocking his path. “Is that what they teach you where you came from? All this time and still no manners, huh?”

 

“Fuck off,” Apollo says, attempting to push past him. Jack blocks him, and Apollo’s heart skips a terrified beat. “What do you want, Jack?”

 

“Just a friendly chat.” Jack puts a hand on Apollo’s shoulder. Skin crawling, Apollo roughly shoves him aside.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he bites out.

 

“Woah, woah!” Jack says, both hands up in mock surrender. People are starting to watch them now. Apollo’s eyes dart to the sides; he can’t spot Clay from here. “Chill out, Apollo! You’re like a wild animal.”

 

Breath quickening, Apollo tries to remember his grounding exercises, but it isn’t working. His brain can’t focus on anything except the burning feeling crawling into his muscles.

 

“What, cat got your tongue?” Jack asks in a mockingly sweet tone. “Or did you forget how to talk again? What was it—ten years old and you could barely spell your own name?”

 

“Move,” Apollo grumbles, trying again to push past him. Jack grabs his shoulder again, and Apollo bites down on a scream.

 

“You’re not even going to say please? Did your mommy not teach you to say please and thank you? Ah, that’s right.” Jack slaps his own forehead like he just remembered something. “She probably didn’t even want you. That’s why she had another kid. Or maybe she was just a whore,” he says with a sick grin, and Apollo isn’t sure he’s breathing all of a sudden.

 

His chest burns , heart slamming painfully against his ribcage. Jack’s sneer, the smug curl of his lips, the hatred in his eyes—it reminds him—all he can think about is—Apollo’s body moves of its own accord.

 

Nerves alight, his fist swings out with the full force of four years of pent up terror and regret boiling into anger, and connects with Jack’s face with a sharp crack that radiates up Apollo’s arm. His vision blurs, ears ringing in time with his thundering pulse, and as Apollo hits the ground, grappling for purchase, he sees red, so numb with overwhelming panic that he can’t tell when his hits land and when they don’t, or when Jack lands one on him, or when Apollo starts crying, or—

 

A hand grabs Apollo’s forearm and holds him back, clinging firmly. He swings his other elbow back against his assailant, but that’s stopped too, kept in place by a strong grip.

 

“Apollo, stop!” Clay’s voice says in his ear. It’s the only thing he can hear through the ringing, grounding him in his body. “Stop. That’s enough.”

 

Apollo blinks angry tears from his vision and focuses on the scene in front of him—Jack sprawled on his back in the dirt, clutching his bloody nose as he stares at Apollo with equal parts disdain and fear; a small gaggle of other students milling about the courtyard, watching. Apollo himself is breathing raggedly, cheek smarting and knuckles shaking.

 

“Clay?” he croaks.

 

“Right here. Come on, dude, relax,” Clay says, pulling him backward until he drops from his knees onto his butt. Clay kneels beside him and squeezes his bicep. “Breathe, ‘Pollo. You with me?”

 

“Yeah,” Apollo whispers. “J-Jack, I—”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack yells. “You’re seriously crazy!”

 

Apollo’s still-racing heart lurches against his ribcage, propelling him to act, but Clay holds him back tightly.

 

“Easy,” he whispers to Apollo. Out loud, he says, “Man, lay off. You started it.”

 

Jack points an accusatory finger at Apollo. “He’s the one who came out swinging!” he shouts. “You’re having to hold him back like a rabid dog!”

 

“You provoked him, asshole.”

 

Apollo tugs on his friend’s sleeve. “Come on, stay out of it,” he mumbles.

 

Clay looks at him like he’s speaking Khura’inese. Which, given how rattled Apollo’s feeling, he honestly might be.

 

Jack opens his mouth, split lip and all, to sneer something else in Apollo’s direction, but before he can, a teacher Apollo doesn’t recognize comes sprinting onto the scene, lanyard waving.

 

“Alright, that’s enough!” he shouts. “Principal’s office, all of you, now! ”

 

Apollo’s heart threatens to leap out of his throat. He’s been sent to the principal’s office multiple times—usually for swearing in front of a teacher or generally being a loud-mouthed pest, but never for something like this. Apollo’s never been in a proper fistfight before. Datz taught him how to throw a punch years ago, but that was for self-defense purposes, and although he and Nahyuta would get into play-fights and he’s been known to throw tantrums, he’s never felt the crack of his knuckles against bone before. It’s a new feeling, and it frightens him.

 

What if this is who he really is? What if he’s becoming the violent, uncontrollable kid nearly everyone expected him to be?

 

“Apollo? Dude, you’re freaking me out,” Clay says, pulling Apollo out of his thoughts. They’re already across the courtyard, passing through the empty halls toward the principal’s office. Right. Clay is taking him there. Because Apollo can’t seem to do anything for himself.

 

“Hey, come on.” Clay stops walking, stepping in front of Apollo. His eyes look uncharacteristically serious. “What’s up? What did he say to you?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Can we just drop the subject, please? I’m about to get raked over the coals as it is.” Apollo crosses his arms over his chest and continues walking. Clay hurries to catch up.

 

“Dr. O’s reasonable,” he says. “She’s not gonna pin the whole thing on you if Jack started it.”

 

“Clay, be serious,” Apollo snaps. “I probably broke his nose and all he did was hurt my feelings and give me a black eye in return.”

 

“I’ve just—I’ve never seen you like that before,” Clay admits, and Apollo’s stomach ties itself in knots. “Whatever happened must have been really bad.”

 

“I’m sorry for acting scary, then, but—”

 

“I wasn’t scared,” Clay says, and there’s no hint of a lie in his posture. “You don’t scare me, ‘Pollo. I was just worried.”

 

Apollo doesn’t say anything.

 

“Sorry. I’ll drop it.”

 

They reach their destination, and Clay leaves Apollo in the waiting area outside the principal’s office while he goes in first to give his own account of what happened. Before he goes, he claps Apollo on the shoulder and says, “You’re Apollo Justice and you’re fine. Yeah?”

 

Apollo nods and lets him go, but he feels rather far from fine.

 

His busted hand is still trembling, half from pain and shock and half from his own anxiety. His cheek is stinging like anything, just under his eye, and Apollo wonders how bad he actually looks. He doubts he looks as bad as Jack did with his bloody nose—the one Apollo gave him, so overcome by that panic-fueled rage that he can’t even remember what happened.

 

They’re going to call Nick. In fact, they probably already have. Nick is going to have to drop whatever important work he’s currently doing on a case to come down here and listen to Dr. Opal talk about how out of control Apollo is and how maybe therapy isn’t working. Never mind that the bad days are fewer and Apollo has been getting good grades, even in English. Nick will hear all of this and then take him home like he’s got time to kill, and somehow he’ll still act like Apollo’s worth all that trouble—and Apollo will struggle to find the lie.

 

---

Phoenix gets the call when he’s halfway out of the precinct, juggling his suit jacket in one arm and his overflowing backpack in the other, stumbling down the steps as he fishes in his pants pocket for his phone. He flips it open with a snap, hoping he doesn’t sound as bedraggled as he feels.

 

“Phoenix Wright, attorney at law, how may I help you?” he greets.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wright. This is Mrs. Minn from the high school, calling about your ward, Apollo Justice?”

 

Phoenix skids to a halt outside the building, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he reorganizes his new mountain of paperwork into a more orderly state in his bag. “Oh! Yes, of course, what is it? Is everything okay?”

 

“There’s been an incident, and we’ll need you to come down to the principal’s office.”

 

“Again?” Phoenix blurts before he can stop himself. It’s not a frequent occurrence, per se, but it wouldn’t be the first time Apollo’s landed himself in hot water; though usually Phoenix only gets a call when Apollo has a panic attack, and that hasn’t been happening as often.

 

Mrs. Minn sighs. “Yes, Mr. Wright. Again.”

 

Phoenix unlocks his bike and throws his jacket and bag in the front basket. “Alright, I’ll be there soon. Did you let him talk to the counselor? Or—I thought I gave the school the number for his therapist’s office—”

 

“No, no, Mr. Wright, please don’t misunderstand,” Mrs. Minn interrupts, sounding exasperated. “You’ll need to speak with Dr. Opal. Apollo will likely be suspended.”

 

“Wh—Okay.” Phoenix scrubs at his face. “I’ll be there. Please let him know.”

 

“Sure. Good day, Mr. Wright.”

Phoenix is sweaty by the time he arrives at Apollo’s school, with his hair sticking up in odd places and the tip of his tie tucked into his shirt pocket. He rolls up his sleeves as he heads inside and signs in with Mrs. Minn at the front desk, who then directs him to the principal’s office.

 

Dr. Opal is a serious but kind woman, from Phoenix’s limited interactions with her, with brown skin and dark curly hair. She’s been very understanding of Apollo’s situation, and is one of the few people who did not bat an eye at Phoenix—a 26-year-old—becoming the guardian of this teenage boy.

 

Apollo hates her, because he hates people who want to help him. Case in point, Phoenix.

 

Apollo is slumped in a chair across from Dr. Opal’s desk, clothes dirty and hair a mess. He has that sour look on his face, made more pronounced by the purpling bruise and scrape on his cheekbone.

 

“Hey there, kid,” Phoenix says lightly, sitting down beside him. “Quite the shiner you got there.”

 

Apollo pouts and looks away.

 

“Apollo, why don’t you explain to your guardian what happened,” Dr. Opal says in her warm voice. Apollo chooses to interpret that as a suggestion, rather than the command that it is, and says nothing, staring down at his scuffed sneakers.

 

Dr. Opal turns to Phoenix. “Apollo got into a fight with another boy at lunch today,” she explains evenly.

 

Phoenix swallows his surprise. “Is that true?” he asks Apollo.

 

The boy shrugs, and then says, “He started it.” His voice is raspy, a telltale sign that he’s been shouting his head off at somebody or another.

 

“Even your friend admitted that you threw the first punch, Apollo,” Dr. Opal says.

 

“Well he had it coming!” Apollo barks. Phoenix puts a hand on his shoulder, but Apollo shakes him off immediately.

 

Dr. Opal doesn’t react. Her eyes flick to Phoenix, as if he’s ever had much luck getting Apollo to cool it. He offers an olive branch anyway.

 

“I’d like to hear your side of the story,” he says. “I don’t think you’d start throwing punches for no reason.”

 

“...I don’t want to repeat what he said,” Apollo admits.

 

“Oh,” Phoenix says, not even attempting to conceal his surprise this time. Apollo yells obscenities at Phoenix all the time—sometimes even with Trucy in the room—and has in fact gotten in trouble for it at school, so it definitely isn’t a case of a kid being nervous to swear in front of his guardian and principal. It’s something deeper than that.

 

Dr. Opal is looking at him curiously now, too.

 

“Whatever it was, I promise you won’t be penalized for saying it,” she assures him. “Clay told me he didn’t hear what started the fight.”

 

“He didn’t,” Apollo confirms. He clenches his fist in his lap, and broken skin stretches over his knuckles. “And I won’t tell Clay, either.”

 

Phoenix’s lawyer-brain homes in on that statement. Something that made him so upset he went in swinging, something so foul he won’t even repeat it to his best friend? This goes beyond vulgarity and embarrassment. This is something that struck somewhere painful, some part of Apollo he doesn’t want to bring into the light.

 

“Apollo,” Phoenix cuts in. “What is this actually about?”

 

“I’m not talking about it,” Apollo insists. “Can you just give me detention or whatever so I can go home?”

 

“You will be suspended for the rest of the week,” Dr. Opal concedes. “However, I would like to know where all this is coming from.”

 

“Fine!” Apollo shouts, and then parrots a word Phoenix perhaps wishes he wouldn’t say out loud after all—but beggars can’t be choosers.

 

“I see,” Dr. Opal says calmly. “That’s not acceptable. Was there anything else?”

 

“No,” Apollo says. “That was it. I punched his lights out because he called me a slur.”

 

Phoenix squints. As embarrassed as Apollo might be, it still seems strange that he would refuse to say that out loud. Incidentally, as he’s thinking this, several telltale red locks snap into place in Phoenix’s field of vision. He very nearly jolts in surprise—he makes it a point not to use the magatama with the kids, but he just came from an investigation, and it’s still in his pocket.

 

“Okay,” Dr. Opal says with a nod. “Thank you for telling us, Apollo.”

 

“Whatever,” Apollo grumbles.

 

“And does this other kid get in trouble for this too?” Phoenix asks. Apollo huffs and nudges his ankle with his foot.

 

“Let it go, Nick, please,” he mumbles.

 

Phoenix casts a glance at him out of the corner of his eye; he’s got a sad, dejected frown on his face, eyes red and watery. His expression is almost pleading. I want to go home now, it says, and who is Phoenix—despite his instincts pointing him toward justice—to deny him that?

 

“Alright,” he sighs. Dr. Opal is watching them both patiently from behind her desk. “If that’s all, we’ll get going.”

She nods. “That’s all. We’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Justice.”

 

Defeated, Apollo nods, and slumps out the door behind Phoenix with his backpack slung limply over one shoulder.

 

“Ow! Fuck, that hurts!” Apollo hisses, flinching back from Phoenix’s touch.

 

“Language,” Phoenix mutters absently. He soaks another cotton ball with antiseptic and dabs at the nasty scrape on Apollo’s cheek some more. “Try to stay still. If you keep squirming I’ll accidentally get your eye, and that’ll really hurt.”

 

“That stings , what are you using, pure everclear?”

 

“It’s literally not even alcohol, kiddo. Hang tight.” Phoenix tosses the used cotton ball into the garbage and holds an ice pack to Apollo’s face. He hisses at the sudden cold. “Hold that there and give me your other hand.”

 

Obediently, Apollo presents his busted hand. With great care, Phoenix washes blood from Apollo’s knuckles and wraps the hand in gauze. Apollo pouts the whole time from behind the ice pack under his eye.

 

“There you go, all done,” Phoenix pronounces, wiping his own hands clean. Apollo doesn’t move from the bathroom counter, quiet now that he’s done griping. He’s been rather subdued since they arrived home, all solemn baby brown eyes and downturned mouth.

 

“You ready to tell me the full truth now?” Phoenix asks. Apollo’s eyes flick up at him. His expression hardens.

 

“You used the stupid magic rock on me, didn’t you?” he sneers.

 

Phoenix holds up both hands in surrender. “Only by accident, and I don’t have it now. I came straight from work and still had it on me. But I could sorta tell you were hiding something anyway.”

 

Apollo huffs. His hand drops from his face into his lap. “I already told you and Dr. O the truth,” he insists. “He called me a—”

 

“You don’t need to say it again,” Phoenix interjects. “I believe you. But that doesn’t explain why you were so afraid to repeat it even in front of Clay.”

 

“...Because I said it to get Dr. O off my back,” Apollo mumbles, eyes downcast.

 

“Oh really?” Phoenix raises his eyebrows. “Why would you lie about something like that?”

 

“I didn’t lie!” Apollo barks, eyes sharp. “He—He did call me that. Before. Just not today specifically.”

 

Phoenix nudges Apollo’s hand holding the ice pack back up to his face. “I see. Why didn’t you tell someone sooner?”

 

Apollo scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because that would go really well for me. As if anybody at school would believe me or care. Are you dumb?”

 

“Okay, okay, take it easy.” Phoenix leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “You could have told me. ”

 

Apollo’s expression softens and he blinks like he never even considered the possibility. “And what would you have done? Told the principal for me?”

 

“Not unless you asked.” Phoenix reaches out a hand to smooth Apollo’s messy bangs out of his eyes. “But I could have been there for you. You can tell me anything, you know.”

 

Apollo grimaces. “I can’t.”

 

“Hey, sure you can. I understand you want to keep stuff private, but—”

 

“That’s not why. I just… I can’t.”

 

Phoenix feels his own heart break. “Apollo, kiddo, do you really think I’d judge you for being gay?”

 

“No, that’s not—I mean, I am, but—” Apollo’s hands are starting to tremble, so Phoenix takes his free hand, the bandaged one, in his own.

 

“Apollo. It’s okay. I’m not going to force you to tell me anything,” he says. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you because you’re hiding something important.”

 

Apollo’s lip quivers. “That was it,” he squeaks. “That was all he said to me. I hit him because I was tired of him calling me slurs.”

 

Phoenix shakes his head, holding Apollo’s gaze. “You wouldn’t take a swing only to defend your own feelings.”

 

“I might.” Apollo averts his eyes. “I have anger issues. You never know.”

 

“Come on, none of that. We both know you don’t lash out unless you’re really, really upset.” It’s true—Apollo has snapped at Phoenix plenty of times, and he’s even kicked and slapped at him on rare occasions when he’s been pushed too far over the edge, such that it almost seems involuntary. But he’s never thrown a punch, as far as Phoenix can say.

 

Apollo starts crying.

 

“It was about my mom,” he finally admits.

 

“Oh,” Phoenix says softly. He can almost hear the locks breaking, even now. “Oh, buddy—”

 

“He said she must have been a whore,” Apollo sobs, “because I don’t have a dad and Trucy’s only my half sister.”

 

“That’s not—”

 

“I know,” Apollo is quick to say. “I know. Trucy’s never been only half anything. I just—I just—” He sobs into his ice pack. “I only met my mom when I was nine. If she didn’t have me—”

 

“Don’t finish that sentence, Apollo. Don’t.”

 

“But it’s true, ” Apollo wails. “She would have been better off if I never came back. I caused—I caused her so much trouble. I was a mistake. That’s all I ever—”

 

“Stop,” Phoenix cuts in. “Stop that. You are not a mistake .”

 

“But you had to leave work to come get me because I can’t control myself!” The ice pack drops from Apollo’s hand onto the floor with a wet smack , and he buries his face in his hands.

 

Phoenix steps forward and places a hand on Apollo’s shoulder; Apollo pushes him away roughly, as if on instinct. Phoenix quickly recalibrates.

 

“Kid, I really don’t mind. I can review my notes later,” he says. “Right now, I’m responsible for you. It’s my job to take care of you.”

 

Apollo shakes his head vigorously. His cries echo off the cracked bathroom tile, despondent. It’s then, watching Apollo’s posture and the way he curls in on himself, that Phoenix realizes he’s getting scared.

 

“Apollo,” he says gently. “Please tell me what’s really got you so upset.”

 

“I can’t ,” Apollo insists, trembling. “You’ll—You’ll—”

 

“I’ll what?” Phoenix asks. “I’m not going to get mad at you. I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to understand what happened today.”

 

Apollo makes an uncertain sound, something between a scoff and a whimper.

 

“You’re not in danger, Apollo,” Phoenix says. “You’re safe. Anything you want to tell me can stay between us, right in this room.”

 

With a sniffle, Apollo stares at him, eyes bloodshot and glassy, and admits, “I used to have a brother.”

 

Phoenix blinks. That isn’t the sort of confession he was expecting. “...Huh?”

 

“A foster brother,” Apollo clarifies, wiping the tears that are still flowing from his eyes. “I was raised for nine years overseas. Then they found my mom and sent me here.”

 

“O-Oh,” Phoenix says weakly. “That explains the—”

 

“The gap in all of my records? Yeah. Thought you might notice that.” He pauses. “Do I have to tell you more right now?”

 

“No, no, of course not. But, kiddo, why didn’t you want me to know any of this?”

 

Apollo squirms. The bruise on his cheekbone is already a gnarly purple, scrapes marring the otherwise smooth skin. “Not even Clay knows everything. Because I’ve been trying to forget about it,” he admits. “Because they’ve already forgotten about me.”

 

“How do you—”

 

“I just know, Nick. I can’t go back. Can you drop it?”

 

“Okay. Okay, sure.” Phoenix sighs and reaches for Apollo’s shoulder again. When he doesn’t get shoved away, he starts gently rubbing the area with the pad of his thumb. “See? The world didn’t explode the moment you were honest with me.”

 

“Piss off,” Apollo grumbles.

 

Phoenix leans against the side of the counter. The ice pack lies forgotten on the floor, dripping condensation on the tile. “Is this what that kid was provoking you about?”

 

Apollo nods. “I wasn’t any good at English when I got here,” he says. “So—So anyone I was in elementary school with still kind of makes fun of me. A-And he made comments about my mom, and how I was raised like an animal—”

 

“Okay, so we’re going to get this kid expelled,” Phoenix cuts in, and even he isn’t sure how much of a joke he means it as.

 

Apollo scowls. “Could you be fucking serious for once?”

 

“Language,” Phoenix says lightly, as if it’s going to stop Apollo. “But I am serious. Nobody has any right to talk shit about your mom—”

 

“How come you can swear and I can’t?”

 

“Be quiet. No one gets to badmouth your mom and no one gets to be a bigot about your past.”

 

“But he does,” Apollo says. “He’s not the only one. But everyone gets away with it. So I just—I lost control. Like an animal. And I don’t—I don’t know what would have happened if Clay hadn’t stopped me.”

 

“Apollo,” Phoenix says. “Can I give you a hug?”

 

Tentatively, round eyes still glistening with tears, Apollo nods. Phoenix wraps him in a loose one-armed hold, slowly enough that he can pull away at any time, and tucks Apollo’s head against his shoulder. The poor kid goes practically boneless, his energy sapped by multiple meltdowns, as he slumps into Phoenix’s hold. He doesn’t reciprocate the hug, but he isn’t shaking, which Phoenix counts as a win.

 

“Listen, buddy,” Phoenix says quietly. “I’m not going to act like getting into a fight is okay, because it isn’t, and you already understand that. But you’re not a bad kid.”

 

“I am,” Apollo blubbers into Phoenix’s shoulder.

 

“No, you’re not. Remember what I said? You lash out because you’re upset.”

 

“But that’s bad ,” Apollo huffs. “That’s why you’re making me see the therapist.”

 

“No, that’s not why. I enrolled you in therapy because you have an anxiety disorder, and the day we met you had a panic attack so severe you blacked out. I did it to help you deal with your feelings. Not because you’re bad. It isn’t supposed to be a punishment.”

 

“What is it, then?”

 

“It’s me trying to give you a better life,” Phoenix says. “I’m on your side, Apollo. Don’t you see that?”

 

Apollo tenses in a way that tells Phoenix he doesn’t quite believe him, and he has to hold back a sigh. 

 

“Who made you feel this way, bud? Who told you that something’s wrong with you?” Phoenix asks, though he’s afraid to know the answer.

 

He’s honestly not expecting Apollo to tell him, but he does: “I-I used to cry and scream all the time when I was a kid,” he says, voice muffled by Phoenix’s shoulder. “M-Magnifi would say it’s because I was raised in a backwater and w-when I made a fuss or got bad grades h-he—”

 

Oh. Oh . Phoenix holds Apollo tighter instinctively, cutting off his words with a frightened sound.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Phoenix whispers, loosening his grasp again and patting Apollo’s back with a gentle palm. “Oh, buddy. That’s why you didn’t want me to know.”

 

Apollo nods against his shoulder, and god, Phoenix was already suspecting abuse from the way Apollo acted ever since he moved in, but to have it proven to him in such a big way—for Apollo to be so triggered by insults to his mother and his heritage that he starts swinging, for him to cover up what happened and burst into tears the moment Phoenix tries to get him to open up about it, for him to be reduced to crying into Phoenix’s dress shirt in their tiny bathroom because he’s so scared of himself and for himself—it makes Phoenix nauseous.

 

After a few moments, Apollo pushes his way out of Phoenix’s hold and scrubs at his eyes, a dismal expression on his face. It might be a good thing that he’s suspended for the rest of the week, because all Phoenix wants to do is send him off to bed and let him nap for a good 48 hours straight. In fact, Phoenix wishes he could do the same; unfortunately, he’s an adult with a full-time job and a nine-year-old to parent, so it’s not an option.

 

He busies himself with packing up the first aid kid, waiting to see if Apollo will speak again.

 

“It wasn’t that bad, usually,” he eventually mutters. “He would just—He’d smack me for misbehaving.”

 

Phoenix pauses. “Apollo, that’s still abuse.”

 

Apollo squirms some more, picking at the bandaging on his hand. “I don’t want you to make a big deal about it, Nick,” he says.

 

“I don’t have to,” Phoenix concedes, even though he’d very much like to make a huge deal out of it. “And I hope you know this by now, but I am never, ever going to hit you or your sister. I don’t care how mad you make me, no one under my roof is ever going to be hit.”

 

Apollo frowns at his fist. “But what if I…” he starts, but trails off, shaking his head.

 

“Hey,” Phoenix whispers, prying his fingers away from the gauze. He gives them a squeeze, and Apollo finally looks back up at him, eyes wide. “He was wrong, okay? About all of it. I promise.”

 

“But—”

 

“No,” Phoenix says. “No buts.”

 

Apollo’s expression wobbles, and Phoenix is sure he knows intimately the sort of thoughts running through his mind—because he’s seen it all before, in the eyes of a young man haunted by the spectre of the person he’d been shaped into and the memory of a life he did not take.

 

“...I’m sorry I got into a fight,” Apollo eventually says. “It—It felt really horrible, Nick, honestly!”

 

“I know, I know. It’s okay. You’ll get some rest for the rest of the week, and by Monday you’ll feel better. Tomorrow I want you to call your therapist. Deal?”

 

“Fine,” Apollo whispers.

 

“Good,” Phoenix says lightly, offering an arm while Apollo hops down from the bathroom counter; he doesn’t take it. Apollo’s clothes are still filthy, covered in dirt and dappled with a few droplets of blood that may not even be Apollo’s. Phoenix grimaces. “You should get changed out of those clothes. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“I think just bruises.”

 

“I can get you some more ice. Go change, and I’ll bring it to you.”

 

Apollo furrows his brow. “Aren’t you going to ground me, or something?”

 

“Bud, you’re already suspended from school, and I think you’ve punished yourself enough,” Phoenix says. “You know fighting is wrong, and you’ll try not to let it happen again. That’s all that matters.” He gently nudges Apollo toward his room. “Go on, I’ll be right there.”

 

Apollo grumbles, but goes without further protest, wobbling slightly from exhaustion. Phoenix watches him go; his face falls into a worried frown the moment Apollo turns the corner.

 

Maybe he should call Edgeworth.

 

---

Once he’s determined Apollo is alright to be left alone, Nick heads back to the office. Apollo holes up at the kitchen table with his history textbook, taking notes in sloppy, shaky handwriting with his injured hand. Halfway through a chapter, Apollo’s phone lights up with a video call from Clay. He swipes to answer, leaning the phone against his water bottle.

 

“Hey,” he says weakly, tapping his pencil against his notebook.

 

“Hey, ‘Pollo, school just ended,” Clay says, voice tinny. “How do you feel?”

 

Apollo sighs, hand falling still on the table. “Honestly, Clay, I feel like a bad person.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What do you mean huh? I beat somebody up today.”

 

Clay frowns. “Dude, it was a pretty evenly matched fight. Besides, he started it, it’s not like you jumped him in an alley.”

 

“Is he okay?” Apollo asks quietly.

 

“You didn’t break his nose, apparently, but it looked gross,” Clay says. “He got suspended too, by the way. Did he really call you the F word?”

 

“Sometimes he does. Him and his friends. They call me a lot of things.”

 

“And today?”

 

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

“I know.” Clay props his chin up on his hand. “I’m just worried about you, man. You barely even seemed angry, it was like—It was like you were scared, so scared you barely even knew where you were.”

 

“I think I was having a panic attack,” Apollo confesses.

 

“Apollo,” Clay says, “are you sure you’re doing okay?”

 

“It’s just been a long day.”

 

“That’s not what I mean.” Clay brings his camera in closer. Apollo can see the acne scars dotting across the bridge of his nose like constellations. “Can I come over? Or are you grounded?”

 

“Nick didn’t say I couldn’t have anyone over.”

 

“Okay. I’m coming, then. Is lil Trucy there?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “She’s at the office with Nick.”

 

“Darn. We could have teamed up. Oh well, be there soon!”

 

“Har har. Bye, Clay.”

As soon as Apollo opens the door to let Clay in, his best friend winces.

 

“Aw, jeez,” he says. “That looks so much worse in person.”

 

Self-conscious, Apollo raises a hand to his cheekbone—the ointment Nick put on it earlier numbs the sting considerably.

 

“Does it really look that bad?” he asks. “Do I look like a delinquent?”

 

Clay kicks the door shut, shaking his head. His eyes are wide. “No, that’s not it, it just looks really painful.”

 

Apollo looks away. “Nick put some kind of numbing cream on it and iced it, so it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

 

“Come on, let’s sit—Holy shit , Apollo!” Clay exclaims, scanning him up and down.

 

Apollo flinches backward in surprise. “What!?”

 

“Sorry, I—Dude, that’s more bruises than I thought.”

 

Apollo slumps onto the sofa, clutching his bruised elbow to his torso. “It’s fine, I think it’s mostly from hitting the ground.”

 

“No, ‘Pollo, Jack got quite a few hits on you.” Clay sits down next to him. “Like, just as many as you got on him, if not more, and he’s stronger than you. Did you not, like, feel it?”

 

Apollo blinks at him incredulously. “No,” he admits. “I was so numb. I barely even felt what I was doing.”

 

Clay’s jaw drops open just slightly. “Dude, you were screaming and sobbing. It was so bad I heard you and came running, and you were just wailing on him while he shoved and kicked at you. What did he say to you?”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t wanna talk about it?”

 

“I know, I know, I just—I want to help. I’m sorry.”

 

Apollo goes quiet, picking at the loose threads on the bottom of his shirt. Clay’s only vaguely aware of his background, since they met in middle school, and though they’ve talked about their moms often, Apollo has always avoided talking about Magnifi. It would have been easier if Clay just believed that Apollo only got into a fight over a few unsavory words, but much like Nick, he knows better than to think Apollo would resort to violence without being deeply, deeply upset by something.

 

“If I show you something,” Apollo whispers. “Do you promise not to tell?”

 

“Of course,” Clay says.

 

Tentatively, cautiously, Apollo lifts the hem of his shirt and turns his back to Clay, who makes a small noise of confusion that quickly gets caught in his throat.

 

“O-Oh,” he breathes. “Where did that come from?”

 

“It’s not new,” Apollo assures him, shivering at the rush of cool air on his skin. “It’s a couple years old. It never faded. I don’t know why.”

 

“Apollo,” Clay says wetly. “Who the hell gave you a burn that big?”

 

“Well, the burn was technically an accident. My grandfather got mad and hit me and I backed into the stove—”

 

“ Apollo! ” Clay shouts. He tugs the hem of Apollo’s shirt back down.

 

Apollo looks over his shoulder. Tears are pooling in Clay’s eyes. “W-What?” he asks.

 

“Did that happen a lot?”

 

“Well, no.” Apollo turns back fully around, brows knitted. “I only have the one burn—”

 

“No,” Clay says, scrubbing at his eyes, “him hitting you.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo squeaks, hit with a sudden wave of deja vu. This is the second time he’s confessed to Magnifi’s physical violence today, and Clay’s reaction may even be sadder. “Yeah. It did.”

 

In a moment too quick to process, Apollo finds himself in his best friend’s arms. Clay never does anything halfway—and that includes his loyalty to Apollo, which he apparently intends to convey by squeezing him as tightly as he can without hurting him. Apollo’s been sensitive about physical affection since the day they met, but somehow Clay always finds the line and parks himself right in front of it. It’s like he’s developed a sixth sense over the several years they’ve been friends, and Apollo—in moments like these, as he lets Clay hug him—is grateful for it.

 

“It’s okay,” Apollo says into Clay’s shoulder. “It was a long time ago, and he’s gone now.”

 

“Shut up,” Clay blubbers. “Shut up. I’m going to shit in Jack Ash’s locker now. Jesus Christ.”

 

“What’s it got to do with him?”

 

Clay releases him from the hug and pulls back, giving him an unimpressed look. “Dude, he triggered you big time, didn’t he?”

 

Apollo flushes to the tips of his ears. “...Yeah. But it’s not like he knew.”

 

“He’s a douchebag anyway, I don’t care,” Clay insists. “God, I’d have swung at him too if I knew. Whatever he said really got to you that bad?”

 

Apollo nods. “It was mom stuff,” he admits, and that’s enough to get Clay to drop it. “I just… All I saw was him. My grandfather. Sorry, Clay.”

 

“Don’t apologize, dude, come on. You know I’ve got your back, always, right? You’re fine, I’m fine, we’ll both be fine.”

 

“Thank you,” Apollo says softly.

 

Clay huffs out a breath. “Thanks for trusting me, ‘Pollo. Does Nick know?”

 

“Yeah,” Apollo says. “As of today.”

 

Clay actually chuckles at that. “Okay, that’s good. I don’t like the idea of trying to lie to him about it.”

 

“He’ll be glad to hear that Jack got suspended, at least.” Apollo stretches his arms over his head. “I think he hates him more than I do now.”

 

Clay laughs, loud and airy and boisterous, and it echoes through the apartment and through Apollo’s rib cage until the muscles in his chest finally loosen, and he breathes easy.

He’s nearly asleep that evening when Nick and Trucy get home. Apollo is curled up in a blanket with Clay seated cross-legged at the foot of his bed, with naught a sound but the light rustling of the pages of his book. Apollo is awake enough to hear the front door open and Trucy’s footsteps scampering toward the room. Nick’s heavier footfalls follow behind.

 

“Easy, Truce!” he calls out just as Apollo feels Clay shift beside him and all four feet of his baby sister carreen into their shared bedroom.

 

“Oh, Clay,” Nick says. “I didn’t know you were here. You got him to take a nap?”

 

“It wasn’t hard,” Clay says. “Hi, Trucy.”

 

“Clay!” Trucy whisper-yells. “Is it true that Polly got into a fight?”

 

“Trucy!” Nick hisses.

 

Before Clay can incriminate him, Apollo finds the energy to pipe up, “Nick, why’d you tell her?”

 

Nick snorts, bending down to brush aside Apollo’s hair. “Someone’s not really asleep, I see,” he teases.

 

“I was trying, but you won’t be quiet.”

 

“Okay, okay. Trucy, let’s give your brother a little privacy. You can help me make dinner.”

 

Apollo can hear Trucy’s pout in her voice. “But I wanna hang out with Polly.”

 

“Later, alright? He needs some rest. Are you joining us for dinner, Clay?”

 

“I think my dad’s expecting me,” Clay says. “But I’ll ask.”

 

“Sure thing, kid. Thanks for looking after this guy for me.”

 

Apollo grumbles, “I can still hear you, you know.”

 

Nick laughs and leads a still-pouting Trucy out of the room. Once they’re gone, Clay places a palm on Apollo’s back and pats him a few times.

 

“See? You’re fine,” he says lightly. “Need any more ice?”

 

“Shut up,” Apollo moans into his pillow.

 

Clay chuckles and returns to reading his book in silence. Apollo is fully asleep before dinner.

 

---

(In the weeks that follow, Apollo turns 16, doesn’t get into any more fistfights, and has successfully developed enough of a reputation that none of Jack Ash’s ilk seem poised to bother him anymore. All of his bruises heal—the physical ones, anyway—and Apollo finally tells his therapist about Magnifi, though it’s in as little detail as she’ll allow.

 

During this time period, Apollo also overhears three phone calls through the thin walls of Nick’s office. The first is with Mr. Edgeworth, and it’s the most upbeat of the three, even though Edgeworth seems to be disagreeing with him. The second is with Dr. Opal, to whom Nick explains in hushed tones where Apollo’s so-called ‘behavioral problems’ are stemming from. The third is an argument with his and Trucy’s caseworker, and Apollo doesn’t know the contents of that call because the very idea of it immediately sends him spiraling into a full-blown anxiety attack.

 

He’s in the office bathroom losing his mind by the time Nick hangs up and finds him, and although he refuses to tell Nick what’s wrong, Nick still walks him through his grounding exercises until he starts to calm down, but he’s still crying hard enough to make himself sick.

 

“It’s okay, you’re safe. It’s not so bad, right?” Nick soothes, mantra-like, as he very gently cleans Apollo’s tear-streaked face in the sink with a washcloth, one hand carefully dabbing at his cheeks and draping the cloth over the back of his neck, and the other resting comfortingly on his back. The warm water is calming, and it’s nice to be taken care of, even if Apollo feels immense shame for it as it’s happening, stuck in Nick’s workplace no less—what if a client comes along?

 

“There you go, you’re okay,” Nick says, giving Apollo a clean towel to dry his face once he finally stops crying. There’s water splashed on the front of Nick’s dress shirt, mingling with his ever-present sweat stains. “All better?”

 

Apollo nods. And Apollo does feel soothed, and he does feel grateful for the attention, but it does little to mitigate the awful feeling of mortification that worms its way into his stomach.)

 

---

It’s not often that Apollo finds himself at Mr. Edgeworth’s office, not least because the man spends so much of his time traveling and researching; the DA’s office is just sort of a stuffy place, and Apollo has sort of a distaste for prosecutors in general, broadly speaking. The carpets in the hall always smell like a mix of carpet shampoo and dust, like no matter how diligently the staff cleans the place it’s always shedding bureaucratic red tape. The overhead lights are bright, too bright, and the front lobby always has that same stale coffee smell as the police precinct, and that’s a place Apollo would prefer not to remember.

 

The door to Edgeworth’s office is left slightly ajar, and warm lamp-glow and the sound of rustling papers seep through the gap. Apollo raises a polite fist and knocks once, then twice, before a voice calls out to bid him entry.

 

“Ah, Apollo,” Mr. Edgeworth says evenly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Apollo shifts back and forth on his heels. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth nods. “I can certainly try. What is it?”

 

“How do I seek emancipation?”

 

A beat passes in which Mr. Edgeworth just blinks at him. Then his brow furrows with concern as he gestures to the plush sofa in the room and says, “Why don’t you have a seat.”

 

Apollo does as he’s told. He likes Mr. Edgeworth, even though he’s not around often; he always takes him seriously and talks to him like an adult, and he’s smart and responsible in the areas where Nick isn’t.

 

“Do you drink tea?” Mr. Edgeworth asks as he bustles around in the corner.

 

“No,” Apollo admits.

 

Mr. Edgeworth’s face scrunches up like he smells something sour for the briefest of moments before it smooths out into its usual deep furrow. He sits on the other end of the sofa with his own teacup and breathes deeply.

 

(That’s another reason Apollo likes Mr. Edgeworth. He thinks before he speaks, and takes time to collect his thoughts. Apollo’s caught him using some of the same calming strategies his own counselor has been trying to teach him, which makes him feel a little better about it all.)

 

“Is there something going on at home I should be concerned about?” Mr. Edgeworth asks.

 

“Huh?” Apollo frowns. His next words feel harsh even on his own tongue. “No. Nick isn’t like that. I don’t know why you’d even think that.”

 

“I would never imagine he would bring any harm to you or Trucy, no,” Mr. Edgeworth says carefully. “I apologize if I implied I do not trust him. But if Wright is proving unfit as a guardian to you in some way, I will do what I can to help. He and I both only wish for you and your sister to be happy.”

 

Apollo takes a deep breath. “That’s not it, really,” he says, more calmly now. “Nick is just fine. Trucy loves him. I just… think I’d rather be on my own.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth hums and sips his tea. “You want independence. Do you feel Wright is stifling you?”

 

“No, it’s not that, either. I guess it’d just be easier this way. He wouldn’t have to worry about providing for me and could focus on Trucy. I could get a job and find my own place, or I could crash with a friend for a while…” Apollo trails off. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

Mr. Edgeworth’s eyes look sad. “Even if you were emancipated, Wright would not throw you out on your ear,” he says. “Please tell me you understand that much.”

 

Apollo shrugs.

 

“Apollo,” Mr. Edgeworth says evenly, “I understand how you might be feeling. I was a foster child for much of my youth, and the experience scarred me in ways I fear may never fully heal. But being on my own at 16—even with the level of education I had, at the time—would not have left fewer scars, simply different ones.”

 

“But it’s different,” Apollo insists. “My life has always been like this. I just—I can’t go through it again . I’m tired of it.”

 

Apollo watches Mr. Edgeworth visibly decide against pursuing that particular line of inquiry before he instead asks, “And what about Trucy?”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Apollo says. “She has Nick. She doesn’t need me.”

 

“Are you sure that’s quite true?”

 

No one keeps me around forever, Apollo thinks, whether they want to or not.

 

“It’ll just be easier for both of us if it happens sooner rather than later,” Apollo says. “Trust me.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth’s expression twitches. He sits upright and sets his tea aside. “You think Wright is going to abandon you,” he says, and it’s not a question.

 

Apollo flinches. “Or child services will take me away,” he concedes. “Something like that.”

 

“And take you where?” Mr. Edgeworth prompts. “Apollo, no one wants to keep you and Trucy together more than Wright and I do. Please believe me when I say that you are in safe hands where you are. Why would someone come to take you?”

 

“Because no one has ever stayed ,” Apollo huffs. “Why would this time be any different?”

 

“Because it’s Phoenix Wright,” Mr. Edgeworth says softly. “And I know—from very, very hard-earned experience—that he does not give up on anyone so easily.”

 

Apollo falls silent. It’s hard to imagine, even though he’s been witness to it himself, that the person Nick is at the defense bench is the same as the person he is at home. It’s hard to remember that justice-and-truth-oriented, soft-hearted, faith-in-everyone Phoenix Wright is the same Nick who burns toast every morning and snores like an old man when he falls asleep on the couch and tucks Trucy into bed each night and helps Apollo do his breathing exercises when he’s boiling over with rage or anxiety.

 

It's hard to accept that Phoenix Wright's unwavering loyalty may extend to him, too.

 

“Do you doubt that he cares about you?” Mr. Edgeworth asks gently.

 

Apollo shakes his head. “I know he cares. I just… worry it’s too much.”

 

“What is too much?”

 

“Me,” Apollo admits. “All I do is make things harder. Eventually he’ll realize that.”

 

“Is that so? Harder how, exactly?”

 

Apollo frowns. “I feel like you aren’t listening to me.”

 

“My apologies. I’m just afraid I don’t understand what you feel is so burdensome about you.”

 

“Everything,” Apollo says. “I cause him a lot of trouble.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth actually smiles, fond. “That man is a magnet for trouble. It’s… enrichment for him.”

 

“I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke or not, Mr. Edgeworth.”

 

He chuckles. “I’m sorry. I assure you, your problems are not an unwelcome burden. Wright took you in specifically because he was worried about entrusting your emotional well-being to the state.”

 

“...Really?”

 

“Ah… Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

 

“N-No, I just…” Apollo trails off. He what, exactly? He can’t imagine anyone ever caring for him on purpose? He doesn’t believe anyone would not only tolerate but welcome the burden? Apollo can’t exactly call Mr. Edgeworth a liar.

 

“I’ll be the first to admit that savior complex of his makes him a bit foolhardy,” Edgeworth offers. “But I will also be the first to admit that he does so in earnest.”

 

“I guess,” Apollo concedes.

 

Mr. Edgeworth leans back in his seat, thoughtful. “If emancipation is really something you’d like to pursue, I will gladly look into it for you,” he says. “So long as you’re certain it’s what you truly want.”

 

“No, I…” Apollo bites his lip. “It’s not. I don’t know what is.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” Mr. Edgeworth says. “I’m happy just to lend an ear, should you need it. Would you like me to drive you home?”

 

Apollo jumps up. “No, that’s okay! I have my bike!” he says, perhaps too loudly, if the bemused expression on Edgeworth’s face is any indication. “Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth!”

 

“Anytime. Please—” Mr. Edgeworth’s exasperated sigh follows Apollo all the way down the hall. “Please be careful racing about the hallways!”

The hinges on the front door of the apartment creak like they always do, because Nick always forgets to oil them. Trucy's shoes are lined up in the entryway in a neat little row next to Nick's; Apollo toes off his sneakers and kicks them aside, then feels guilty and lines them up next to Trucy's. He tells himself it's only because Nick is a clumsy old fart and will trip over them if he doesn't, and then he'll complain about his back for days.

 

Nick is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop and a mess of papers, a forgotten cup of coffee at his side. He chews the end of his pencil while he scrolls, sparing Apollo a glance when he comes in to get a snack.

 

“Hey kiddo,” he says absently. “How's it hangin’?”

 

“Fine,” Apollo says, rooting through the sparse pantry for the crackers. “Where's Trucy?”

 

“Doing homework, I hope. Come take a look at this.”

 

Apollo shoves a cracker into his mouth and steps up to look over Nick's shoulder. He's browsing… real estate listings?

 

“What am I looking at?”

 

Nick points at the screen. “Lease is up soon, so I want your opinion on a new apartment. I'm drawing up a list of pros and cons for these.”

 

Apollo frowns. “And you want my opinion… why?”

 

Nick looks at him like he's sprouted another Mr. Hat. “Because you'd be living there too, duh? Did you hit your head?”

 

“Oh,” Apollo says dumbly.

 

Nick's brow furrows almost as much as Mr. Edgeworth's. “Did you think otherwise? Here, look.” He scrolls further down and points at the screen again. “We've been getting more business lately, so I think I can afford a bigger place. You know, with another room, that way you and Trucy don't have to share anymore.”

 

“You're looking for a new place… For my sake?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, for you and Truce, but yeah.” Nick frowns. “Unless that's… not what you want?”

 

Apollo's chest clenches. The image in front of him blurs as hot tears spring to his eyes and a sob wrenches its way out of his throat, unbidden.

 

“Wh-Whoa! Apollo!” Nick shuts his computer and stands up. “Hey. What's wrong? Is this… Am I overstepping? I know you don't think of me as a parent, but I still thought maybe you—”

 

He's cut off as Apollo darts forward and throws his arms around him, crying.

 

“I thought you—I didn't think you wanted me to stay,” he admits.

 

“What!? Why would you think that? Apollo, I'm so sorry.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “It's not because of you. It’s my stupid brain. I'm sorry.”

 

Nick cups the back of Apollo's head with his palm and tucks him against his chest. “Of course I want you to stay. Of course I want you to stay, kiddo.”

 

The kitchen light is warm and yellow, and the fridge hums in the quiet. Apollo sinks into Nick’s hold, squeezing so tight he feels the vertebrae in Nick’s shitty back pop. The table is scuffed and marked by coffee rings, and all their plates and cups are old and mismatched, and Nick always forgets to reset the time left on the microwave just like he always forgets to oil the door hinges, and sure Apollo has to share a tiny room with his nine-year-old sister, but Nick always buys his favorite brand of crackers even though they’re more expensive. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s a home . He’s almost forgotten what it feels like, to feel well and truly wanted. To walk through his own home without knowing where the squeaky floorboards are, without guarding his vital points.

 

What might it be like, to let himself feel that way again for the first time since his mother was around—if he’s ever truly experienced it at all?

 

“I want to stay,” Apollo confesses through tears. “I want to stay here, with you and Trucy. Even if I never get my own room.”

 

Nick snorts. His chest rumbles when he laughs. “Yeah, you say that now.”

 

“Nick, Trucy has been barging into my room to sleep in my bed since she could walk. I have never known a night of peace. This is nothing to me.”

 

“Sure, sure. She loves you more than anything, that much is true.” Nick pulls back from the hug and searches Apollo’s face. “Are you okay?”

 

After a moment, Apollo nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

 

Nick reaches out and ruffles his hair; Apollo swats his hand away with a half-hearted scowl that he doesn’t really mean, and they both know it. Nick retracts his hand anyway, chuckling.

 

“I care about you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

 

“I know,” Apollo says.

 

“Good. So, what do you think? Maybe we can tour some apartments next weekend with Trucy?” Nick sounds hopeful, head tilted.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

 

“Then that’s the plan,” Nick says with an easy smile. “Now go see what your sister’s up to; I think she needs help with her fractions.”

 

Apollo pouts, still sniffling. “Why can’t you help her? It’s third grade math.”

 

“Apollo, I was an art major and you currently have a B+ in algebra.” Nick nudges him toward the doorway. “Go on.”

 

“Fine,” Apollo sighs with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, but he smiles to himself the moment he’s out of Nick’s sight.

Notes:

y'all have no idea how hard it was to write apollo legitimately getting harassed by another student. genuinely one of the last things i managed to write to tie this chapter together. he is a plot device and will not be returning, i assure you.

the idea of apollo getting into a fight at school and needing nick to come pick him up goes way back to the early days of this fic's development, though as i wrote young apollo's character it became less of an explosive temper thing and more of a "severe anxiety manifesting as explosive temper" thing. magnifi you piece of shit. spanking your kids is evil btw

Chapter 7: PART VI

Summary:

The sea breeze is kicking up as evening draws nearer, blowing in off the coast like a held breath from thousands of miles away finally being released. Maybe Nahyuta, Dhurke, and Datz are still out there, on the other side; Apollo has long since stopped wondering. It feels like a betrayal, sometimes, but Apollo has no room in his life anymore for chasing after ghosts.

--
In which Apollo builds a wardrobe, a home, and a life, and lets the sea swallow what it will.

Notes:

welcome back to the apollo and trucy show

Home is where I want to be / But I guess I'm already there

- Talking Heads, “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)”

 

“Do we have clearance?”

 

“To the left—no, Nick, your other left!”

 

“Maya, you’re not helping. Miles, can you—”

 

“I’m steering, Wright. Calm down.”

 

“Okay. Sorry, sorry, just—” Nick backs through the doorway, Maya at his heels and Mr. Edgeworth bringing up the rear. “Over here—Apollo, move.”

 

Apollo scrambles to the other side of the room and stands among the sea of boxes. Maya stands in front of him, framing the space between her fingers like a photographer.

 

“Just back up a little further,” she says. “A little more, aaaaand… perfect!”

 

Mr. Edgeworth gently lowers his end of the couch onto the floor, but Nick practically drops his, groaning. Apollo jolts at the impact; Mr. Edgeworth’s eyes flick over to him for just a moment, and then he’s back to frowning at Nick in disapproval.

 

“Be careful,” he says firmly.

 

“Sorry, hand slipped,” Nick pants, palms pressed to his lower back as he attempts to stretch. He lets out an unflattering grunt. “Oh, god, that hurts.”

 

The furrow in Mr. Edgeworth’s brow grows deeper. “You ought to take a break, Wright.”

 

“What, and make Apollo carry furniture?” Nick fires back, gesturing in Apollo’s direction.

 

Apollo straightens up at the sudden attention. His words still feel a little stuck in his throat from being startled, but Mr. Edgeworth manages to pick up his conversational slack.

 

“This was the last heavy piece,” he counters evenly. “I’m sure between Apollo, Maya, and myself, we can manage the rest.”

 

“No, no, I can—oh, god.” Nick tries to move and goes rigid, hunching again with both hands on his back. “Ow, ow, ow, shit, that really hurts.”

 

Maya steps forward with a sigh and tugs Nick onto the couch they conveniently just brought in. “Alright, alright, that’s enough, old man,” she says. “C’mon, lay down.”

 

Nick sprawls on his back with little protest, hissing swears through his teeth as Maya gets him situated. Apollo sits on the floor and begins rifling through the mountain of boxes for the heating pad—he has a feeling they’re going to need it soon.

 

Mr. Edgeworth sits atop a plastic tote full of books and DVDs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Wright, this is why I keep telling you to lift from your legs , not your back,” he scolds.

 

“I tried, I tried,” Nick whines. “Some of us skip leg day. I can’t help that— ow , Maya!”

 

“Sorry,” Maya stage whispers as she slips a rolled-up throw blanket under the small of Nick’s back.

 

“You ought to have your back looked at by a doctor,” Mr. Edgeworth says, wiping sweat from his brow—Apollo has known him for almost a year now, but it’s still strange to see him wearing an ordinary shirt and jeans instead of even his most casual of everyday wear. It’s like seeing your teacher in the grocery store.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nick grumbles.

 

Mr. Edgeworth scowls. Maya mumbles something like, oh, now you’ve done it.

 

“I’m serious,” Mr. Edgeworth says. “It has been giving you trouble since you took that fall off Dusky Bridge last year.”

 

Nick squawks, but Apollo doesn’t even react to the information the way he probably should; he knew about Nick’s miraculous survival a few days after it happened. Such things make the news, after all. Or at least the online law forums. It’s the sort of thing that fuels hero worship—not that that lasted more than a few months after that, anyway. Life comes at you fast.

 

“Miles, don’t bring that up in front of Apollo or Truce, please,” Nick begs. Mr. Edgeworth has the grace to look at least a little bit sorry, though it isn’t strictly necessary. Nick turns his gaze to Apollo, and his eyes turn soft.

 

“You alright over there, kiddo?” he asks with a frown.

 

Apollo blinks and realizes he's been spacing out a little, elbow-deep in a cardboard box full of miscellany that Nick definitely packed himself.

 

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I'm fine. Got distracted.”

 

From the kitchen, there's a sharp clatter and a little yelp, and then Trucy's voice calls out, “Oops… Daddy?”

 

Nick presses his palms over his eyes, probably not angry with Trucy but definitely starting to reach a breaking point. Apollo's already got the jitters, so he wobbles to his feet.

 

“I'll go see,” he says hurriedly before sliding on socked feet into the kitchen. Trucy is in one of the kitchen chairs where she's been wiping dust out of drinking glasses with a rag, per Nick's request. She's pretty careful for a nine-year-old, but a single nondescript glass lies broken in several pieces on the floor beside the table.

 

“What happened?” Apollo asks.

 

Trucy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Polly, I broke it. Daddy's going to be upset.”

 

“No, it's okay,” Apollo assures her, taking a knee beside her chair. “Are you okay? Not hurt?” Trucy nods. “Good. Come here.”

 

Apollo lifts an arm for her to curl under, and Trucy, never one to resist a good hug, drops her weight into him like a rock. Apollo lets out a little oof and pats her on the back.

 

“Daddy trusted me with an important job and I said I could do it because I'm a big girl and not a baby and I messed it up,” Trucy whines.

 

“It's okay, it was an accident. You're alright.”

 

Trucy sniffles, wriggling out of Apollo's hold with a pout. “You promise it's okay?”

 

“Of course. I'm going to clean it up; stay put and don't touch, got it?” Apollo smooths his sister’s hair and stands to find a dustpan. Maya is already one step ahead of him, coming into the kitchen with a plastic bag and the dustpan she must have fished out of a box.

 

“Yeesh,” she says. “With the way Nick was making a big stink about me coming in here to check on you two, I was expecting more than a little broken glass.”

 

“You know how he is,” Apollo says, pulling Trucy aside so Maya can quickly bend down and scoop up the glass shards. “I guess I was taking too long.”

 

Maya rolls her eyes. “No, he's just being dumb because he's stressed about the move and now he's busted his back again.”

 

Trucy perks up at that. “Daddy's hurt?”

 

“Oh, don't worry about it, princess,” Maya says. “You know he's got that bad back. He'll feel better later.”

 

“We should keep unpacking, then,” Apollo says.

 

“Nope!” Maya drops the bag of glass into the garbage and brushes off her hands.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Break time. Edgeworth's orders.” Maya stretches her arms over her head. “Honestly, I don't want to be here when their bickering reaches DEFCON-1. Let's go get boba.”

Twenty minutes later, Apollo pulls his jacket tighter around himself against the cold breeze. The plastic cup of mango bubble tea in his hand doesn't even break a sweat, ice melting slow and languid in February's chill.

 

Beside Apollo, Maya slurps lazily at her own strawberry milk tea, as if willing their break time to stretch longer. Trucy swings from the deserted monkey bars several yards away, letting loose some of the pent up energy that was building up back at the house. Apollo breathes deep, feeling tension of his own slip free from his shoulders. Maya casts a sidelong glance at him, and seems almost pleased with herself.

 

“I should have brought Pearly to hang out with her,” she muses. “She needs the attention, clearly.”

 

Apollo bristles. “You're not insinuating that she broke the glass on purpose just to—”

 

“Hell no, dude. I'm just saying, she's so much more at ease when she gets to run around and be a kid. All that nervous energy has to get out somehow. Unpacking's gotta be torture for her.”

 

“I guess so,” Apollo says. He slurps at his drink. “She wanted to help.”

 

“Sure. But it's a lot after a while, especially with Nick leeching anxiety vibes into the air.” Maya looks pointedly at him, and Apollo's forced to avert his eyes, watching Trucy play happily by herself.

 

Apollo's often wondered how Nick managed to survive so long on his own. He supposes, after observing for nearly a year now, that it never was really the case. Before Maya and Mr. Edgeworth he had Mia Fey, and before that, well, who cares?

 

He wouldn’t have noticed it at first, but there's a depth to Maya Fey's empathy, a level of responsibility that only makes sense once you remember she's been looking after her cousin more or less alone for two years now. Apollo only sees it on days like today, but Maya knows how to look into the heart of the matter, how to see anguish for what it is and tell it to get fucked. Maybe it's a wisdom that comes with age, or with getting charged for murder and kidnapped more than once. Or maybe it's some spirit thing, the same type of power that lets Nick look into people's hearts with that stupid rock of his. Who knows?

 

“It must be weird for you,” Maya says now, leaning back against their park bench. “You know, Trucy calling him Daddy. And me and Edgeworth her aunt and uncle.”

 

“Not really,” Apollo says. “I mean, it was the same with my stepdad. And his friend, who she called an uncle, too.”

 

“I guess.” Maya shrugs. “You know, last year, when he told me about you, Nick said he never wanted to pressure you into calling him dad.”

 

“He never has.”

 

“Good.” Maya smirks, a conspiratorial thing just for him. “I'd kick his ass if he did.”

 

“So would I.”

 

Maya laughs at that. “Good. It's funny he told you to call him Nick, by the way. It's my fault, probably.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, I didn't make it up. It's a childhood nickname I poached from a friend of his. But… I don't know. I think it's an offer of family, coming from him.”

 

“Maybe,” Apollo says, remembering the awkwardness of that first night—the strides they've made since then. But he was Nick from the very beginning.

 

“So you don't see him as a parent, then,” Maya says, and it's not a question. She points her straw at him. “A brother?”

 

“Closer, maybe,” Apollo concedes. “Not really, though. He's just…”

 

“Just Nick?” Maya offers.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

 

Maya tips her cup against his. “Cheers, I'll drink to that.”

When they get back to the apartment, Nick is snoring face-down on the couch. His shoes have been removed and the heating pad—unearthed from the boxes—lays across his back. Trucy tugs Maya off to her new room to help her unpack some of her things, in a much brighter mood now that she's had some time to run around.

 

Apollo follows the sound of light clattering into the kitchen, where he finds Mr. Edgeworth finishing the job Trucy left behind. He's stacking freshly cleaned plates in the cabinet when Apollo walks in.

 

“Ah, I thought I heard you three come in,” he says. “You didn't wake Wright?”

 

“Nope, he's out there sawing logs,” Apollo says, slumping into a chair.

 

Mr. Edgeworth sighs. “That man sleeps like the dead. I'll never understand.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Apollo mutters, and Mr. Edgeworth sends him a furtive smile. They're both, Apollo has learned, fitful sleepers—a fact that in retrospect makes Nick's patience with Apollo's nightmares and late night crying fits seem much more understandable.

 

“You know, Mr. Edgeworth,” Apollo says, “I thought we were all taking a break.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth hums. “I did, briefly. There are still more boxes downstairs, if you're looking for something to do.”

 

“No thanks,” Apollo says, wrinkling his nose.

 

Mr. Edgeworth takes a seat across from Apollo; he winces just a little as he bends down, and Apollo pretends not to notice. He taps the table lightly with his fingers. Apollo waits.

 

“Wright tells me you've been faring much better lately.”

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Apollo murmurs with a shrug.

 

Edgeworth nods slowly. “He was very pleased to inform me that your school has finally agreed to accommodations.”

 

“Yeah.” Apollo blushes. “Thanks for helping him with that while you were away.”

 

“Hm, well—Yes, of course. It was no trouble.” Mr. Edgeworth squeezes his own elbow. “They were quite simple requests, really.”

 

Apollo's teachers finally agreed, after some strongly worded legal language from Nick, to allow him extra time on reading-based tests and to allow him to leave the room during lessons if he's going to have a panic attack or some other outburst. It’s not a card he’s had to pull very often, but the sheer comfort of knowing he has the option has eased things quite considerably.

 

Coming clean about things to Nick—and to Clay—has helped, too, although Apollo isn’t exactly keen to admit that. He’s not sure how much Nick might have spilled to Edgeworth (despite promising to keep it between them), but he also figures he probably didn’t have to. Mr. Edgeworth seems to have a knack for piecing these things together on his own, socially awkward though he may be.

 

Apollo rests his head in his arms and lets the quiet wash over him. Mr. Edgeworth doesn’t call any attention to it; he simply continues to sit idly, eyes wandering as though he’s considering the pros and cons of the way he’s elected to organize the kitchenware. There’s still so much to do, but Apollo is so tired he could probably doze off right there at the table. The bags under Mr. Edgeworth’s eyes suggest the same. It’s been a long day.

 

“I wish that dummy had just hired movers,” Maya grumbles as she steps into the kitchen, breaking the fragile peace. She blinks at them. “Oh, you’re both here. Naptime, is it?”

 

Mr. Edgeworth sighs and rubs his temple. “I’m afraid not. There’s still work to be done.”

 

“Most of it can wait, can’t it?”

 

“Yeah, can’t it?” Apollo mumbles.

 

Maya pats his head. “See, Edgeworth? Think of the children.”

 

“You do realize I’m not the one in charge here?” Edgeworth drones.

 

“Well, if you mean Nick, he’s still passed out cold. Besides, you’re the responsible one anyway. And you have a car.”

 

Edgeworth sighs again. “I’m quite certain that’s why he chose to move house while I’m in town.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all grateful for your service, designated Uhaul driver,” Maya says. Apollo can practically hear her roll her eyes. “You could have just paid for movers, you know.”

 

“He tried,” Apollo pipes up. “Nick refused.”

 

Maya scoffs. “I should have known. Anyway, you didn’t get him to take any painkillers, did you?”

 

“Of course not,” Mr. Edgeworth says in a long-suffering tone. “Though not for lack of trying. He was stressed as it is, so I did not want to push the issue.”

 

“I’ll push the issue,” Maya says dangerously.

 

“Maya, please…”

 

The two of them must share some kind of silent exchange over Apollo’s head, because they’re both silent for a moment before Maya relents.

 

“Yeah, fine, you’re right. As usual.” She pokes Apollo in the shoulder. “Hanging in there, little dude?”

 

With effort, Apollo lifts his head enough to scowl at the nickname, which of course doesn’t deter Maya anyway.

 

“Leave him be,” Mr. Edgeworth cuts in. “Where’s Trucy?”

 

A surprised squawk and a grunt of pain resound from the living room.

 

“Never mind,” he sighs.

 

Apollo forces himself upright and calls out, “Trucy, come in here.”

 

“No, no, she’s fine,” Nick calls back in a strained voice. Then, a beat later: “A little help please?”

 

Edgeworth is already on his feet, muttering to himself. Maya follows after him, and Apollo does the same.

 

When he gets to the living room, Mr. Edgeworth has already gotten Nick sitting partly upright, reclined against the arm of the couch supported by a pillow. Trucy has somehow squeezed herself in with him, tucked under his arm with her head on his shoulder. She’s attempting to shuffle her trick deck—a distant part of Apollo recognizes the motion as the same sleight of hand trick Shadi tried to teach him many summers ago and failed. He sees the misdirection in his baby sister’s inexperienced hands, and it takes everything in his willpower not to blurt out the answer now, as if Shadi could still hear him, wherever he is.

 

“We’re all good, I don’t need the whole peanut gallery here,” Nick says with a wave of his hand. “She’s not that heavy.”

 

“Daddy, you’re not paying attention,” Trucy whines.

 

“Sorry, sweetpea. Show me again.”

 

Apollo relaxes his shoulders and sits in front of the couch with the bin of books and DVDs to sort them. Whatever rippling tension seemed to grip them all earlier seems to have passed now. In the meantime, Maya and Edgeworth make trips up and down the stairs unloading the last few boxes. Trucy chatters on and on in Nick’s ear, happy and giggling in a voice as light as a butterfly’s wings; Nick listens intently, occasionally reaching down to tousle Apollo’s hair. Every few minutes, Maya and Mr. Edgeworth’s lighthearted bickering floats up the stairs and down again.

 

For once, despite the exhaustion sinking into his bones, Apollo starts to feel like things are really alright.

 

---

He’s embarrassed to admit it, but it takes quite a while for Apollo to get used to having his own bedroom again.

 

There are infinite benefits to it, even aside from the privacy it affords. For one, Apollo gets to decorate however he wants, within the bounds of what the rental company will allow. He doesn’t have to trip over Trucy’s stray props every morning when he gets out of bed. His door even has a lock , so he can keep her out all night if he wants (not that he ever has the heart to do it).

 

(He and Nick spend an entire weekend afternoon building a new wardrobe now that he isn’t sharing closet space with Trucy. Halfway through assembly Apollo realizes he’s been reading the instructions wrong and gets so frustrated he starts to cry.

 

Nick has to climb over the exploded IKEA warehouse on the floor to calm him down, nearly tripping over discarded boxes as he kneels beside Apollo and takes the papers from his shaking, white-knuckled hands. They nearly rip as Nick pries them free.

 

“It’s an easy fix, bud, don’t worry about it,” he says breezily, and once Apollo stops crying, they’re able to put things back together with ease. Apollo only wishes it were so easy in all areas of his life, to repair what’s broken with such little fanfare, but there is something soothing about being able to teeter on the edge of a total meltdown and not be berated for the indignity of it—to wipe his tears and move on without being pushed to the point of lashing out.

 

It’s a simple thing, really, but one he never quite realized he was missing.)

 

Having a room to himself means there’s finally space for the few boxes of things he took from the Gramarye house: books, knickknacks, a couple of framed photos. One of the latter is of himself and Trucy fast asleep in a cramped tour bus bunk, taken by their mother; Trucy is three years old and tiny, tucked under Apollo’s chin, and he’s still short enough that he fits in the bunk without having to curl up at all. It gets displayed prominently on Apollo’s desk, right next to the model keychain of the new HAT-1 prototype that Clay snagged for him from GYAXA.

 

Even as the new apartment starts to quickly feel like a home, though, Apollo doesn’t adapt to the solitude as quickly as Trucy does, which is humiliating.

 

Not being able to hear Trucy across the room anymore is an adjustment; she hasn’t resumed her habit of sneaking into his room at night, so it’s the first time in many years—or ever, really—that Apollo spends so many consecutive nights by himself. It’s not that he’s scared (because he’s far too old to be scared, surely), but the solitude is eerie, and when he wakes from a bad dream without her presence nearby to ground him, he finds it hard to get back to sleep.

 

If it’s bad enough that he cries out, Nick will wake up and check on him, but times like tonight, Apollo startles awake alone, heart racing as he blinks away the suffocating sensation of water in his lungs and forces himself to focus on the solidness of the floor beneath his bare toes.

 

Relinquishing himself to the embarrassment, Apollo clutches his pillow to his chest and slips into the hall to check on Trucy. He pokes his head into her room to find her bed empty, so he tiptoes into Nick’s room instead, and there she is, curled up under the covers next to him, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Nick’s arm is thrown lazily over top of her like a shield, and he’s snoring up a storm.

 

Apollo pushes down the traitorous feeling of betrayal that creeps in at the thought of Trucy seeking out Nick for comfort when she can’t sleep instead of him (Is he not good enough? Did he always complain about it too much?) and focuses on the matter at hand; he has more pressing concerns to consider, like the fact that his heart is still pounding and he can hear water rushing in his ears if he lets his mind drift.

 

He creeps up to the empty side of the bed and slowly, cautiously sets down his pillow and climbs under the covers. The mattress shifts beneath him, and Nick snorts awake.

 

“Mmhuh?” he murmurs, lifting his head from his pillow and blinking at Apollo in the dark. “Apollo?”

 

Apollo scowls. “Not a word ,” he hisses.

 

Nick grins lazily and says, “‘Kay. G’night,” before dropping his head back down and conking back out. With a huff, Apollo lays down and pulls the blanket over himself. Beside him, Trucy stirs and lets out a tiny mumble; instinctively, her hand reaches for Apollo and holds tight, with Nick’s arm still draped over her.

 

Fondly, Apollo presses a kiss to two of his fingers and brings them to her forehead. His sister wriggles in close but does not wake, breathing out a faint sigh against Apollo’s arm. He smiles, heart slowing, and shuts his eyes. It’s not long before he’s asleep again.

 

---

The sun is starting to dip west, dripping yellow and gold in the clear blue sky over the Pacific. Apollo tugs the brim of his cap down over his eyes as he watches the waves from a distance, perched in a beach chair on the rocky shore. Out at the water’s edge, Maya is trying to help Pearls and Trucy finish an elaborate sandcastle before the evening tide rolls in.

 

The sea breeze is kicking up as evening draws nearer, blowing in off the coast like a held breath from thousands of miles away finally being released. Maybe Nahyuta, Dhurke, and Datz are still out there, on the other side; Apollo has long since stopped wondering. It feels like a betrayal, sometimes, but Apollo has no room in his life anymore for chasing after ghosts.

 

Footsteps swish toward him from up the beach, and Nick plops down next to him, right in the sand.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay over here?”

 

Apollo nods. “Just watching.”

 

“Anxious?”

 

“No, actually,” Apollo says. “I feel okay.”

 

“Good.” Nick leans back on his palms. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

Apollo pushes down the jolt of nervousness that shoots up his spine at that. “What?”

 

“Nothing bad, nothing bad,” Nick assures him. He breathes deep. “I want to apply to formally adopt Trucy.”

 

“...Oh,” Apollo breathes out.

 

Nick quickly explains, “It’s been more than a year now, and you know she’s already been calling herself Trucy Wright for a while, and it would just—really put my mind at ease to formalize it. So I wanted to ask…” Nick clears his throat, uncharacteristically nervous. “I know you’re turning 18 next year, but I wanted to ask if maybe you’d like me to formally adopt you, too.”

 

Apollo’s world doesn’t collapse around him like a dying star; his lungs don’t constrict in his chest; his vision doesn’t blur and his ears don’t ring. What he’s left with is a quiet sense of surprise, somehow tinged with inevitability, like this was the only natural outcome.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

“Y-You don’t have to answer right away,” Nick hurriedly tacks on. “And it—You wouldn’t have to start calling me your dad, or change your name, or anything like that. It’d just be a legal document. I just, you know, I worry about when you age out of the system who’s going to be there for you if something happens. And if nothing else, I want Trucy’s legal family to be something stable and healthy for her.”

 

Apollo just blinks.

 

“B-But, of course, you don’t have to. And we’d still be a family either way, so long as you want that, just—not necessarily from a legal perspective.” Nick frowns, brow furrowed. “Apollo? Did I spring this on you too suddenly?”

 

It only takes a moment for Apollo to find his composure, shoved somewhere in the recesses of his mind. “You can adopt me,” he says plainly, then amends, “I want you to adopt me.”

 

Nick balks at that, mouth gaping like a dying fish.

 

“But I’m not calling you my dad,” Apollo adds. “I’m not your son. That’s gross.”

 

Nick’s mouth clacks shut, and then he bursts out laughing. Something seems to lift from him then, some sort of tension Apollo didn’t know was there until it suddenly disappears. Apollo’s bracelet even lightens almost imperceptibly, too little to notice if he wasn’t so attuned to it.

 

“Of course,” Nick says once he’s recovered. “That’s fine. We are what we are, yeah? Next of kin, something like that.”

 

“Something like that,” Apollo agrees.

 

Nick blows out a sigh. “You don’t know how much of a relief this is, buddy,” he admits softly. “I was starting to get nightmares about you landing in the hospital and me not being allowed to see you after you age out of foster care. Just—alone without anybody besides Trucy who’s still a kid. With your mom gone, I…” Nick trails off. “Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean for this to get a little heavy.”

 

Apollo shifts in his chair to look down at Nick. “You don’t think Zak’s coming back, do you?”

 

Nick tilts his head. “Do you?”

 

“No,” Apollo admits. “I never have. But Trucy…”

 

“I think she’s always known, Apollo. I really do.”

 

Apollo remembers back to about a year ago, now, the night he tried to run away. Down by the water, the rising tide sends a choppy wave crashing over Trucy and her sandcastle, swallowing her in seafoam for a few tense moments before the water recedes and Trucy pops back up, giggling. She and Pearls pay no mind to their destroyed castle—it can always be built anew, and the effort is never a waste. The tide comes, but it always ebbs again.

 

Apollo sucks a breath deep into his lungs, steady, and releases it. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick is looking at him, proud, and overly fond.

 

Without looking over, Apollo says, “I used to really look up to you, you know.”

 

He’s not sure what prompts him to admit it, really—sentimentality, the Pacific, maybe the way the sun spent the afternoon cooking his brain like a fried egg—but he does, and it has the added effect of making Nick sputter.

 

“Wh— Used to?” he parrots.

 

“Why would I look up to you now? I’ve seen you spill hot coffee on yourself weekly for the past year,” Apollo deadpans, and it’s only partially true, really, because Phoenix Wright is still a force to be reckoned with in court—it’s just that hero worship doesn’t really hold up to the real thing, and that’s just fine.

 

“Touche, kiddo. Jeez, tough crowd.” Nick reaches up and nudges Apollo in the arm. “What did you mean, though?”

 

“Like, as a lawyer,” Apollo says, and then feels his face flush as he realizes he’s never confessed this one before. “I… sort of always wanted to be a defense attorney since before I came to America.”

 

“Really!?” Nick blurts. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

 

“Because the reasons, they’re—they’re complicated, and besides that, it’s embarrassing!”

 

“Embarrassing? Apollo, I’ve seen you screaming and crying countless times, and this is what embarrasses you?”

 

Apollo flushes deeper. “It’s corny!”

 

Nick cackles at him. Apollo pouts until he finally stops and says, “I wish you’d have told me sooner. I could have been tutoring you this whole time.”

 

“Please, you have enough on your plate as it is. Besides, like I’d want that,” Apollo scoffs, even though he very much does want that.

 

Trucy comes running ashore then, kicking up sand behind her in the orange glow of the day’s dying light. She’s soaked from head to toe, seawater dripping from the ends of her flattened curls and the hem of her light blue swim shorts.

 

“Daddy, I got splashed!” she says, bounding up to Nick and shaking her head back and forth like a dog.

 

“Wh—Alright, I see that, babygirl,” Nick sputters against the onslaught of seaspray, hands out to block his face. “That’s enough!”

 

Trucy stops and steps back, giggling and grinning a mile wide like she’s just won the lottery.

 

“Jesus, Truce. Your Aunt Maya put you up to that?” Nick asks.

 

“Mmhm!” Trucy chirps, bouncing on her toes. “She promised me ice cream!”

 

Nick just sighs wearily. Meanwhile, Apollo rifles through their bags for Trucy’s towel—pink, with stars on it—and stands up. He comes up behind Trucy and drops the towel on her head, scrubbing furiously while she laughs and whines at him.

 

“Ack—Polly!” she squeals, trying and failing to knock him away. Apollo gives the length of her hair a last squeeze for good measure and drapes the towel over her shoulders while she pouts at him. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her to his side, and she hums happily at the newfound warmth in the growing evening chill.

 

Maya and Pearls are making their way up the sand with the castle supplies in tow, and Nick is still on the ground, clearly struggling to get his back to cooperate but too stubborn to admit it.

 

“Need help, old man?” Maya calls out.

 

“Shut up,” Nick fires back. He holds out both hands; Maya and Pearl each take one and tug. “Ooh, shit—” he grunts as they pull him to his feet.

 

Pearl scowls. “That’s a bad word, Mr. Nick,” she chides, crossing her arms.

 

“Sorry, Pearls,” Nick sighs, patting her on the head.

 

“Yeah, Daddy,” Trucy pipes up. She copies Pearl’s stance, complete with a serious expression. “Me and Pearl should both get ice creams now as payment for hurting our innocent ears!”

 

Nick gives Apollo a weary look, as if Trucy doesn’t hear him call Clay a shithead on the regular. “Apollo, help me out. I’m being given the run-around by a couple of fourth graders.”

 

A long-dormant mischievous streak perks up in Apollo’s mind—the part of him that grew up in the woods running around barefoot and playing pranks on Datz—and he fights to keep a gleeful smirk off his face. Nick’s face falls in slow motion as it happens: Apollo kicks sand at him, blows a raspberry, and takes off running with Trucy’s hand in his.

 

He can hear Maya cackling all the way down the beach.

 

“Polly!” Trucy yells, giggling hysterically as she’s tugged along behind him. “What are you doing?”

 

“You don’t wanna go home yet, do you?” Apollo calls back. “Let’s make him chase us down, then!”

 

“Daddy’s gonna get mad and then I’m not gonna get my ice cream!”

 

Apollo leads Trucy over the sand, dodging rocks and dunes scattered along the shore. “Forget your ice cream!”

 

Trucy gasps in mock horror and yanks Apollo to a stop with all the strength in her tiny body. She points at him in a strangely accurate and oddly charming facsimile of Nick’s courtroom pose and shouts, “You don’t get to have any anyways because Daddy says you’re lack toast intolerant!”

 

“ Lactose , Trucy,” Apollo corrects, like it matters.

 

Trucy sticks her tongue out at him, gripping her towel around her shoulders. Apollo sticks his tongue out in return.

 

“I’m gonna splash you,” Trucy warns darkly. Apollo’s eyes dart to the side—he didn’t even realize the tide had reached them. Before he has a chance to sputter a protest, Trucy starts kicking ankle-deep water at him, splashing him up to his knees.

 

Apollo feels a spark of anxiety when the water laps over his shins, but he allows himself a moment to breathe, and as the waves roll in and out and Trucy keeps trying to splash him, instead of panicking, he finds himself giggling.

 

“Two can play that game, you know,” he says, splashing his sister back. She squeals half in indignation and half in delight, towel tugged over her head to keep it out of the line of fire.

 

“Polly, it’s cold!” she shrieks, and he does feel a little bad—he was the one who tried to get her warm and dry, and now he’s gone and undone all of that—but then Trucy sloshes him hard enough that he loses his footing and drops rear-first into the water with a great big splash, water running over his hands and his ankles and soaking the swim trunks he’d otherwise kept dry the whole day.

 

He freezes for a second, and so does Trucy, hands fluttering like she’s worried he’s upset, but then Apollo breaks out into laughter, and Trucy’s face splits open with a grin wider than any he’s ever seen.

 

“I did it!” she cheers, throwing her hands up in the air.

 

“Did what?” Apollo snorts. “Knock me over?”

 

Trucy bounces up and down, heels kicking up droplets that glimmer and sparkle in the dwindling sunlight. “No, I made you smile! I knew I could do it, see? I told you! It’s like magic!”

 

Apollo’s mouth gapes just slightly, but then he’s back to laughing again. “It’s not magic, Truce. I’m just happy. I’m having fun, thanks to you.”

 

Trucy crouches down beside him, toes wiggling in the water. Wind threatens to whip her hair around and take her towel with it, so she holds it tight around herself. “That is magic! To me ,” Trucy insists. She looks out at the water and sniffs proudly, “Everything I do is magic, because I’m a magician. Obviously.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Duh, Polly!” Trucy pouts and splashes him with her hands, giggling and reveling in the way it makes him squawk in protest.

 

“Wha—Trucy!” Apollo sputters. “Enough, enough, I concede! You’re magic!”

 

Trucy claps with glee. “Yay! I win!”

 

“Alright, alright!” Apollo reaches over and ruffles her hair.

 

Thoughtful, Trucy stands and looks out at the water again. “Polly,” she muses, “I thought you were scared of the water.”

 

“Well…” Apollo follows her gaze. The ocean stretches out into a seeming infinity, disappearing in a wash of red and orange where it meets the setting sun. The sight does make anxiety spill into Apollo’s gut, but from the shore… “I am scared. But not so scared that I’m not having fun. Does that make sense?”

 

Trucy hums. “I guess so.” She smiles and holds out her hand as if to help him up. Apollo takes her hand and lets her tug for a moment while he ponders his options. Trucy’s small; it would be so easy to just pull her back into the water. She’d be drenched, towel and all, and it would probably make her upset, but he could.

 

She must be able to read it in his expression, because Trucy’s eyes blow wide and she pulls tighter on their joined hands. Before Apollo can make his decision, Pearls comes running down the beach and jumps when she sees them.

 

“Mystic Maya!” she calls out behind her. “I found them!”

 

Maya jogs up after her, followed lastly by Nick—the latter pulling the busted cart that’s holding all of their stuff.

 

“Great job, Pearly!” Maya shouts.

 

Nick looks distinctly unamused, scowling like a disgruntled cat. “Was all of that necessary, Apollo?” he asks in an exasperated tone.

 

“Yeah,” Apollo says with an easy smile.

 

For some reason, the glower on Nick’s face falls away into a soft, almost awed expression. Apollo raises his eyebrows.

 

“What?” he asks, dubious.

 

“Nothing,” Nick says, ignoring the look Maya’s giving him. “I was going to be annoyed with you, but you’re so happy that I don’t think I can.”

 

“Pushover,” Maya whispers, and Pearls nudges her in disapproval.

 

Apollo finally lets Trucy help him up, and the look she gives him—one that says I know what you were about to do —is enough to have him cracking another smile. He wraps her in a one-armed hug, both of them dripping with seawater. Nick just sighs and nudges Apollo in the shoulder.

 

“Come on, you four,” he says. “Let’s go the hell home.”

 

“Ice cream, Daddy?” Trucy pleads from under her towel, complete with puppy dog eyes.

 

Nick sighs again. “Alright. Ice cream first.”

 

Trucy cheers and pulls Apollo to the front of the group, darting up the beach with her hair whipping in the sea breeze, tugging him along toward the steps back up to the streets. Up above, the streetlights have turned on, and the coolness of the evening is setting in. The endless ocean—and all that lay behind it—swallows the last of the sun, but it does not swallow Apollo. He leaves it at his back where it belongs, and lets Trucy pull him away toward home.

 

He smiles the whole way there.

Notes:

in another world, this would be the last chapter of this fic. unfortunately for apollo, the plot looms, and so it will not be. but you can consider this a mid-season finale of sorts.

when next we meet, apollo has some growing up to do, some crimes to solve, and a dead mother to resurrect!

Chapter 8: PART VII

Summary:

Apollo takes a steadying breath and nods. He can do this. He’s Apollo Justice and he’s fine and he’s definitely not some scrappy kid who doesn’t belong in a place like this. He’s going to law school!

“Breathe,” Nick reminds him again, watching him across the table. When he’s satisfied with Apollo’s compliance, he nods and pushes a glass of water toward him. “Try to settle your nerves. If you need a break, let me know, okay?”

Apollo hums his assent and sips his water. After a few minutes, the initial anxiety passes as people continue to mill about, paying neither of them any mind. Nick doesn’t have many friends in the LA courts, it would seem—Apollo doesn’t have many friends, period, so who is he to judge?

Ha, Apollo thinks, judge.

--
In which Apollo grows up, and the seeds of ideas both great and terrible begin to sprout.

Notes:

ohh boy this chapter is a little bit all over the place. i think it has the sauce though. beware of the plot! we're in the trenches now!

Well you called him a liar / And you called him a piece of dirt / And never can you take it back and / Never can you make it right

- Everything Everything, “To The Blade”

 

Silk slips through Apollo’s clumsy, trembling fingers as he fumbles with his tie in the mirror. Mounting frustration is only making him less graceful after several attempts to make himself look suitably presentable. The tie—teal and made of soft silk, an early graduation present from Mr. Edgeworth—is one of the only few he’s ever owned, and certainly the nicest. His suit is off the rack and tailored to fit his small stature, but the tie adds a personal touch.

 

Apollo is grumbling to himself with rising panic when Nick knocks on the doorframe and steps in, already fully dressed and ready to go in his signature blue.

 

“Everything okay in here?” he asks.

 

Near tears, Apollo presses his knuckles into his eyes. Nick hums in recognition and steps closer. Warm, deft hands take hold of the ends of Apollo’s tie and effortlessly tie a knot, just tight enough to feel properly buttoned-up and secure but not so tight as to constrict Apollo’s breathing. He brings his hands away from his eyes as Nick carefully smooths down his collar and adjusts his lapels.

 

“Thank you,” Apollo mumbles.

 

“All good. Are you okay?”

 

“I’m nervous,” Apollo admits, shaking out his hands to rid himself of anxious energy. “What if I make a fool out of myself and embarrass you in front of important law people? What if people look at me and they only see a little schoolboy and—”

 

“Woah, woah,” Nick interrupts gently. He sets a hand on Apollo’s shoulder. “You’ll be alright. These galas are mostly just boring speeches and drinks, and you’re too young to drink, so for you it’ll just be boring. Okay?”

 

“If it’s boring then why’re you bringing me?”

 

“Because it’s still a chance to meet some people and get a feel for what it’s like,” Nick explains. “Don’t you worry, you’re gonna do great. Okay? You trust me?”

 

“Against my better judgement, yes, I trust you.” Apollo shuffles in place. “But I’m still nervous.”

 

“Of course you are, that’s normal. Now, you ready?”

 

“I think so…” Apollo bites his lip. “Are you sure I look okay?”

 

Nick chuckles and carefully neatens Apollo’s hair with his fingers. “Like a proper young professional. Just be earnest and mind your language and you’ll give a good impression. And anybody who disagrees isn’t someone you want to impress, anyway. You get me?”

 

“Okay.” Apollo takes a steadying breath and straightens his spine, and then repeats, “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

“Atta boy, Apollo. Off we go!”

Apollo’s nerves return anew once they arrive at the venue.

 

The hall is decked out… not lavishly, but elegantly, too elegant for Apollo in his barely-tailored suit and his clumsy body. People in professional-looking formalwear mill about the place, already sipping on glasses of wine and mingling like proper career lawyers and not little boys from mountain backwaters with naive dreams and no volume control.

 

Nick places a hand on his shoulder as they make their way to their table. Mr. Edgeworth has saved them both seats, but is currently nowhere to be seen, likely either forcing himself to be cordial or hiding out in the bathroom. If it’s the latter, Apollo’s inclined to join him.

 

“Apollo, relax,” Nick whispers. “Don’t let these people intimidate you. Breathe.”

 

Apollo takes a steadying breath and nods. He can do this. He’s Apollo Justice and he’s fine and he’s definitely not some scrappy kid who doesn’t belong in a place like this. He’s going to law school!

 

“Breathe,” Nick reminds him again, watching him across the table. When he’s satisfied with Apollo’s compliance, he nods and pushes a glass of water toward him. “Try to settle your nerves. If you need a break, let me know, okay?”

 

Apollo hums his assent and sips his water. After a few minutes, the initial anxiety passes as people continue to mill about, paying neither of them any mind. Nick doesn’t have many friends in the LA courts, it would seem—Apollo doesn’t have many friends, period , so who is he to judge?

 

Ha, Apollo thinks, judge.

 

After a few brief opening speeches from the gala’s organizers, a table is set up for donations beside the buffet, and attendees begin to mingle with each other in full force. Apollo, with his nervous stomach, only chokes down a few pieces of fruit and a croquette before he’s full. Mr. Edgeworth makes a brief appearance at their table to have a bite to eat and not have to say too much for a little while. After he’s gone again, it isn’t long before a new face approaches, with long blond hair and familiar features, and a finely tailored purple suit complete with expensive-looking shoes and glasses.

 

“Ah, Mr. Phoenix Wright. I came to properly introduce myself,” he says warmly behind those delicate frames. There’s something in his smile that makes Apollo’s bracelet squeeze around his wrist.

 

Nick puts on an air of nonchalance not quite befitting a famous lawyer. “Kristoph Gavin, the Coolest Defense in the West,” he says. “How’s your brother doing?”

 

Apollo does rapidfire mental calculations before the interaction can completely outpace him. Gavin, lawyer, brother. Kristoph Gavin. Klavier Gavin? The prosecutor in the Gramarye—

 

“Oh, well enough, I suppose,” Mr. Gavin says, jostling Apollo out of his thoughts. “He doesn’t stand in court much these days. Too caught up in his music career.”

 

Music career? Apollo thinks.

 

“That’s a shame,” Nick says so evenly that Apollo can’t tell if he’s lying or not. “He’s a smart young man. I haven’t seen him since the Gramarye trial. Well, not outside of the tabloids anyway. Not that I read them—a friend of mine does. Well, anyway—”

 

Mr. Gavin actually chuckles. It’s a light sound, like bells. “Indeed. What an honor it was for him to face the Turnabout Terror himself in court. Shame it went so poorly,” he says. Then he cocks his head just slightly. “You took in Gramarye’s young daughter, did you not? How is she doing?”

 

Nick carefully schools his expression. “How do you know that?” he asks.

 

“Ah! My apologies if it wasn’t public knowledge. Klavier told me.” Gavin sighs and shakes his head. “He was very hung up on that trial for quite some time, sadly. He followed the developments as closely as he could manage and would call me with news. He was relieved to learn through a contact that the little girl was in your care.”

 

Nick hums. “Well, she’s doing fine. She’s sharp as a tack and a very sweet kid.” His face gets that dopey expression it always does when he talks about Trucy. Apollo would find it corny if he didn’t find it so relatable.

 

Finally, Mr. Gavin seems to notice Apollo. Nick’s line of sight darts between them; Apollo’s bracelet picks up on the growing tension like a beacon, though Apollo can’t place the source. Maybe Nick was hoping Gavin wouldn’t notice him?

 

“And who’s this?” Mr. Gavin asks politely.

 

Apollo clambers to his feet and reaches out for a handshake. “Apollo Justice, sir!” he nearly shouts. “I’m a student of law! Well, almost.”

 

Unfazed by his enthusiasm, Mr. Gavin accepts the gesture. His handshake is firm, clearly well-practiced, but his hand is smooth, each nail carefully manicured and maintained. The man is so unlike Nick that it almost short-circuits Apollo’s brain; if Nick is a lawyer, then Kristoph Gavin is a lawyer . He feels so immediately bad for thinking something like that that his anxiety spikes and he quickly breaks off the handshake before his sweaty palms can give him away as the nervous wreck he is.

 

“Well met, Mr. Justice,” Gavin says with a smile. “You say you’re… almost a student?”

 

“He’s about to graduate from high school,” Nick jumps in, emphasizing his youth like he needs protecting. It makes Apollo’s skin itch—Nick was just calling him a young professional, and now he feels the need to point out that Apollo is still a high school kid?

 

“I’m attending Ivy University in the fall,” Apollo explains, not looking Nick in the eyes.

 

“Ah, then congratulations and best of luck to you in your studies,” Mr. Gavin says. “Please, if you ever need a reference, do feel free to call me.”

 

“Thank you, sir!” Apollo beams.

 

“I’d better go greet the Chief Prosecutor on my little brother’s behalf.” Gavin gives a slight bow and turns to go. “Please excuse me. It was nice to meet you properly, Wright. And you as well, Mr. Justice.”

 

“So long,” Nick says breezily. When Kristoph is gone, he drops the performative easygoingness from his voice and says, “Sit back down, Apollo.”

 

Apollo does what he’s told, and then bristles at having listened without thinking.

 

“Hey,” Nick whispers. “Why are you mad at me?”

 

“You embarrassed me,” Apollo hisses, cheeks pink. “I was making a connection like you said I should and you—”

 

“I’m just looking out for you,” Nick interrupts. He moves his chair around the table so they’re next to each other and asks under his breath, “What Gavin said about finding out about Trucy from Klavier—was that true?”

 

Apollo frowns. “I-I think so? I didn’t notice anything.”

 

Nick sighs. “Okay. Thanks.”

 

“Why?”

 

Nick hesitates. Then he admits, “The magatama reacted. But that doesn’t mean it was a lie, just that he’s hiding something.”

 

Apollo squirms in his seat. “Do you know each other?”

 

“Not really. I met his brother once, obviously. But we know of each other. It’s hard not to.” Nick looks him over. “You’re still making that face like you wanna slug me.”

 

“Because you made everything weird. You undercut me by pointing out that I’m only a teenager. And you didn’t even tell Mr. Gavin that I’m Trucy’s brother.”

 

“I don’t want anybody here to be able to weaponize that against you,” Nick says firmly. “It’s dangerous when we still don’t know what his brother was up to that day. Okay?”

 

“If he knows about Trucy, wouldn’t he know about me, too?”

 

“I don’t know,” Nick admits. “It’s possible your last name obscured some of it. Kiddo, I’m not trying to undermine you. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I was. I just… honestly, I expected you to clam up more than I expected you to schmooze.”

 

“You know me,” Apollo grumbles. “Happy as a clam.”

 

Nick sighs. “Apollo, I’m sorry.”

 

Apollo scrubs at his eyes. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

 

“No, no, don’t say that. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but you’re a kid, and this is your first time at an event like this. I’m not exactly the best candidate to mentor you through this sort of thing, either.”

 

“You are if you’re the only one who doesn’t expect me to be someone I’m not,” Apollo points out. He’s tired, all of a sudden. He used to spend hours running and playing outside and only get tired when Dhurke made him stop, but these days sitting through a large social event like this one feels like running a marathon.

 

“Maybe so.” Nick pats him lightly on the back. “Don’t go changing to fit in, alright? Remember what I said: be earnest, and anyone who disagrees isn’t worth making an impression on.”

 

“I know.” Apollo tilts his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Gavin seemed polite and interested. Maybe his brother really is the problem.”

 

“Yeah,” Nick concedes, taking a sip of his coke. “Maybe.”

 

They go back to sitting in silence while they wait for the charity auction to start. Apollo very nearly misses the perplexed look Mr. Edgeworth is giving them from across the room, brow furrowed in thought.

A few minutes down the road, Apollo is already conked out against the window, lips parted slightly. Phoenix watches him through the rearview mirror and smiles, fondness welling up in his chest.

 

“That was fast,” he mutters. “Poor kid ran out of batteries.”

 

Beside him, Miles hums in the driver’s seat. “I find myself in much the same boat, even after all these years.”

 

Phoenix tilts his head to look at him. “It never gets any less stuffy and boring, does it?”

 

Miles chuckles. “Many people would describe me that way.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t.” Phoenix spares another glance at Apollo, who hasn’t so much as twitched. “Miles, I gotta run something by you.”

 

Miles raises his eyebrows. “Did something happen at the gala?”

 

“Maybe?” Phoenix sighs. It all seems farfetched, even to his own ears. “Have you met the little snot-nosed Gavin’s older brother?”

 

“The Coolest Defense in the West? Not personally, no. You must remember I spend very little time in the LA courts, due to my studies.”

 

“Sure. But you know of him. Miles, don’t you find it strange? The older brother of the kid who tried to bait me into presenting a forgery, coming to the gala to speak with me personally, and to attempt to lure Apollo?”

 

Miles’ knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. “It is strange.” He loosens his grip. “But you have no verifiable evidence.”

 

“You’re right, I just… I think we might be on the verge of cracking this case wide open.”

 

“Perhaps.” A beat passes. The low hum of the engine rumbles quietly on all sides, lulling Apollo just enough that their voices don’t wake him from his easy slumber. Then, Miles says, “Wright, I… I can be around more often, if you need me to be.”

 

“Huh? What, no!” Phoenix insists, and at Miles’ affronted frown he quickly adds, “Don’t get me wrong, Edgeworth, I’m glad you’re here and I want you around. But don’t go delaying your big important research on my account. There’s not much we can do right now without any evidence anyway, you know?”

 

“Maybe so,” Miles concedes. “Still. I understand how difficult it is for one man to care for a family while balancing the demands of a law career. So if you need me to be here…” He trails off.

 

“...Miles.” Phoenix catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. “You already do so much. The amount you must be spending on airfare alone—”

 

“Now, you know perfectly well that I have a significant inheritance, not to mention my early career savings,” Miles says softly. “I’m burdened by this useless, shameful pile of money that I want nothing to do with… Please, no expense would be a waste.”

 

Another quiet moment slips by, haunted by a spectre privy only to Miles’ nightmares and perhaps the confidence of his therapist, before Phoenix says, “You know, you still come all the way back to LA for events like this, even though I know you hate them.”

 

Miles bristles. “I don’t hate—”

 

“Yes you do. Gunning for the position of Chief Prosecutor, are we?”

 

“Well, I—” Miles blushes. “That’s not it at all. I simply feel it’s pertinent that I keep myself abreast of the goings-on in the courts. And—it's a charity gala, Wright!”

 

“Sure, sure,” Phoenix dismisses him intentionally to rattle him.

 

“And, might I add—Well, you see, the thing is…” Still blushing, Miles taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a nervous tic. “To be truthful, it does get dreadfully lonely in my travels.”

 

“Oh,” Phoenix breathes, “you want to come back. Is that it?”

 

Miles sighs. “Well… I do. But it likely won’t be for quite a while. There’s… a project of sorts I’d like to work on with regard to my research and our current legal system. And I might like your help. Should you be amenable to that.”

 

Phoenix grins lazily. “You wanna turn our legal system on its head? Miles, you had me at ‘Verily, ergo!’”

 

“I don’t believe I said that,” Miles says haughtily. His voice softens, then, like air being released from a balloon. “Thank you, Wright. A part of me hopes the results will help you solve this for your family.”

 

Phoenix leans forward in his seat, straining against the seatbelt, to see Edgeworth’s face.

 

“Miles,” he says gently, seriously, “you are family. You know that, right?”

 

“Ah!” Miles flushes again. “Hm, yes, well. Verily!”

 

Despite himself, Phoenix snickers, which only makes Miles more flustered, shoulders hiking up to his ears until Phoenix’s giggling subsides.

 

“I hate you,” Miles hisses.

 

“Sure you do, buddy, that’s why you miss me so much.” Phoenix only refrains from nudging Miles’ shoulder because he’s driving, and takes another peek in the rearview. Apollo is stirring just a bit, but he quickly settles back down.

 

Miles catches his gaze in the mirror. “He’s really out like a light,” he muses.

 

Phoenix hums. “I’m not too surprised. Apollo’s a funny kid; he had to do a lot of growing up really quick for Trucy’s sake, but sometimes a more childish side slips out and I have trouble remembering he’s about to graduate high school.”

 

“That’s good, I think,” Miles offers. “He feels safe at home.”

 

Phoenix’s heart warms. “I think you’re right. Honestly, I’ll gladly take some of the attitude he gives me if it means he feels safe enough to sleep this deeply without worrying about watching his back.”

 

A watery smile crosses Miles’ lips. “To think I ever worried about you taking them in.”

 

“Oh, come on, you were justified. You know how rough that first year was. Besides, I couldn’t have done it without you or Maya.”

 

“They do say it takes a village.” Miles pauses. “How is Trucy faring?”

 

Phoenix sighs. “You know, I’m starting to get a little worried about her. It’s been a few years since Zak disappeared and I think it’s starting to weigh on her, but she won’t ever talk about it.”

 

“Does she talk about it with her brother?”

 

“I really don’t know. I hope so, but if I had to guess, Apollo’s not too interested in talking about it either.”

 

Miles pulls up outside the apartment but doesn’t kill the engine, letting the hum muffle his next question. “You don’t think Enigmar is going to return, do you?”

 

Phoenix tilts his head, looking askance at Miles. “Come on, do you think I’d have gone through the trouble of the adoption paperwork if I thought he was going to scoop Trucy back up again?”

 

“Only Trucy?”

 

Phoenix says nothing, because it’s a silly question and Edgeworth knows it, if the way he scrunches his nose is any indication. Apollo was already seventeen when the adoption went through, and now that he’s a legal adult, any claim Zak Gramarye could have as his stepfather would be moot, from a custodial perspective. But he and Miles both know that’s only the half of it, and it makes Miles’ face do aggravated somersaults.

 

“Is it selfish of me to hope he never tries to petition for custody at all?” Phoenix whispers.

 

Miles taps the steering wheel once, twice, in thought. Then he turns to Phoenix and says, “Perhaps. But if it is, I do wonder what that makes me, seeing as I agree with you.” He chuckles. “They don’t deserve a parent who doesn’t care. Neither of them.”

 

“You’re right, Miles. Thanks for that. And for driving, too.” Phoenix unbuckles his seatbelt as Edgeworth kills the engine, plunging them into silence. “I’d invite you in, but if Trucy realizes you’re over, I’ll never get her back to sleep.

 

“I understand, Wright. If she’s awake, please wish her goodnight for me.”

 

“Will do.” Phoenix sighs and checks the mirror. Apollo is stirring, but hasn’t woken fully yet. “Alright, time to get him to bed.” Phoenix gets out of the car and opens the door to the backseat. He squats down and scratches at Apollo’s scalp.

 

“Hey there, bud,” he says quietly. “We’re home. Time to wake up.”

 

Apollo grumbles and blinks his eyes open blearily. “Nick?” he mumbles.

 

“Hi. Can you get out of Edgeworth’s car so we can get you to bed?”

 

Apollo blinks. “Okay,” he mutters. Sleepily, he drags himself out of the car. “Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth.”

 

“Not a problem,” Miles says with an amused smile that Apollo doesn’t see but Phoenix absolutely does. “Goodnight.”

 

Phoenix waves Miles off and brings Apollo up the steps to the apartment. Once they’re inside, he undoes Apollo’s tie for him and nudges him off to his room.

 

“Alright, sleep tight, kiddo,” he whispers. “Hang up your suit before you go to sleep, okay?”

 

“Okay. G’night, Nick,” Apollo says with a yawn before disappearing into his room. Satisfied with that, Phoenix sighs and scrubs at his face. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the hum of the refrigerator. The interaction with Gavin is still gnawing at Phoenix’s mind. His instincts—and the magatama—insist that something was off about the whole thing. Him reaching out to Phoenix in particular, the questions about Trucy, his sudden interest in Apollo… none of it is evidence of involvement with the Gramarye trial, but it does paint a rather suspicious picture.

 

But if steering Apollo away from Gavin is only going to make him dig his heels in, then he probably ought to leave it alone. For now, at least. After all, Apollo still has to get up on Monday morning and go to public school and do his homework so he can graduate. The Gavin issue is probably a non-issue for now.

 

Phoenix sheds his jacket and tie and pokes his head into Trucy’s room. She’s in bed fast asleep, just like he asked.

 

With warm fondness burgeoning in his chest, Phoenix quietly tucks his eleven-year-old in and sits on the side of her bed, lightly rubbing her back. After a few moments, she stirs and blinks up at him.

 

“Hi Daddy,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

 

“Hey there, pumpkin,” Phoenix whispers. “Sorry I woke you. Were you alright by yourself for a few hours?”

 

“Mmhm!” Trucy nods. Her hair spills out in frizzy curls on the pillow behind her. Phoenix tucks a lock of it behind her ear. “Did you have fun at your big event?”

 

Phoenix chuckles. “It was mostly boring. Your big brother was so bored that he’s already asleep.”

 

Trucy giggles. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

 

“Sure am, and proud of it.” Phoenix pokes her lightly in the nose. “Now, time to go back to sleep, okay?”

 

“Okay. Can we have pancakes tomorrow?” Trucy snuggles under the covers, her stuffed rabbit sitting like a sentry beside her head.

 

“Sure thing. Goodnight, sweetheart.” Phoenix leans down and presses a kiss to Trucy’s temple, and then presses another to the other side. “And that one’s from your Uncle Miles.” He straightens up and smooths the blankets. “Alright, Trucy baby. Get some sleep.”

 

“I love you, Daddy!”

 

Phoenix’s heart clenches like it always does when she says that and probably always will. “I love you too, Truce. Sleep tight.”

 

With that, Phoenix bids his daughter goodnight and heads for his computer to do a little research—he won’t be able to sleep just yet anyway, so he may as well gain some intel while the kids are asleep.

 

---

Ever since the adoption, people have warned Phoenix that your kids grow apart from you as they get older. So far, it isn’t true with Trucy—his little girl is still his little girl even in the throes of middle school and puberty. As difficult as it is (and dear god is it difficult—he’s had to ask Maya for help more than once), Trucy still calls him Daddy and snuggles on the couch with him and looks at him like he hung the stars.

 

Apollo is a different story. It’s not that they’ve had a falling out—the closest they’ve come to an argument about Apollo’s future is still that night at the 2022 gala, and things were business as usual from then on. Apollo graduated high school, he went off to college and moved out of Nick’s house and into an apartment with Clay right off campus, and they didn’t see each other as often, but Apollo still came over to have movie night with Trucy and called him for help with his law classes.

 

And then Apollo landed a surprise internship at Gavin Law Offices, and Phoenix was met with two options: try to convince Apollo to stay away from Gavin despite the lack of evidence and risking a major blow-up, or let him get closer in the hopes of snagging a new lead that way.

 

With Apollo so far from reach now, Phoenix isn’t so sure he’s proud of the decision he ultimately made.

 

---

Having Kristoph Gavin as a boss is strange.

 

He’s incredibly smart and incredibly professional, for one. Apollo doesn’t think he’s ever seen Mr. Wright organize a filing cabinet in his life, or make deals with prospective clients in very hush-hush meetings instead of hitting the streets and scooping up the downtrodden (and often penniless) who need defending. It doesn’t get Apollo’s heart racing or give him a sense of purpose the way it did the few times he was allowed on investigations before, but it appears to be a much more stable method of finding gainful employment, more… normal. Not that Apollo’s ever been normal, but his therapist always tells him he needs stability more than anything, so maybe the typical way of doing things isn’t so bad.

 

Apollo sits at his desk, bouncing his knee. This will be his last semester of school, and then he’ll be taking the bar. If he’s lucky enough to pass, he’ll be a full-time junior partner at Gavin Law Offices by the end of the summer. Mr. Gavin has already promised him.

 

Phoenix Wright has offered him the same—almost like he’s offering a life raft—but the thing is, even if the potential accusations of nepotism weren’t a concern, Apollo hasn’t exactly spoken with his family much lately.

 

He’s not really sure how it happened, but these days he’ll go a few weeks without seeing Mr. Wright. He and Trucy still text, but he hasn’t been by the house to see her in quite a bit. He can tell it bothers her, but she’s been making friends in her school as she gets ready to finish the eighth grade, so perhaps she doesn’t really need his company anymore.

 

It’s obvious that Mr. Wright doesn’t trust Mr. Gavin. Or maybe he doesn’t trust Apollo to make his own decisions. He never told Apollo how many locks his magic rock showed him that night; he never does. But Apollo knows for a fact he’s got a great many of those stupid locks on his own heart, and he’s not a bad or untrustworthy person, or so everyone tells him. Mr. Wright is just jealous, probably, and paranoid, and too dependent on that dumb spirit rock to tell him what’s what.

 

The fact that Apollo’s bracelet so often reacts around Mr. Gavin is neither here nor there—if anything, it means Apollo should stay close to him, and figure out what, if anything, he really is hiding. But as it stands, Mr. Wright and his boss almost never cross paths, and if that night at the gala is anything to go by, Apollo thinks it’s probably better that way.

 

(“Why are you calling him that?” Clay once asks him. “You’re calling him Mr. Wright instead of Nick.”

 

Apollo flushes. “Oh, I, uh—” he bits his lip. “Force of habit. Mr. Gavin doesn’t like when I call him Nick around the office, so…”

 

Clay frowns. “Is that normal?” he asks, and Apollo doesn’t know enough about law internships at the time to know better.)

 

“Justice, please stay still,” Mr. Gavin says as he passes through the main office.

 

“Oh! S-Sorry, sir,” Apollo blurts, steadying his knee. “I’ll get back to work.”

 

“Very well,” Gavin says with disinterest, shutting his door. Apollo doesn’t blame him; the case he’s currently working on in a real doozy. Even alone now, Apollo keeps a lid on his fidgeting, forcing the burn of anxiety into his chest.

 

There’s one other major problem with the gig at Gavin Law: Mr. Gavin’s precocious and cocky younger brother, Klavier.

 

He waltzes into the office at half past one, too late for a typical lunch break, but Klavier is nothing if not the keeper of his own enigmatic schedule. He’s dressed to the nines with rings and chains like he’s going to a rock concert and not the courthouse, but Valant used to say that all the world’s a stage (Apollo used to think he made it up until he was forced to read Shakespeare as a student), so maybe for Klavier this is just the average day.

 

“Herr Forehead,” he says just to make Apollo’s eyebrow twitch. “Are you Zak Gramarye’s stepson?

 

Apollo balks. “What are you, a stalker?”

 

Klavier shakes his head, causing his long blonde hair to slip loose from its braid, unlike his older brother’s perfectly maintained style. “I prosecuted that case, don’t you remember? I read your police statement personally. I admit it took me some time to piece together who you were.”

 

“So? Come to interrogate me about it? Because it’s been six years and I still doubt I know any more than you do.” Apollo turns back to his paperwork with a disinterested air in an attempt to hide the anxiety swimming under his skin.

 

“Nein, nein,” Klavier says in his stupid fake German accent. “I came to ask after your sister, now that I have made the connection.”

 

“She’s fine. If you care so much about her well-being then maybe you shouldn’t have tried to put her dad away for a murder he didn’t do.”

 

“Ah, so you do believe he’s innocent.” Klavier taps his chin with a calloused finger. “That’s interesting.”

 

Apollo bristles. “Quit baiting me. Are you trying to get me fired?”

 

“Nein, Herr Forehead!” Klavier insists breezily. “I am simply making conversation. Achtung! You ought to be less distrusting of your colleagues. I am not a monster, I am merely doing my job, ja?”

 

Mr. Gavin comes out of his office, then, sporting a glare that Apollo’s only ever seen him direct at Klavier and, thankfully, never at himself.

 

“Klavier, if you would stop harassing my apprentice for a single moment, I’d like a word,” he says tersely.

 

Klavier sighs. “Yes, yes. Coming, Kris. I’ll be seeing you, Herr Forehead.” He turns on his heel and walks lightly into his brother’s office with his hands in his pockets, but Apollo’s bracelet reacts like he’s being sent to the slaughter.

 

“You’re dismissed for the day, Justice,” Mr. Gavin says. “You seem frazzled. Do go home and rest.”

 

In that moment, Apollo wants so badly to ask for reassurance, to say what’s on his mind, to cry and be told it’s going to be okay. But Kristoph Gavin, as valuable and esteemed a mentor as he may be, is not the one Apollo wants to hold him right now. He’s not the one who advocated for Apollo at his worst moments, who filed adoption paperwork just so Apollo would never be separated from his family again, who patched up his wounds and talked him through panic attacks and nightmares, who cheered for him like an idiot at his high school graduation and picked him up and spun him in circles when he got into college, who hugged him and held him when things got hard.

 

But he’s at work on the other side of town, and he probably doesn’t want to see Apollo right now, anyway.

 

Kristoph leaves the room and Apollo’s knee starts bouncing again, unbidden.

 

---

The outside of the Borscht Bowl Club looks exactly as Apollo pictured it: run-down, vaguely seedy, with gaudy Russian theming that might be considered a hate crime. Mr. Gavin insists on pulling over down the block so as not to draw too much attention to his car, which means Apollo is going to have to walk a little further to get inside the bar. He would question Mr. Gavin’s priorities, but he’s learned not to do that—besides, drawing attention to their arrival would likely put a target on Apollo’s back, anyway. It’s for his own safety, probably.

 

Mr. Gavin taps a well-manicured finger on the steering wheel once, twice for good measure. He doesn’t even kill the engine.

 

“Well, Justice, I believe this is where I leave you,” he says evenly. Apollo takes that as his cue to get out of the car.

 

“Oh! Right!” he says, far too loudly. He steps out and bends down to the window, which his boss opens. “Thank you for the ride, sir. I’ll report back tomorrow!”

 

“No need to report on a simple clerical matter. Though I do still question why you’ve taken such a strange request.”

 

Apollo forces an awkward smile. God, is he getting anxious already? In front of Mr. Gavin, too?

 

“Ah, well, you know what they say about exposure!”

 

Mr. Gavin shakes his head fondly. “If you insist. Oh, and Justice?”

 

Apollo turns back to the car. Mr. Gavin is looking at him with a kind expression.

 

“Do call me if you find yourself in need of assistance, won’t you?” he asks. “I wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to you.”

 

“Y-Yes, sir!” Apollo squeaks. “Thank you!”

 

Apollo adopts a confident stance and saunters down the road to the club; he doesn’t wait to see Gavin’s car drive away.

 

 

The inside of the Borscht is much the same as its outside, though the air conditioning system allows them to cover the place in real snow and ice. There’s a deep chill in the air that makes Apollo wish he thought to bring a coat. His anxiety peaks as he asks a staff member to direct him to the Hydeout, the covert poker-but-not-really den that once operated as a speakeasy for gangsters. It’s a dank and damp basement, adorned with a table and chairs. It should raise red flags, but there’s no time for that, not when Apollo spots his new client.

 

“Hello! I’m Apollo Justice, the lawyer you—”

 

“I know,” the man’s gruff voice says from underneath a white fedora, seated at the card table in the middle of the room. “I know who you are.”

 

Apollo stops clear in his tracks, lips parting in surprise. He blinks a few times, as if the man is an apparition that will disappear if he focuses hard enough. But despite the way seven years have aged them both, there’s no mistaking Shadi Enigmar for anyone else in the world.

 

“I…” Apollo clears his throat. He might be dreaming. He might already be dead. “I can’t believe it. It’s you. You’re alive?”

 

“Last I checked,” Shadi says. “Legally speaking, though, only for a few more days. That’s what I called you for.”

 

“Your will,” Apollo confirms. “I should have known it was you. You’ve never done anything the easy way, have you? You’ve always had to make things so much harder for everyone around you.”

 

Shadi frowns at that. “You’ve got no idea how much I did for you, do ya?” he asks, and he seems almost genuine, in that strange, somber way he only ever seemed to reveal to Apollo when shit was going to hit the fan.

 

Apollo huffs a sigh. Professional—he should be professional.

 

“You know what—Whatever,” he snaps, stalking over to the table and dropping into the other chair. “Just hand over the fucking document.”

 

Well, so much for professional. Shadi doesn’t so much as twitch at Apollo’s language, which is only fair; he’s half the reason Apollo swears so much to begin with, and it’s no wonder it only took Shadi seven years to shed whatever feeble parental instincts he once had, considering he was so bad at it from the start.

 

Shadi pulls a folded sheet of paper out of the inner pocket of his coat and pushes it across the table toward Apollo.

 

“It’s all there,” he says.

 

Gingerly, Apollo takes the paper and unfolds it. He skims it briefly. “This is it?”

 

Shadi grunts. “How much do you think a man with no name really has to give?”

 

“Fair point,” Apollo mumbles. He goes through the legal motions with Shadi through an almost dissociative fog; he can’t believe the man is sitting in front of him, alive and well, after seven long years. It’s all Apollo can do to keep himself from erupting in righteous anger at the thought of Shadi fucking Enigmar living in quiet anonymity all this time, dodging dubious allegations of murder for the sake of self preservation while his daughter lives half her childhood an orphan, just like Apollo.

 

Orphanhood never did suit Trucy quite as well as it did him.

 

“There, that’s done,” Apollo says, sliding the paper in its elegant envelope into his folder. “Are we finished here?”

 

“Come on, Apollo!” Shadi says with an old showman’s grin that makes Apollo’s stomach turn. “Look where we are. You telling me you don’t want to play a round of poker for old times’ sake?”

 

Apollo crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve fulfilled my duties. Why should I care about old times’ sake when you clearly never cared about us at all?”

 

Shadi lets the barb fly right on past him and barrels ahead. “Come on, let’s see how good you’ve gotten. If you manage to win, I’ll tell you everything.”

 

“And if I lose?”

 

“If you lose, then I take the truth with me to my grave. No tricks.”

 

“I can’t believe this shit is still a game to you. After how many lives were ruined because of this mess.”

 

“That’s my offer, Apollo, take it or leave it.”

 

Apollo huffs. “Fine,” he concedes. “I’ll play. And if I win, you tell me the whole truth.”

 

“You got a deal, boy,” Shadi says.

For the first time in his life, Apollo Justice beats his stepdad at poker. Maybe the years of practicing against Nick—who’s never been defeated—have prepared him to join the hallowed halls of people who can best Shadi. Maybe it was luck. Maybe Shadi threw the game intentionally so he’d have an excuse to reveal the truth.

 

Nevertheless, Apollo sits like a statue across from Shadi now, studying his face for tells in great depth.

 

“So,” Shadi says. “What is it you want to know?”

 

“Seven years ago, someone slipped Phoenix Wright, your lawyer, a piece of forged evidence. A diary page that would have supported your innocence,” Apollo starts. “Did you know about it?”

 

Shadi frowns. “A forged page?” he asks, puzzled. “No, I had no clue.”

 

“Next question. Did Valant kill Magnifi?”

 

“I don’t know, Apollo,” Shadi admits. “I wish I knew. I’d like to think he didn’t, but I know we both thought about it. Did you ask him?”

 

“Haven’t seen him in years. And the blackmail note,” Apollo says. “What was that about?”

 

Shadi’s expression goes grim. “My greatest shame. You really never figured that one out on your own?”

 

“I’ve had my suspicions.” It’s mostly true, if you count half-formed fears trapped behind a pane of foggy glass. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”

 

“You’d make me say it out loud? You grew up to be a real pain, you know that?”

 

“Shut up. You don’t have any right to say that. Now tell me. It was the accident, wasn’t it? The Quick-Draw Shoot ‘Em?”

 

“Fine!” Shadi’s voice booms, and then cracks pathetically, like thunder and lightning. “It was Thalassa. Your mother. She… If Valant and I didn’t do what he said, he’d tell the press, hell, the whole world what we’d done.”

 

“Would he have really?” Apollo asks, and he feels himself drifting dangerously close to a truth long buried in the recesses of his mind. “Even if it would mean dragging his own name and legacy through the mud? Ruining the Gramarye name forever?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shadi confesses desperately. “It all went to shit anyway, didn’t it? That stupid, selfish old man and his games—Did you even know he used to hit your mother?”

 

Yes, he hit me too, Apollo wants to say. Yes, did you ever stop him? Did you ever do the same?

 

Would you have helped me, Apollo wants to ask, if I told you?

 

He doesn’t say any of that, though. What Apollo does say is, “I have fuzzy memories of something like that, yeah.”

 

Shadi sighs. “Sorry, I don’t mean to badmouth your gramps.”

 

“No, feel free.”

 

“He was… a complicated man.”

 

“That’s an understatement.” Apollo huffs. “Look, Shadi, I’m tired of these stupid, selfish games. I’ve been waiting seven years to ask you why .”

 

“Why what, kid?”

 

“Why the fuck you ran out on Trucy when she needed you. Phoenix was going to get you declared innocent if you’d just given him a little more time to—”

 

“You really think he—”

 

“ Yes! ” Apollo shouts. “You stupid, selfish bastard! You tricked Trucy into helping you disappear forever, and for what ? For the case to go unsolved for seven years? The truth is you’re just a coward. You didn’t know about the forgery, you didn’t know if Valant did it, you didn’t even stop to think if the prosecution even had a solid case against you!

 

“You gave your lawyer one night’s notice to build a case and then abandoned ship the moment it wasn’t going perfectly according to script. Life, Trucy’s life, it isn’t—It isn’t some kind of performance you can make a dramatic exit from the moment you miss your cue!”

 

Shadi balks at him for a moment, and then scowls, his face turning red. Before he can bite back, Apollo cuts in again.

 

“And another thing!” Apollo slams his hands on the table, sending poker chips clattering. “You call me here under a pseudonym, to meet in secret to discuss your will. Because you’ll be legally dead in a few days’ time. And that’s just it, isn’t it? After all this time, you don’t plan on seeing her again, do you?”

 

Somehow, Shadi’s expression sobers. In that disturbingly sad fashion, he says, “...It’s best I don’t. Make sure that envelope gets to Trucy, will you?”

 

And that, in the end, is Apollo’s final straw. The simmering rage he’s been stewing on for their entire meeting boils over into something uncontrollable, desperate, and sad, and Apollo throws the second punch of his life, straight into Shadi’s face.

 

His aim is better this time, but Shadi’s strong , and he takes the hit with ease. Apollo, suddenly frantic and terrified as years-old memories flood his senses, lunges across the table at Shadi, only to be gripped by the collar and knocked back with a punch to the face. Pain flares hot across his cheekbone and tears prick at his eyes.

 

“You brat! ” Shadi growls, “I should have let the bastard throw you out!” and Apollo freezes stiff just before he’s dropped backward. Apollo loses his balance and slams his forehead into the edge of the card table, and careens onto the floor with a thud as his vision goes white and then black, and the room goes still.

Notes:

APOLLO WATCH OUT IT'S YOUR ANIME DESTINY IT'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU

Chapter 9: PART VIII

Summary:

He bikes to the detention center at top speed, if only because it would still be faster than waiting for a taxi at this hour, and makes it to the doors in record time. Flashing his badge gets him shown to the room where Apollo is waiting—on the way, he gets one of the officers to give him the gist of what happened: Apollo is being held on suspicion of homicide.

Typical day in Phoenix’s life, unfortunately.

--
In which plans are drawn up.

Notes:

folks, we've had another chapter split. i tried something a little funky with this one too... enjoy!

There’s bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet / No matter where you live / There’ll always be a few things, maybe several things / That you’re gonna find really difficult to forgive

- The Mountain Goats, “Up the Wolves”

 

The dulcet tones of the Steel Samurai theme blasting through Phoenix’s tinny Nokia speakers rouse him from an ungraceful sleep sprawled on his couch. Startling awake with a snort, Phoenix fumbles on the coffee table for his phone and answers it without bothering to check the caller ID.

 

“Hello?” he says groggily, then clears his throat and adds, “Phoenix Wright speaking.”

 

“H-Hey,” comes the shaky voice on the other end.

 

Immediately, Phoenix bolts upright so fast he tumbles halfway off the couch. “Apollo?” he asks in disbelief. “What’s wrong? You never call, especially not so late.”

 

Apollo sniffs loudly like he’s been crying. “I think I need a lawyer,” he says.

 

“Okay. Alright, I’m listening.” Phoenix picks himself up off the floor and tries to steady his voice, slipping with ease into professional lawyer mode. “What happened?”

 

“I don’t wanna say over the phone,” Apollo says, voice cracking. “Can you come to the detention center? It’s really, really bad.”

 

“Okay. I’ll be right there. Just hang tight.” On instinct, he thinks to add, “I know you already know this, but just in case: Do not say anything to anyone until I get there, alright? I won’t be long.”

 

“I know that,” Apollo mumbles.

 

“Good. I assume I’m your one phone call. Is there anything else you need before I go?” Phoenix is already scribbling a note for Trucy on a spare sheet of paper, phone tucked in the crook of his shoulder. “Anyone you want me to call?”

 

“Nobody,” Apollo says quickly. “Don’t tell—Just come right away.”

 

“Alright! Alright. No problem. See you soon, okay?”

 

“Okay. Okay, thank you.”

 

“Sure thing, kiddo. Hang tight.” Reluctantly, Phoenix hangs up on Apollo and frantically straightens his tie and fixes his hair in the hallway mirror before putting on his jacket and shoes and hurrying out the door. For once, passing out on the couch like an old man before he even changes out of his work clothes has paid dividends.

 

He bikes to the detention center at top speed, if only because it would still be faster than waiting for a taxi at this hour, and makes it to the doors in record time. Flashing his badge gets him shown to the room where Apollo is waiting—on the way, he gets one of the officers to give him the gist of what happened: Apollo is being held on suspicion of homicide.

 

Typical day in Phoenix’s life, unfortunately.

 

Thankfully, they let him talk to Apollo in the room they were intending to question him in, so they aren’t separated by the usual glass pane in the visitor’s room. Apollo is sitting alone with his hands on the table—he’s not handcuffed, which means they haven’t convinced themselves he’s going to get violent, which is a good sign—and he looks up at Phoenix with a haunted expression when he enters. There’s a gash on his forehead and a bruise forming on his cheekbone. Neither looks to have been properly treated.

 

“Hey, bud,” Phoenix says evenly when the door shuts behind him and they’re left alone (with a guard posted outside, of course). He takes one of the other chairs in the room and pulls it up next to Apollo. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“How much did you hear?” Apollo asks in a hoarse voice. He’s barely even looking at Phoenix.

 

Phoenix sighs. “I heard that you were brought in on suspicion of homicide, but you haven’t officially been charged with anything yet. I’d like to hear the rest from you now, and we don’t have a ton of time.”

 

“I didn’t do it,” Apollo squeaks. “Y-You have the magatama, right? You can tell if I’m lying. I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill anyone!”

 

“Hey,” Phoenix says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know. I believe you. Take a breath for me.”

 

Apollo sucks in a breath. Phoenix takes a moment to get a better look at him; there are heavy bags under his eyes, he’s pale and sweating, and his hair is drooping every which way. His knuckles are split, hands shaking. In other words, the poor kid looks absolutely terrible and terrified, not like someone who just murdered a man in cold blood. Phoenix knows what killers are like, intimately, and the shaking kid in front of him is nothing of the sort.

 

“I-I was at the Borscht Bowl Club. We were playing poker—don’t give me that look.”

 

Phoenix holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not. You and I have played poker together.”

 

Apollo huffs. “Sure. Anyway, h-he—I was knocked out and when I came to he was just… lying there. I-I screamed, and the waiter came down and called the police and I tried to explain that he just collapsed, but—”

 

“They saw your bloody hand and pinned you as the only possible suspect,” Phoenix finishes for him.

 

Apollo nods. “B-But I didn’t knock him down, o-or—”

 

“Why were you getting into a fight with this guy in the basement of a seedy poker joint anyway?”

 

Apollo goes quiet.

 

“Apollo, I need you to remember that apart from anything else right now, I am your lawyer and you can trust me. Whatever the reason is, I will find out anyway, and I’d prefer to hear your side of the story before anything else.”

 

“W-Well, he wanted to meet to discuss my legal services. I thought it was kind of strange, but sometimes clients are very secretive…”

 

Phoenix balks at this and finds himself dropped right back into the shoes of a parental figure without warning. “Did you really go meet a strange man in a poker den without telling anyone?”

 

“I told Mr. Gavin,” Apollo says. “He drove me there.”

 

“And you just—Okay, okay, sorry, not the point right now.” Phoenix heaves a sigh and switches gears again. “In any case, sure, I’ve had stranger clients. I’ve even played poker with a potential client before… too…” Phoenix trails off, a sense of horror dawning on him. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

 

Wordlessly, Apollo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar gold locket. It looks just like the one Trucy has that holds a picture of her mother, only this one is dulled with age and the chain is broken in two. Phoenix blinks at it in horrible understanding.

 

“...That’s not Trucy’s, is it?” he asks.

 

Apollo shakes his head. “Pulled it off his neck while we were fighting,” he whispers shamefully. “The cops missed it when they searched me.”

 

Phoenix takes the locket with careful hands and cradles it like a baby bird. “Can I?” he asks.

 

Apollo nods. “Go ahead.”

 

Slowly, Phoenix pries the locket open with a fingernail, and what he sees confirms his suspicions with more certainty than if Apollo had outright admitted it: Inside are two tiny pictures—but not of Thalassa Gramarye. On one side is a picture of Trucy when she was little, beaming ear to ear in her matching pink cape and hat. On the other, a scowling Apollo in a red raincoat, the photograph old enough now to be faded just a little, but unmistakable nevertheless.

 

Sucking in a sharp breath, Phoenix closes the locket and passes it back to Apollo. “Holy hell, Apollo. What happened ?”

 

“I didn’t know it was him until I got there,” Apollo insists. “He said—He said he wanted to talk to me. You know, about everything. And I got—I just got so mad, I reached out and punched him, and we got into a brief scrap, but I passed out and then he just—I don’t know, Mr. Wright, he just died !

 

Apollo starts crying. “What if I really did kill him? What if I hit him so hard he had a heart attack or something or I-I just lost control and I don’t remember—”

 

Phoenix cuts him off. “Okay, relax. First of all, do not repeat what you just said in front of the cops. Second of all, you did not kill him. I’ll be honest, kid, you’re probably looking at an assault charge here at minimum, but that’s what I’m here for, yeah? We’ll figure this out once and for all.”

 

“O-Okay.”

 

“One more question for you, bud. Did he say anything that you think I need to know immediately, as your lawyer?”

 

Apollo wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, wincing when he touches the bruise on his cheek. “He wanted me to notarize his will before he would get declared legally dead in a few days,” he explains.

 

“And did you agree?”

 

“Yeah. It’s probably still in my bag, assuming the cops didn’t take it.”

 

Phoenix frowns. “...And then you fought? So it wasn’t your immediate reaction. What was it he said that set you off?”

 

“Well, he said if I finally beat him at poker he would tell me everything. And I won.”

 

“And?”

 

“...It’s not important right now. To you as my lawyer, I mean.”

 

Phoenix processes that one for a moment. “Not important as Phoenix Wright, your lawyer. Is it important to me as Nick?”

 

Apollo nods. “Can we talk about it later?”

 

Phoenix doesn’t really get a choice, as the door opens then to reveal Detective Ema Skye. She eyes them both, and her shoulders slump.

 

“Jeez, I was surprised when they told me his lawyer was showing up ASAP and not in the morning,” she drawls. “I really should have known, huh?”

 

“Hey there, Detective,” Phoenix greets with an easy smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

With a huff, Ema takes her seat across the table. “I’ll cut right to the chase, then. Just now, we got our initial report back from forensics,” she says with a note of bitterness in her voice. “Preliminary cause of death? Blunt force trauma due to a blow to the head. No weapon was found.”

 

Apollo bolts upright. “But I didn’t—” he starts, and Phoenix nudges him with his foot to tell him to be quiet.

 

“Is my client free to go, then?” he asks in his place.

 

Ema winces. “Well, not quite. You were still the last person to be seen with the victim. But it corroborates what you said on the scene about finding him out cold.”

 

Phoenix jumps back in and asks, “Do you have any evidence that my client is the one who dealt the blow?”

 

“...Not yet,” Ema admits. “Prosecutor Gavin is on his way back from the scene now. He’s asked to be present for questioning.”

 

“Prosecutor Gavin ?” Apollo asks, and Ema raises her eyebrows.

 

“Yeah? Why?” she asks, and Apollo just worries his lip.

 

Phoenix taps Apollo on the knee. “Hey. It's fine. Deep breath.”

 

“Is there a conflict of interest I should be worried about here?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “Well, I just—”

 

Phoenix shushes him. “You don't need to explain. There's no conflict of interest here, Ema.”

 

She exchanges glances with Apollo, who won’t make eye contact, and then engages Phoenix in a very brief staring contest. His stubbornness wins out over hers, and she blows a weary sigh through her lips before leaning back in her chair.

 

“What am I going to do with you, Mr. Wright?” she asks.

 

“You could let my client go, for one thing,” Phoenix says teasingly, to which Apollo yelps but Ema just rolls her eyes. Ema’s only been a detective a short time, and it’s been years since they’ve seen each other with any regularity since she’s been abroad—but she became desensitized to his bullshit almost a decade ago, and some things never change.

 

“Mr. Edgeworth is right about you,” she grumbles, unbothered.

 

Phoenix can’t help but take the bait—maybe lightening the mood a little will get Apollo to calm down. “Oh?” he asks. “What does he say about me?”

 

“That you’re an incorrigible pain in the ass,” Ema says, arms crossed.

 

Apollo chokes on surprised laughter, slapping his unbloodied hand over his mouth. Preening, Phoenix nudges him playfully. Ema watches them curiously, thoughtfully, with a tilt of her head—they’ve never met before today as far as Phoenix knows, but he’s willing to bet Ema is quickly piecing together just who Apollo really is.

 

Before Phoenix can make another quip at his own expense, the door swings open again to reveal Klavier Gavin—older now, more refined, no longer baby-faced but still teeming with youthful pop star spunk, just with less obvious egoism. He looks up from the reports in his hand and his face falls exactly the way Ema’s did.

 

“Good grief,” he says under his breath, and clicks the door shut behind him.

 

---

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

AUDIO RECORDED 17 APRIL 2026, 0330 HOURS

 

DET. EMA SKYE: Alright. Just for the record, could you state your name and occupation?

APOLLO JUSTICE: Apollo Justice, junior defense attorney.

SKYE: Great, thank you. Where were you on the night of April 16, 2026?

JUSTICE: I was at the Borscht Bowl Club with the victim.

SKYE: Did you have business with Mr. Smith?

JUSTICE: He wanted me to notarize his will, and I agreed.

SKYE: Why did he call you out to the Borscht Bowl for that?

JUSTICE: I don’t know. I didn’t question it.

SKYE: What happened after you were finished with that?

JUSTICE: We played poker.

SKYE: Poker?

JUSTICE: Yeah. I won for the first time, actually.

SKYE: The first time? Were you acquainted with Mr. Smith before this?

JUSTICE: Uh—

PHOENIX WRIGHT: Jesus Christ.

JUSTICE: I didn’t know anybody named Shadi Smith before this.

PROS. KLAVIER GAVIN: Hang on. Let me see those photos again.

[...]

GAVIN: Herr Wright, is this not the father of your daughter?

WRIGHT: I’m not the one under interrogation here, Prosecutor Gavin.

JUSTICE: Okay, now you’re throwing me under the bus.

SKYE: Wait, wait! Gavin, how do you even know that? Who is Shadi Smith?

GAVIN: If I am correct in my observations, his real name is Shadi Enigmar. You may know him better as the famed magician and infamous courtroom escapee, Zak Gramarye.

SKYE: Wait. This is Zak Gramarye? Trucy’s biodad?

GAVIN: Your stepfather…?

SKYE: Hang on, what? You’re Trucy’s big brother?

JUSTICE: …Yeah. Cat’s out of the bag, I guess. I have my father’s last name and always have. Trucy took Mr. Wright’s last name—I didn’t.

SKYE: Oh. Oh… Gavin, you knew this?

GAVIN: You didn’t, Fraulein Detective? Haven’t you known Herr Wright for years?

SKYE: Well, yeah, and I knew Trucy had a brother, but—

JUSTICE: I, um. I haven’t been around much lately. B-But anyway, I-I didn’t know it was him before I got there, and—

SKYE: But wait—

WRIGHT: Sorry, Em, thought you pieced it together already. Anyway, I object to my client’s personal information being a matter of record like this.

GAVIN: This is not a courtroom, Herr Wright, your objections mean nothing—

WRIGHT: And yet, object I do.

SKYE: You know what, whatever. I’d like to get back on track now, if you all don’t mind. Apollo, you went to meet with Shadi Smith, AKA Zak Gramarye, on the night of April 16, per his request, without knowing of his true identity, is that correct?

JUSTICE: Yes, that’s correct.

SKYE: And he asked you to notarize his will, which you agreed to. Where is this will now?

JUSTICE: I don’t know. I had put it in my bag.

GAVIN: Why would you hang onto such a thing?

JUSTICE: To give to Trucy. That’s what he asked me to do.

SKYE: Did you tell anyone where you were going that night?

JUSTICE: Just my boss, Kristoph Gavin. He drove me there that night.

GAVIN: Huh.

SKYE: Wait, you work for Gavin's brother? Prosecutor Gavin, did you know this?

GAVIN: Hm? Ach, yes. Yes, I knew.

SKYE: Is this a conflict of interest?

GAVIN: No.

SKYE: …If you're certain. So, Apollo—your boss, Kristoph Gavin, dropped you off, but you met with the victim alone. Is that right?

JUSTICE: Yeah, that's right.

SKYE: And then what happened? You beat him at poker?

JUSTICE: Yeah. He said if I won, he’d tell me everything.

SKYE: Everything? About what?

JUSTICE: That’s personal.

GAVIN: Oh—

SKYE: It could be pertinent information, if it led to you getting into a physical altercation.

JUSTICE: So? You’re the ones trying to put me away for his murder. Why should I—

WRIGHT: My client does not have to answer that question. Can I ask what grounds you even have for keeping him in custody at this point? The victim was still alive when my client was knocked out.

SKYE: He’s the only person there with a motive, and the bar staff didn’t see anybody else go downstairs that night. Even if it was an accident...

GAVIN: Wait.

JUSTICE: But I didn’t—I wouldn’t do that to Trucy! I wouldn’t ! I don’t care how mad he made me, I would never—

WRIGHT: Apollo, take it easy.

SKYE: Gavin? You okay?

GAVIN: H-Hang on. You said—Stop the recording.

SKYE: What? Are you crazy?

GAVIN: Stop the recording, Detective.

WRIGHT: Huh?

SKYE: Okay, okay—

 

[END OF RECORDING]

 

---

Trucy’s awake when they make it back to the apartment, curled up on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa. Her fingers swipe back and forth along the rim of the mug in a nervous tic. When she registers that they’re home, she hastily sets her drink down and scrambles upright in a flurry of limbs and tangled throw blankets, eventually finding her footing and skidding across the floor to greet them.

 

“Daddy!” she scolds. “What kind of note was that!?”

 

Nick lets go of Apollo to rub his own neck. “What did I write, again?” he asks sheepishly.

 

Turning crimson, Trucy pulls a crumpled sheet out of her pajama pants and recites tersely, “ Apollo’s having an emergency. Need to go get him. Be home soon.” She huffs. “An emergency, Daddy! That’s not specific! I thought he was dying !”

 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Nick says, sounding genuinely apologetic.

 

“Uh,” Apollo says as his mind finally catches up with the rest of him. “My head hurts?”

 

“Shit, sorry, bud. Let’s get you patched up—Trucy, go back to bed, please,” Nick says, ushering Apollo toward the bathroom.

 

“You’re not even going to explain?” Trucy fires back, following after them. “Polly’s bleeding, and you’re—”

 

“Trucy, I mean it!”

 

“Don’t snap at her,” Apollo says, protectiveness flaring up in his chest. “Don’t.”

 

“I’m not—” Nick sighs, scrubbing his face. He softens his tone. “I don’t mean to yell at you, sweetheart.”

 

To her credit, Trucy’s still staring him down with the force of a thousand suns, eyes stony. “What are you hiding from me? Why can’t you tell me what happened to Polly?”

 

“I got into a fight,” Apollo supplies before Nick can dig either of them a deeper grave. “Got into trouble for it, and Nick had to come pick me up. That’s it.”

 

Trucy raises both eyebrows and crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s it?” she parrots.

 

“ Trucy ,” Nick pleads. “Please. Can we talk about it later? I just—Want to sort some things out before we tell you everything, just in case.”

 

“Just in case what? Are we in danger?”

 

“Wh—No, baby, that’s not it—” Nick feigns calm, but Apollo can sense the lie underneath, bracelet tensing around his wrist. From the way her eyes spark and her expression darkens, Trucy must see it too. She’s gotten scarily adept at such things as she’s gotten older—she’s not the starry-eyed little girl she once was.

 

“Don’t ‘baby’, me, Daddy,” Trucy snaps. “If something’s happening to put anyone in danger, then I wanna know about it. Tell me what’s happening!”

 

Trucy’s jaw tenses, and her hand shakes, and that’s how Apollo realizes that she’s not only angry at being kept in the dark; she’s scared.

 

“Truce, hey,” Apollo says, stepping between them. “I’m home safe, and everything’s fine. I promise I’ll explain later, but I hit my head and it’s the middle of the night and I want to get cleaned up and get some rest. Okay?”

 

Working her jaw, Trucy nods, a scowl still on her face. “Fine,” she grumbles, though it’s clear she doesn’t fully believe him. She stomps back to her room and shuts the door with more force than necessary, hot cocoa abandoned on the coffee table.

 

Sighing, Nick nudges Apollo toward the bathroom and closes the door behind them. Apollo’s head is throbbing fiercer than anything by the time he gets himself situated on top of the bathroom counter; even at 22, his feet only just barely skim the floor.

 

“Alright, let’s see the damage, huh?” Nick says quietly, soaking a washcloth under the tap. “I don’t want you to tell Trucy what happened tonight. This might sting, sorry.”

 

“Nick, it’s her dad, she deserves to know.” Apollo sucks in a sharp breath as Nick begins to dab carefully at his forehead. “Ow, ow, careful!”

 

“Sorry, I’ll go a little slower. I mean, I just don’t want her getting any funny ideas about getting involved.” Nick hisses through his teeth. “Jeez, that’s a nasty cut.”

 

“I must’ve split my head on the table. And Trucy’s only going to pry more if she thinks we’re hiding something. She doesn’t need to know about Ga—”

 

“Apollo.”

 

“Sorry. She doesn’t need to know everything— ow , you’re hurting me!”

 

Nick pulls back and discards the bloodied washcloth to start rummaging through the medicine cabinet for ointment. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

 

“She at least deserves to know that I got arrested. She’ll find out about Zak eventually!”

 

“I don’t care. Do not tell her.”

 

“You can’t stop me,” Apollo fires back.

 

Nick gives him a steely look. “Trucy’s my daughter,” he intones.

 

“Fuck you, Nick, she’s my baby sister. Ow, ow, ow !”

 

Despite Apollo’s whining, Nick continues putting antibiotic ointment on his forehead, but he does lighten his touch just a tad.

 

“I’m sorry, Apollo,” he says. He sighs. “I—That was hurtful. I’m sorry.”

 

“I can’t believe you,” Apollo spits, though some of the bite is probably lost thanks to the way his voice is quivering due to the pain.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m so worried, kiddo. You’re both—It’s my job to look out for you both—”

 

“I’m an adult.”

 

Nick peels open an adhesive bandage. “That doesn’t matter ,” he insists in a desperate tone. “We discussed this when I adopted you.”

 

Apollo holds his bangs aside so Nick can place the bandage over his cut. “Still, you’re trying to decide what’s best for Trucy on your own, regardless of what I think.”

 

“I don’t want either of you to be murdered, don’t you get it?” Nick whisper-yells. “Kr—He knows who you are. Both of you. He always has. And now that you know too much—I don’t want Trucy in that position. Do you understand?”

 

“...I know,” Apollo relents, pushing down the sense of growing unease he feels at the idea of returning to work. “But we didn't get to have a funeral for Mom, and now… I don't know, Nick. I hate the idea of lying to her.”

 

“I know. I know. Not forever, just—try to keep the details between us adults. Okay? Please?”

 

“Fine,” Apollo grumbles.

 

“Good. Let me see your hand.”

 

Apollo obliges, letting Nick clean and bandage his split knuckles. It all feels painfully nostalgic, except the danger feels all too real this time, like it could bust down the bathroom door any moment and kill them both.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Nick asks, setting Apollo's hand down on his knee.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine, I just—” Apollo sucks in a shaky breath. “I'm really shaken up.”

 

Nick sighs. “I… I know. This isn't going to be easy. How long do you think we can keep you from work before he gets suspicious?”

 

Apollo thinks for a moment—which is hard, admittedly. “Well, he definitely knows what happened. Me taking some time off for a concussion won't be weird if I explain.”

 

“That's true. We'll draft an email in the morning. I want you to stay here a while—not least because I think you are actually a little concussed. Shit, Apollo, does Clay know where you are tonight?”

 

“He's away at a training retreat for the next two weeks,” Apollo admits, suddenly teary. “He has no idea.”

 

Nick tucks a stray lock of hair behind Apollo's ear. “Oh, bud. Okay. God, I'm glad you called me. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“I don't think so,” Apollo sniffles. His voice breaks when he says, “I don't think he'd keep hitting me when I was unconscious.”

 

“You're right. It's okay. Can I check just in case you got hurt when you fell?”

 

Reluctantly, Apollo nods. He's probably bruised on one side, if the way he's starting to ache is any indication.

 

“Okay. I know you’re gonna hate this, so—Just tell me if it hurts or if you want me to stop, okay?”

 

Apollo nods, steeling himself. Nick gently lifts the hem of Apollo's shirt enough to prod at the base of his ribs, feeling for breaks and bruises. His hands are cold, and Apollo tries not to shiver or shove him away. When Nick finds a particularly tender spot on Apollo's right side, a sharp hiss of pain slips out of Apollo's mouth.

 

“Ah,” Nick says, “yeah, that's a little swollen. Sorry, bud.” He smooths Apollo's shirt back down. “Let's get you to bed and I'll get you some ice, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Apollo mumbles.

 

“Hey.” Nick squeezes his uninjured hand. “Thank you for trusting me. I'm really glad you're home, Apollo.”

 

Lip trembling, Apollo forces himself to nod and lets Nick help him off the counter and to his old room, where his bed's already made, as if it's been waiting for him all along.

 

Slowly, limbs dripping with exhaustion, Apollo changes into old pajamas left in his drawer and crawls into bed. He debates the odds of having a nightmare tonight; when he closes his eyes, he sees Shadi's body in front of him, still warm but growing colder. He can hear his own scream, and it blends with Shadi's from a decade ago.

 

Apollo jolts when a flash of cold touches his ribs. Nick is standing over him, pressing an ice pack to his side and holding out a smaller one for his face.

 

“Sorry, you okay?” he asks in a quiet voice, adjusting the blanket over top of the ice pack. He also has a cup of water and a bottle of painkillers with him; he carefully tips one out of the bottle and gives it to Apollo to take. “A little spaced out, huh?”

 

Apollo forces himself to nod. “I think I'm still in shock,” he admits, icing his bruised cheekbone.

 

With a heavy sigh, Nick sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds its way to rest on Apollo's forearm, thumb brushing back and forth in a soothing motion. Apollo tries to focus on the point of contact, to ground himself.

 

“I know. You went through a lot tonight.”

 

“I can't believe he d-died after all this time,” Apollo squeaks.

 

Nick hushes him. “It's okay. I know it's hard.”

 

“It was—how do I—”

 

“Hey, hey. Relax. We'll work it all out,” Nick reassures him. “You're shaking, bud.”

 

Apollo forces air into his lungs, breathing through the building panic until it starts to ebb again.

 

“He told me everything,” he says. “About Magnifi and Mom.”

 

Nick's hand stills. “Would it help you sleep to get it off your chest?”

 

“I think so,” Apollo sniffles. “I'm sorry, I know it's the middle of the night—”

 

“Don’t apologize. What did he say?”

 

Apollo tries to sit up. Nick has to help him, holding the ice to his ribcage as he goes. They manage to get him propped up against the headboard, cushioned by pillows.

 

“The blackmail,” Apollo says. “It was about my mom.”

 

Nick raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

 

“For those few years after we lost mom,” Apollo explains, breathless, “Zak and Valant did whatever Magnifi wanted because he had dirt on them. Because one of them shot my mom.”

 

Nick balks. “Apollo! S-sweetheart, what are you talking about?” The revelation shocks the term of endearment out of him, and Apollo's so laser-focused he almost misses it entirely but can’t muster the energy to tease him for it.

 

“It was an accident,” he's quick to clarify. “A stage trick w-with two guns, and they're supposed to hit everything but her, but it was a rehearsal and something went wrong a-and—” Apollo's mind blanks, the memory going jagged and fuzzy behind a wall he's too terrified to break through.

 

“And?” Nick prompts, smoothing Apollo's bangs away from the bandage on his forehead.

 

“I-I don't know,” Apollo confesses. “I can't.”

 

Nick sighs. He gives Apollo a moment to breathe, and then says, “So you'll never know whose bullet it was. Sounds familiar.”

 

Apollo nods. “He was such a shithead.”

 

Nick manages a laugh at that one. “You're right about that.” He ruffles Apollo's hair. “I can see now how that blackmail would have worked. I'd ask why you said you had no idea when I asked you years ago, but I can see it's not exactly easy for you to talk about.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“That's okay. It wouldn't have helped anything anyway.” Nick eyes the bruises forming on Apollo's right arm where he hit the floor and presses the ice pack there instead. “Did he say anything else?”

 

“That he's sorry. For everything.”

 

“Oh, Apollo…”

 

“I can't forgive him, though. Not for being a shit dad, not for leaving Trucy.”

 

“And you,” Nick adds.

 

Apollo blinks. “Huh? No, I don't—”

 

“Kiddo, I know he wasn't your real dad, or even a good dad. But you were 15. He still left you to foster care. I know firsthand how miserable that made you, bud. You had a panic attack the day it happened.”

 

“That was because of Trucy,” Apollo insists.

 

Nick tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. Apollo can feel the pout forming on his face against his will and despite his age.

 

“Alright, I won't push it,” Nick concedes. “Point is you don't have to forgive him. You can feel whatever you need to feel. And you can stay here as long as you want. Okay?”

 

“What're we gonna do?” Apollo asks.

 

“We're going to go to sleep. And tomorrow I'm gonna call Edgeworth. And you're going to call out sick from work and get some more rest.” Nick coaxes Apollo to lay back down and takes away the ice. “And we'll figure out the rest of the plan with the others, like we talked about. But right now, you need brain rest.”

 

Apollo nods, sinking into his pillow.

 

“Alright, bud.” Nick stands up and smooths the blankets around Apollo. “I'll make sure Trucy's settled. Get some sleep.”

 

“Okay. G'night. Th-thank you.”

 

“Hey, don't mention it. All of this is my job in more ways than one, right?” With a fond smirk, Nick pats Apollo's shoulder and turns to leave. “Goodnight, Apollo. Wake me if you need anything.”

 

Nick turns off the light and eases the door shut behind him, and it’s not long before the strip of light beneath the door from the hall winks out too, and the apartment goes quiet. The thick concussive fog and post-panic exhaustion turn his brain to soup, and Apollo falls into an uneasy sleep.

Apollo wakes a few hours later at dawn, roused by the early light spilling into his room. He stirs slowly before finally opening his eyes, and there's Trucy, still in her pajamas. Her hair falls in messy waves down her back and her eyes are drooping—a sign she's slept probably less than Apollo has, which is to say mostly not at all.

 

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Did I wake you up?”

 

“Nah,” Apollo says. “You okay?”

 

Trucy sighs and places a fresh ice pack against Apollo's side before climbing up and sitting cross-legged atop his bed. “Shouldn't I be asking you that?” she points out.

 

“Dunno. But I'm fine. Just exhausted.”

 

Trucy looks skeptical of that but doesn’t call him on it. “Daddy’s asleep,” she says. “I told him I’d check on you.”

 

“Then consider me checked on,” Apollo says lightly, in a vain attempt at levity. Trucy doesn’t take the bait, because she’s smart and perceptive and the older she gets the harder Apollo finds it is to lie to her.

 

“Polly,” she says, wriggling her toes. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

 

Apollo wants to lie to her. Well, he doesn’t—but he wants to be able to lie to her. He doesn’t want to spring this on her now, when they’ve both barely slept and Nick very pointedly does not want him saying a word.

 

But he just can’t do it.

 

“Trucy, someone died last night. The police thought I killed him.”

 

Trucy’s eyes blow wide. “But you’d never—”

 

“I know.”

 

“Was there evidence?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “No. But I was the only one in the room who could have done it.”

 

Trucy’s brow furrows like Mr. Edgeworth’s does. “Polly, you’re not really worried you actually—”

 

“No, I know I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have. It was someone else.”

 

His sister hones in on his phrasing and pursues the line of questioning like a dog on the hunt, just like a lawyer. It would be kind of cute if it wasn’t at Apollo’s expense.

 

“You know you didn’t, it was someone else,” she repeats, leaning toward him. “So you know who it was, then.”

 

“...I can’t tell you, Trucy. I’m sorry.”

 

Trucy leans back again, frowning. “So you really are in danger.”

 

“Well… maybe.”

 

Horribly, Trucy’s eyes well up with tears. “What do we do?”

 

“ You don’t need to worry about doing anything,” Apollo says. “You’re 15.”

 

The tears spill over and begin to slide silently down Trucy’s cheeks. She’s clenching Apollo’s quilt in her fist, trembling. The memory comes to Apollo like a vision, then: 15 years old, staring at Shadi in the eerie shadows of the Gramarye house, nerves alight with terror, not sleeping for days. Shadi had said something similar to him, back then. Maybe it was his way of trying to protect Apollo from the truth, too. That, of course, didn’t work—and Apollo doesn’t plan on being dragged off to jail again today, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work here, either. And Apollo would rather die than live to be anything like him.

 

“God, Trucy,” he whispers, sitting up at last. One hand holds the ice to his bruises, the other reaches out to Trucy; she doesn’t take it. “I can’t… I can’t lie to you. But if I tell you everything, then…”

 

“You’re worried about me knowing too much,” Trucy says, clumsily wiping her tears. “The killer is someone we know, then. Someone who could find me and hurt me.”

 

“Don’t—Don’t talk like that, Trucy, please. You’re not in any danger.” He reaches up and cleans her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Nick and I aren’t going to let that happen.”

 

Trucy sniffles. “But what about you? I don’t want something bad to happen to you and not know you were even out somewhere dangerous to begin with and I never see you again.”

 

“That won’t happen,” Apollo says, even though he’s not fully convinced of it himself, and Trucy reads him like a book.

 

“Polly,” she begs. “Please. Tell me what this is all about. Who—Who died last night?”

 

“I…” Apollo relents. “I’m sorry, Trucy. Things might get a little crazy for a while.”

 

“Who died ?” Trucy repeats.

 

“...Come with me.” Apollo drags himself out of bed despite his exhaustion and the nasty headache brewing behind his eyes and offers Trucy a hand. “There’s something you should see.”

 

He leads Trucy to the front door, where Apollo’s discarded hoodie lay in a messy, blood-spattered heap next to his backpack. With his foot he nudges the jacket aside so Trucy won’t see the drops of his blood on the sleeve, and then he digs the envelope out of his bag.

 

“This… This is for you, Truce,” he says as he holds it out to her.

 

Trucy takes the envelope in her hands and immediately starts shaking, running her fingers across the pink paper and tracing the Gramarye seal penned by hand in Shadi’s signature scrawl. After a horrible tense moment, Trucy carefully slices the envelope open with her fingernail and pulls out the notarized document within. Apollo watches, unable to stop what’s coming as she reads what’s written inside. Her hand slaps over her mouth and her eyes, the size of dinner plates, well up anew with fresh tears.

 

“Oh my god,” she chokes out. “Polly, oh my god!”

 

Apollo reaches forward and catches her in his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder and rubbing circles on her back. She comes up to his chin now—she’s spent the last few years growing like a weed while Apollo has stayed the same, no longer the miniscule thing she once was—but she still fits perfectly in his hold.

 

“I’m sorry, Trucy,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

 

“Seven years and he just—he sends a notarized document? I don’t—I don’t want this! The Gramarye Miracle ? Some miracle that turned out to be!”

 

“You don’t… you don’t have to do anything with it if you don’t want to,” Apollo assures her. “The notes are probably in storage somewhere with the rest of Magnifi’s stuff.”

 

“The notebook,” Trucy confirms. “Yeah, I know the one. I should burn it.”

 

“If that’s what you want, I’ll help.”

 

Trucy half-giggles, half-sobs into his collarbone.

 

“Oh, Truce. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you just yet.”

 

“I’m not afraid of the truth, Polly.” Trucy lifts her head and peers up at him, cheeks wet and eyes glossy. “He hurt you, didn’t he? You got into a fight.”

 

Apollo sighs. “...Yeah, we did.”

 

“And they think—They think you killed him.” Trucy’s voice breaks.

 

“Yeah. I didn’t, Trucy. I would never do that.”

 

“Polly, I know!” Trucy cries, scandalized. “B-But he hit you. He was my Daddy and he hit you!”

 

Apollo’s heart does double-time in his ribcage. Trucy still has no idea about the abuse—she was too young to realize what was going on at the time, and Apollo’s never told her. How could he?

 

He wonders if she remembers napping with him while he trembled, nursing several bruises and fighting off a panic attack, with her at age five, snuggled against his chest.

 

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” he tells her. “I threw the first punch, so it’s on me.”

 

Trucy shakes her head against his shoulder, hands squeezing tightly at his shirt. “It isn’t okay,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be okay. You don’t have to be fine. He’s dead, Polly.”

 

A sob cuts sharply through the air. Trucy pulls him tighter, and he opens his mouth to soothe her, but then he realizes the noise came from him.

 

“I’m sorry, Trucy,” he whispers, unable to find the words for anything else. “I’m sorry. He—I’m sorry .”

 

Soon, the collar of Apollo’s t-shirt is growing damp, and Trucy’s legs are trembling so much they give out. Apollo catches her weight despite his sore ribs and half-leads, half-carries her to the couch, where they collapse in something of a heap, Apollo curled protectively around his baby sister as she cries into his chest. The mug of cocoa from a few hours ago still sits on the coffee table, languid and cloying.

 

Trucy doesn’t cry for long—she never has, always far stronger than he’s ever been. The evening’s terror still runs cold through Apollo’s veins, and when he cuddles his sister in the aftermath like he always does, he’s still not sure which of them it’s meant to benefit most.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again; he can’t stop apologizing and doesn’t know why. “I’m so, so—”

 

“Stop,” Trucy whines. “Just stop.”

 

Biting his tongue, Apollo starts stroking her hair, working out the tangles with his fingers. When her tears stop, she stays leaned against his shoulder, warm and safe under his arm.

 

This has been one of the worst nights of Apollo’s life, but at least he still has Trucy—though the thought of having to keep her safe through what’s to come makes his breath quicken.

 

“Polly,” Trucy whispers. “He didn’t want to see me again, did he?”

 

“He… said it was best if he didn’t,” Apollo admits, patting her back. “Which is, uh… why I punched him in the face.”

 

Trucy coughs something that might be a laugh. “Oh my god, Apollo.”

 

“What? He deserved that much.”

 

“You’re silly.” Trucy sits up and inspects the bruises littering his arm, mouth twisted in a thoughtful frown. “You got yourself into all that trouble because of that? I don’t need him, Polly. It hurts, it hurts so much, but I don’t need him. I have Daddy, and I have you. And I have Aunt Maya and Uncle Miles and Pearl. So…” Trucy straightens her spine and huffs very seriously. “So fuck him!”

 

It’s Apollo’s turn to choke on a surprised laugh. “Trucy!” he hisses.

 

“What? He didn’t care enough about me to stay. He disappeared and used me to do it. So fuck him.”

 

“Oh, jeez, Truce,” Apollo mutters, hugging her once more. “I love you so much.”

 

Trucy curls up again like she always used to with her head pillowed on Apollo’s chest. “I love you, Polly. I’m sad and I’m confused but more than anything I’m glad you’re here.” She sniffles a little. “I missed you. I don’t even know the last time I got to give you a big hug. It felt like you were so far away.”

 

Apollo’s heart aches so much his bruised rib smarts, and he squeezes Trucy tightly. He didn’t realize how much he missed her until he got to hold her like he used to. “I’m so sorry. Things are going to be weird and crazy for a bit, but once we get through it I swear everything’s going to be okay, and I’ll actually come home more often to see you. I promise.”

 

“I kept asking Daddy if you were okay,” Trucy admits. “He would just tell me he didn’t know.”

 

“Oh, Trucy…”

 

“Do you even know how twitchy you’ve been every time I’ve seen you? Like you’re hiding a tell. You’d get—You’d get really still, like if you just didn’t move I wouldn’t notice you weren’t okay.”

 

Justice, be still. Go home, Justice, you’re unwell. Pull yourself together in front of the client. Focus.

 

“I know,” Apollo says quietly. “I don't think I knew I wasn't okay. I-I'm still not okay.”

 

“It's your job,” Trucy says, and dear god, she's already so close to the truth. “It's making you sick.”

 

“I'm not sick, Truce,” Apollo insists.

 

Trucy just shrugs. “That's what Daddy always tells me, too, but I think it's okay if you are. I can hug you until you feel better, like Mom used to tell me. Like magic, remember?”

 

“Trucy…”

 

“I know, I know, I'm too old to think like that. But sometimes it would be nice, right? If it really did work like that.”

 

“It would.” Apollo pulls a throw blanket off the floor and drapes it over them both. Trucy hums as she makes herself comfortable, narrowly avoiding jabbing Apollo in the rib. “But it's close enough for now. Are you okay?”

 

“I'm okay,” Trucy says in a small voice. “I’m exhausted. And I’m sad and I’m angry and confused, and… Polly?”

 

“Yeah, what is it?”

 

“Can you just… hold?”

 

Apollo is again transported back to the Gramarye house, more than a decade in the past, unable to sleep with a tiny toddler Trucy squirming as close to him as possible. Wrapping her little arms around his middle and curling into his chest, too young to understand their mother and Magnifi arguing about him in the other room, but perceptive enough to know he was sad. It’s okay, Polly, I hold, she’d said. I hold, I hold, I hold.

 

“Yeah, Truce, of course,” Apollo whispers, not trusting his own voice not to break. There isn’t enough room for them to both lay down without her eventually crushing him, so he adjusts his arms around her so she’s held securely beside him, with him sitting half-upright against the arm of the couch and Trucy curled up against his side, head nestled on his shoulder. “How’s that?”

 

Trucy nods against his clavicle. “Is it still okay?” she asks, as if he’d ever expect her to not need to be snuggled at any given opportunity, no matter how old they get.

 

“Yes, it’s okay,” Apollo insists, ruffling her hair. “I don’t mind holdin’ my baby sister.”

 

Trucy giggles. “Thanks,” she mumbles. Then, after a beat, “I meant what I said, by the way. That I don’t need him, even if it hurts. It was always gonna hurt, anyway.”

 

“You’re brave,” Apollo admits. “Braver than me. Braver than I ever could be.”

 

She shakes her head. “I’m only brave because you are,” she says. “Little sibling privilege.”

 

Apollo’s heart clenches, and it almost comes pouring out then, all of it—the abuse, the Quick Draw accident, the blackmail—but it’s been a harrowing, exhausting, and triggering night for both of them as it is, so Apollo pushes it back down for now and shuts his eyes against the rising sun creeping in through the window.

 

“Maybe I’m only brave because I have you to be brave for,” he settles for saying instead. “Ever think of that?”

 

“If you said I’m so much braver than you, then why would you need to be brave on my behalf?” Trucy asks.

 

The gears in Apollo’s brain lock up tight and begin to whir in place. He must make some kind of confused noise, because Trucy snorts.

 

Her fingers tap twice lightly on the center of his forehead as she says, “Okay, brain rest time for Polly.” She sighs as she takes the opportunity to push his bangs aside and inspect the bandage just under his hairline. “Didn’t Daddy give you Tylenol?”

 

“Wore off I think,” Apollo murmurs.

 

“I can go get—”

 

“No. Shh.” Apollo tips his head on top of hers.

 

Trucy snorts again. “Okay. Sleep then, dummy,” she says, and sleep Apollo does.

When Apollo next wakes, he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the first thing he registers is that everything is too bright, even behind his eyelids. The second thing he registers is that his ribs are burning. He hisses in pain, but someone shushes him, and a weight lifts off of his tender side.

 

Apollo forces his eyes open. Some time while he slept, Trucy dozed off too, and her deadweight dropped into his side like a rock, crushing him into the couch. Nick is there now, gently easing her out of his hold and settling her on the other end of the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket. She doesn’t stir, but Nick still shushes Apollo as he hands him an ice pack. Apollo presses it against the throbbing bruise on his right side and sighs shakily with relief.

 

The stinging subsides in time for Apollo to see the evidence of his crime on the coffee table, beside Trucy’s mug: the pink Gramarye envelope, and the notarized document sitting atop it, half-crumpled from Trucy’s shocked grip last night.

 

There’s no way Nick hasn’t noticed it; there’s no way he doesn’t know what Apollo has done.

 

“Nick,” he starts under his breath. Nick shushes him again, gently stroking Trucy’s hair and tucking her in again for good measure. Then he turns to Apollo and, with a gentle expression, holds out a hand to help him up off the couch. Apollo is led, wobbly with exhaustion and muscles taut with anxiety, to the kitchen, where Nick nudges him into a chair and sits down across from him. The lights are off and the blinds are shut, and the first thing Nick does is give him water and another painkiller.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks lightly.

 

Apollo lays his head on the table, pillowed on his free arm. “Tired. Sore. My head is throbbing.”

 

Nick sighs. “Yeah, I figured.” He taps his fingernails on the tabletop a few times in the intervening silence. Then he says, “I know you told her, Apollo, and I’m not angry.”

 

A weight lifts from Apollo’s chest. “She forced it out of me,” he admits, raising his head.

 

“I know,” Nick says.

 

“I didn’t tell her about the suspect, but I think she’s figured it out anyway.”

 

“I figured.” Nick has a small smile on his face, almost sad. “It’s hard to keep things from her. I’m sorry I put you in a tight spot.”

 

Apollo pulls the ice pack off of his side and stares at it. “I’m worried,” he says. “The plan. It seems risky.”

 

“Good, you remember what we talked about. I wasn’t sure you were really with it last night at the station.” Nick crosses his arms over his chest. There’s stubble growing over his chin, and his hair is an unkempt mess of unwashed gel from yesterday. “You’re right, it does pose a risk. I don’t like the idea of sending you back to work or putting you on trial. I’ll talk to Edgeworth today, see if he has any input. But we have to lay a trap.”

 

“And I’m the bait,” Apollo deadpans.

 

“No,” Nick says seriously. “You need to understand that you’re already a target. He’s already tried to frame you, and the longer our investigation takes, the more time he has to grow wary of the fact that you’ve gotten off with just an assault charge and not the murder. Because it means the cops are looking for other potential suspects. We’re just taking advantage of his plan and using you as a decoy, but it means you’ve gotta act natural.”

 

Apollo rubs at his sternum, throat tight with anxiety.

 

“Hey, let’s just take it one minute at a time, alright?” Nick says gently. “You do need rest; that isn’t just a cover-up. I’ll handle what I can for right now, you focus on taking it easy. I’ve already called Truce out sick from school today, so I want you to help me keep an eye on her, okay?” He sighs, casting a wistful glance toward the other room. “In the middle of everything, I don’t want to forget that she’s gotta grieve in her own way, too.”

 

Apollo nods, and opts not to mention the details of their conversation in the small hours, where Trucy proudly disowned her dead father. Some things are meant to stay between Gramaryes—former and only-technically-Gramaryes, that is.

 

“I need to email Mr. Gavin,” Apollo says, and saying the name aloud into the quiet of the kitchen actually makes him flinch.

 

Nick nods solemnly. “Right. I’ll help you, since your brain’s mush.” He straightens his back with a wince and squares his shoulders, visibly putting himself into investigation mode; to Apollo, it’s always been like watching a sunflower unfurl toward the light, except not so pretty or graceful. Nevertheless, he finds he’s been missing it these last couple of years or so that he’s been under Gavin’s wing—the principle and strength of will, the unwavering faith in truth above all else, the resolve in the face of impossible odds—the very thing that made Phoenix Wright into Apollo’s idol all those years ago.

 

Somewhere that kid is still inside him, the one reeling from the passing of his mother, still missing Dhurke, grasping for some sort of familiar guiding light towards justice and support for the downtrodden in a world that was so unfair to him at every turn. He saw Phoenix Wright make a name for himself the day he stood strong against Manfred von Karma and forcibly bent the arc of the legal world toward justice with his bare hands, and decided that was exactly what he wanted to become.

 

Reality, of course, is more complicated than that child imagined it would be. He trusts Phoenix Wright for all of that, but more importantly, he trusts Nick , the way one can only trust the family that truly, deeply cares for them. And if anyone can dig them out of this hole, it’s him.

 

Apollo straightens his own shoulders, stretching against the painful tug in his side. He takes a deep breath and nods.

 

“Right,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

 

---

To: Kristoph Gavin <[email protected]>
From: Apollo Justice <[email protected]>
Subject: Medical Leave

Mr. Gavin,

I am writing to inform you that I will be out of the office today and part of next week to recover from a concussion. The conditions for my return will be determined by my doctor. I will keep you updated on my recovery.

To be transparent, I sustained this concussion yesterday evening at my meeting at the Borscht Bowl Club with the client. I don’t want to hide anything from you, but I’m unsure how much I am allowed to speak about it. Shadi Smith died last night during our meeting. I don’t know how; we got into a physical altercation, and he knocked me out. When I came to, he was dead. I was arrested last night and released.

Due to the concussion, I won’t be able to spend much time checking my email, so please forgive any delay in my replies over the next few days.

Best,

Apollo

---

To: Apollo Justice <[email protected]>
From: Kristoph Gavin <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Medical Leave

Mr. Justice,

Thank you for informing me of your situation. I wish you a swift recovery from your injury. Please focus on your health and do not worry about returning to work before you are ready.

I am saddened by the news of Mr. Smith’s sudden passing. However, I am alarmed to hear of your involvement in such an affair. It is unbecoming of a young man of your intelligence to be reduced to such base instincts as physical violence. Though I am relieved to hear you have not been implicated in this man’s death, I would encourage you to reflect on the impact your temper has on others. Is it not possible that in a similar situation you could have, in a fit of emotion, done something irreversible without control?

Please take the opportunity while you are on leave to reflect on your emotional wellness. I am happy to discuss with you at a later date possible pathways to assist you with this, or the possibility of further medical leave while you seek treatment.

Regards,

Kristoph Gavin, esq.

---

To: Kristoph Gavin <[email protected]>
From: Apollo Justice <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Re: Medical Leave

Mr. Gavin,

Thank you for your concern about my well-being. My health, both mental and physical, is a personal matter between myself and my doctor, and I assure you I am receiving adequate care in both matters. I have not been deemed a threat to myself or others. The fight with Mr. Smith was a lapse in judgement, so please do not worry about it affecting my future work as a lawyer.

I will of course, as you suggest, take this time to focus on resting and recovering to the fullest extent. Thank you again for being so patient with me.

Best,

Apollo

---

To: Apollo Justice <[email protected]>
From: Kristoph Gavin <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Medical Leave

Mr. Justice,

Very well. I will see you next week.

Regards,

Kristoph Gavin, esq.

Notes:

"up the wolves" is an apollo & trucy song. go listen to it

Chapter 10: PART IX

Summary:

He looks up from his notes. Klavier Gavin is staring at the cabinet along the back wall like it owes him money, oblivious to Phoenix's thoughts. The kid's been deathly serious all week, almost stone cold. Phoenix hasn't brought up the forgery—it's not exactly relevant to the crime at hand, so for now, Phoenix will be playing that particular card close to his chest.

Speaking of cards. Phoenix studies the detritus of Apollo's poker victory on the table. It's been shuffled all around in the scuffle, but from what he can tell, Apollo won with a pretty good hand. He can't help the weird sense of pride that threatens to split his face open in a grin; he has to chew his pen some more to quash it. A man is dead, Phoenix. Have some decorum.

--
In which the plan goes only slight awry, Phoenix plays his hand, and Apollo rides the wave.

Notes:

hi. another 10k for you. i love to split chapters and then make half of it so long that i'd normally split it again. i was going to make this longer! you've been warned.

speaking of warnings: slight cw for non-graphic mentions of vomiting. apollo gets really, really freaked out in this chapter, so, warning for the kristoph gavin of it all.

with that taken care of, court is now in session! and also the clay terran show. my guy earth earthling has taken the reins in this chapter HARD

You’ve been so polite / Thank God for charm school / But if I read this right / Then all this attention’s intentionally cruel

- iDKHOW, “GLOOMTOWN BRATS”

 

There’s a potted plant on Apollo’s desk the morning he returns to work.

 

It sits on the corner beside a framed photo of himself, Clay, and Trucy at the Space Center last summer. Its leaves are a deep green, with delicate pinkish-red flowers smaller than Apollo’s palm. He’s examining the plant when Mr. Gavin walks into the main office, footsteps lighter than air.

 

“It’s a begonia,” he says, and Apollo jolts, not having noticed his entrance.

 

“Ah—” Apollo yelps, and then swallows. “I-I see.”

 

“I felt a traditional bouquet would only whither. Begonias, on the other hand, are rather hardy little things and do well with little sunlight.” Mr. Gavin smiles evenly. “You’ll find it makes a wonderful houseplant.”

 

“I see,” Apollo says again. “Thank you, sir, that’s very nice of you.”

 

Mr. Gavin nods. “I’m glad to see you’re well. There’s much work to do—you’ll find the case files on your desk require your attention. I’ll need them sorted by Friday morning.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Apollo nods. “I’ll get to work right away.”

 

“Good boy,” Mr. Gavin says, and Kristoph has praised Apollo’s work before—but now it turns his stomach, and he has to remember his poker face to keep from grimacing.

The work is arduous; Apollo’s been gone for less than a week, but in that time it seems Mr. Gavin has decided to increase his workload, and he’s been given no extra time to make up the work that piled up in his absence. It feels like a punishment, especially when staring at legal jargon for too long under the harsh lights of Gavin Law Offices still makes his concussion symptoms flare up.

 

He’d ask for accommodations, but it seems frightening to do so now, and Apollo—whether from the stress or from the scrambled brain—can’t remember if it’s something he would have done in the past when things were different. It seems safer to pretend he’s doing okay, and just pop an extra Tylenol or take a break in the bathroom with the lights off whenever his head starts to hurt.

 

Somehow, he manages to get through those first few days by pretending nothing is wrong, a skill he in retrospect probably developed under Magnifi’s roof, though that isn’t something he’d prefer to think about too much. He copes with the stress by reminding himself that Clay is returning from his training retreat at the end of the week, and although he’ll have to hide what happened, at least Clay’s return will restore some sense of normalcy and stability to his everyday life.

 

All week long, the begonia plant stares him down from behind his computer. He hasn’t brought it home because he can’t bike with it, and besides, he’s more likely to remember to water it if it’s on his work desk. One morning, he gets curious and sends a picture of it to Mr. Edgeworth, the smartest guy he knows.

 

Received a begonia as a get-well present. Is that weird?

 

A few minutes later, from across the ocean, the reply: It looks lovely. I’m not sure of its meaning. My sister will know. One moment.

 

When Apollo checks his phone during his lunch break, he has a string of messages from Mr. Edgeworth:

 

Begonias are considered symbols of bad luck, misfortune, and caution in many cultures. Receiving one could be construed as a warning.

I don’t intend to alarm you. Not many people are cognizant of the language of flowers. Meanings differ across cultures, as well.

Who gave this to you? Are you alright? You seem perturbed by it.

 

Apollo sends back: Thanks. I’m fine. It was from my boss. He says they make nice houseplants that don’t need any sun.

 

He knows, or at least hopes, that Mr. Edgeworth will understand what he is not saying. Apollo’s suspicion is confirmed an hour later when he gets a single cryptic text from Nick that just says Leave it on your desk.

 

---

By the end of the week, Apollo is getting tired of playing nice and playing dumb and playing into a murderer’s hands. It's just the latest in an endless cycle of death: years spent with Zak and Valant, who each may have shot his mother; Zak and Valant again, who each may have killed his grandfather (Magnifi, who may—Apollo can’t think about that right now); and now Kristoph, who almost definitely killed his stepfather. What next? Who’s the next Gramarye to fall, and at whose hands?

 

Is it Apollo? Does he know too much, and Kristoph knows it?

 

He feels sick to his stomach and terrified for his life, and when he gets home on Friday evening, he makes a beeline for the bathroom and loses his lunch and his mind in quick succession. The stress and exhaustion reaches an apex, and what started as run-of-the-mill anxiety quickly spirals into a full-blown severe panic attack that has Apollo’s vision tunneling and his entire body going numb. He stumbles through his apartment on shaky legs, halfway to hyperventilating as he rifles through his bag in search of his emergency meds. Then he remembers that he doesn’t bring them to work anymore because Kristoph got weird about it the one time he saw them, and they’re probably in the bathroom.

 

Irrationally mad at himself for it, Apollo retraces his steps back to the bathroom and finds the bottle in the medicine cabinet, reads the label and then rereads it just to make sure it’s the right one, and takes his pill with a swallow of water from the tap. He slides down onto the floor, struggling to breathe, to wait it out until his meds kick in. Then he remembers Kristoph again, and he remembers how he said maybe Apollo is unwell, sick, violent, lacking self-control, and then he’s bent over the toilet again, tears streaming from his eyes.

 

When his stomach finally calms, Apollo slumps on the tile, weak. He’s not hyperventilating now, and he can see just fine, but he’s definitely still in panic mode.

 

Keys jingle in the front door, signaling Clay’s return. Apollo perks up with equal parts relief and mortification. The keys rattle in Clay's clumsy and impatient hands until Apollo hears the door creak open at last, and hears Clay call out, “Hey, I'm home!”

 

Apollo leans helplessly against the toilet, shaking.

 

Clay's footsteps move throughout the apartment, drifting closer. “Pollo? Where are you?” Clay passes the doorway of the bathroom, pauses, and doubles back, twice as frantic and eyes blown wide.

 

“Apollo! Hey, hey, what happened!?” Clay bends down beside Apollo, immediately pressing a palm to his forehead. His hand is blessedly cool, and Apollo leans into the touch, unable to speak. God, he must look like death. “Why are you crying? Are you sick?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. He reaches out and wraps clumsy, trembling fingers around Clay's and squeezes.

 

Clay presses two fingers to Apollo's pulse. “You're having a panic attack, huh?” He doesn't wait for Apollo to answer; he moves Apollo away from the toilet and leans him against the side of the tub, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Try to stay with me, dude. You wanna squeeze my hand again?”

 

Clay sits beside him and offers a palm. Apollo grips his hand and holds tight as another wave of nauseous panic nearly bowls him over. He retches in the direction of the toilet but stops himself, while Clay rubs his back.

 

“Hey,” Clay says quietly. “Where's your meds, dude?”

 

“Threw it up,” Apollo chokes out.

 

“Okay. Let's ride the wave, then, yeah? Keep squeezin’.”

 

The next surge has Apollo clenching Clay's hand with all he's got as Clay hushes him. “Clay,” Apollo cries. “Something bad happened.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I got arrested,” Apollo forces out. “I don't know if I can tell you.”

 

Clay wipes tears from Apollo's cheeks with a tender hand. “You what? ‘Pollo, you’re worrying me,” he says carefully. “What happened while I was gone?”

 

“I-I’m out on bail right now.”

 

“What?”

 

“M-My stepdad died. I-I was there, a-and we fought and the police—”

 

“Holy shit,” Clay whispers. He wraps an arm around Apollo and rubs his arm like he’s trying to keep him warm. “Hey, no wonder you’re shaking so much. It’s okay, dude. I got you.”

 

“It’s not okay!” Apollo cries. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do, Clay, I can’t—”

 

“Hey, hey, come on now,” Clay tries to soothe. “You should have given me a call, man. I would have come back sooner if I knew you were in trouble.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “And jeopardize your training? No way.”

 

“You dealing with this alone is way worse than missing training.”

 

“I actually stayed back at Nick’s for a few days.” Apollo sucks in a breath, leaning against Clay’s side. “To recover from a concussion, you know? A-And to make a plan.”

 

“A plan?” Clay prompts.

 

“I can’t tell you,” Apollo says. “I really, really wish I could tell you because I’m so, so scared—” His voice breaks on the last word, tumbling over into sobs that wrack his whole body.

 

“Oh, god, hey…” Clay wraps him in a proper hug and rubs his back. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna get you through it. We’re fine, right? You’re Apollo Justice and you’re gonna be just fine.”

 

“What if I’m not fine?” Apollo blubbers into his sturdy shoulder.

 

“Then we’ll figure it out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

Apollo’s heart nearly bursts. “Really, really bad stuff,” he cries. “Clay, you don’t understand.” Apollo’s going numb with panic again, shaking hands tingling with pins and needles, and Clay shushes him and starts tapping out breaths on Apollo's knee.

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Clay whispers hurriedly. “Sorry. Let’s not think about bad stuff happening, it’s just making you worse. Want me to tell you about the training retreat?”

 

Apollo manages to nod, releasing his full weight into Clay and listening to him chatter about practice exercises and complicated space math and physical conditioning. It’s all mostly a blur of white noise as he cries uncontrollably in Clay’s arms, but it’s enough to drag Apollo’s thoughts out of that terrified place long enough for him to regain feeling in his body again and stop shaking so much. At some point, Clay reaches over and begins filling the tub. Focusing on the sound of the water keeps Apollo grounded, and before too long he’s sniffling and whimpering instead of hysterically sobbing. Clay prattles on, rubbing Apollo’s back, until the tub is full.

 

“Alright, dude. Come on.” Clay turns off the tap. “No more marinating in your own stink.”

 

“Don't wanna,” Apollo whines like a child. Clay gives him an unimpressed look, finds that ever-shifting boundary with ease, and prods at it with great care.

 

“Well, tough break,” he says. “I'm not letting you rot. Plus you smell like puke. If you're not gonna do it on your own, then I'm gonna help you.”

 

Despite Apollo’s grumblings, Clay carefully unbuttons Apollo's sweat-soaked shirt and peels it off of him, pausing every few seconds to make sure Apollo's not getting upset. His undershirt and pants come next, tossed in a pile by the sink. Apollo just cries quietly, letting his best friend help undress him and practically body him into the tub. It’s a testament to years of built up trust that he doesn’t protest the attention; Clay doesn’t comment on any of his old scars, or the weird birthmark on his thigh, or the yellowing bruise on his side that still burns through Apollo’s whole chest when touched. He just focuses on making sure he gets into the water without slipping and hurting himself again.

 

“There you go, dude,” Clay says. “You alright?”

 

Sniffling, Apollo finds it within himself to nod. The water is perfectly warm, sapping some of the ache out of his muscles. His tears leave little ripples on its surface as they drip from his cheeks into the bathwater below.

 

“I think I’m gonna call Nick.”

 

Apollo whips his head around. “N-No!”

 

“Why not? He knows what’s going on, doesn’t he?”

 

“I don’t want him to know that I told you anything.” And he’s probably mad at me for staying away for so long, he probably doesn’t want to deal with my episodes anymore, I should just be an adult and leave him out of it. I need to stick to the plan.

 

Clay kneels down beside the tub. “He doesn’t have to know that. But you were home spiraling by yourself all this time and I don’t know how to help you. What happens when I have to go away again?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “He can’t help me either.”

 

“Still, dude. I feel like he should know you’re not doing well. Can I give him a call? Please?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good. Give me just a second.” Clay pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his contacts—how he still has Nick’s number after all this time, Apollo doesn’t know. He puts the phone on speaker and it rings out tinny against the bathroom tiles.

 

“Clay? Is everything okay?” Nick’s voice asks, and Apollo almost starts crying all over again.

 

“Hey,” Clay says. “Yeah. Well, sorta. Apollo’s having a hard time right now.”

 

“A hard time? What’s going on?”

 

“Well, I got home and found him in the bathroom having a really bad panic attack. He couldn’t tell me what was going on but he says he got into some kind of trouble recently and he’s freaking out?”

 

“Can you put him on?”

 

“You’re on speaker,” Clay says sheepishly.

 

“Oh,” Nick says. “Apollo? Can you hear me, buddy?”

 

“Yeah,” Apollo croaks.

 

Nick sighs in sympathy. “Oh, kid. What’s the matter?”

 

“I don’t think I can do this,” Apollo confesses. “It’s—It’s messing with my head. I feel like he knows and he’s just waiting for me to slip up so he can—”

 

“Easy, Apollo,” Nick says. “Watch what you say out loud.”

 

“I don’t care!” Apollo barks. Clay starts stroking his hair in an attempt to calm him. “I’m scared , Nick!”

 

“Okay, okay, hey. Hey ,” Nick whispers. “You can take a few more days off, say you’re having concussion symptoms again.”

 

“That’s not gonna fly. He hates when I don’t get work done.” Atop Apollo’s head, Clay’s hand stills. Apollo doesn’t look at him, but he just knows the look of shock dawning on his face as he realizes who they’re talking about.

 

“It doesn’t matter if he hates it or not. You’re being tried for assault next week, and then it’ll be all over.”

 

“How can you be so sure of that?”

 

Nick chuckles. “Don’t forget who’s defending you. I’ve got all the evidence I need to put him behind bars. You trust me?”

 

I don’t know, Apollo thinks to himself, desperate and frantic. I don’t know who or what to trust anymore.

 

“I trust you,” he says, because it’s probably close enough to the truth, for now.

 

“Good. We’re gonna bring this to an end. Hey, Clay?”

 

“Uh, yeah?” Clay pipes up, having pivoted to scrubbing Apollo’s hair for him—since he’s been running his fingers through it anyway.

 

Nick’s voice is stern when he says, “Pretend you didn’t hear any of this, you got that? For Apollo’s safety and yours.”

 

“O-Okay,” Clay replies hurriedly. “Consider it forgotten. Whatever Apollo needs, I’m game.”

 

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” Nick says with fondness in his voice.

 

“Nah, it’s the other way around,” Clay insists, shooting Apollo a cheeky grin. He smears a line of suds off of Apollo’s forehead, away from his eyes.

 

Apollo pretends to gag. “Alright, that’s enough of you two being sappy ,” he grumbles half-heartedly.

 

Nick laughs. “Alright, alright. Are you gonna be okay now, bud? You’re welcome to come back home for a while if you need. Clay’s welcome too, so long as he doesn’t mind the lack of space.”

 

“I think I’ll be okay,” Apollo decides as Clay gently douses his head in warm water to rinse out the suds. The warmth nearly brings Apollo to tears again.

 

“Alright. Look, I know things are a little weird right now, but you can always call me. I’m here if you need me, okay?”

 

“I know.”

 

“Good. Try to get some rest. Thank you for calling, Clay.”

 

“Sure thing!” Clay pipes up, then ends the call with the tip of his pinky. He rinses Apollo’s head again, taking extra care to shield his eyes. It’s quiet between them for a few moments, save for Apollo’s sniffling.

 

“I can’t believe you’re taking care of me like this,” Apollo mumbles eventually.

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Clay asks, setting down the wash cup.

 

Apollo shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought it’d be too much. Too embarrassing.”

 

“Embarrassing for who?” Clay snorts. “You’re the one in the bath right now, bro.”

 

Despite himself, Apollo blushes furiously. “You’re the one who manhandled me into the tub!”

 

“Yeah, and you didn’t stop me.” Clay pokes him in the forehead. “What, is the brave and tough Apollo Justice too afraid to be vulnerable in front of his best friend? He thinks I don’t know what a human body looks like? That I’m embarrassed by the concept of my best friend’s d—”

 

“Okay, okay, shut the fuck up!” Apollo screeches. He must be beet red by now, he’s sure. Clay just laughs at him.

 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you so much. But seriously, if you’re okay then I’m okay.” Clay leans one elbow on the edge of the tub, looking thoughtful. “Remember that time I got shitfaced in college, and when I came home crying and throwing up you did exactly the same thing for me?”

 

Apollo pouts in just the way he knows is unconvincing so Clay will know he’s joking when he says, “So this is just you paying me back?”

 

“Shut up,” Clay huffs. “But seriously, it’s not weird to me. You’re my best friend. Is it weird to you?” He almost looks sheepish.

 

“No,” Apollo says quickly. “I just feel bad because we didn’t move in together just so you could play nurse the moment you get home from training because I can’t take care of myself.”

 

“You’re right, that’s not why. It’s almost like I signed this lease with you because you’re my friend and I love you, and sometimes that means helping you take care of yourself.” Clay pokes him in the forehead again. “Besides, did you really think you were going to hide it all from me? You’re being ridiculous. I’ll bring you a change of clothes. After you finish cleaning up, how about takeout and a movie night?”

 

Apollo doesn’t have to fake a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

 

“Heck yeah!” Clay pushes to his feet. “I’ll be back in a sec. Holler if you need me!”

 

“Okay. Clay?” He turns around. “I’m… sorry. But thanks. For riding the wave with me, and for calling Nick.”

 

“You got it, dude.” With a grin and a thumbs up, Clay leaves the bathroom.

By the time Apollo is scrubbed clean and dressed—in his favorite pajamas and hoodie, because Clay knows—Clay is already deep into their typical post-panic-attack or post-breakdown protocol, a system that has served them well many times since moving in together in college (usually for Apollo’s benefit, admittedly, but not always). Dumplings from their favorite restaurant are on the way and the couch is loaded up with blankets and cushions like an exploded pillow fort. Clay is flipping through Netflix on the account they share (read: the one Clay mooches off of Mr. Starbuck for). Achy and burnt out in the way he always gets after a really bad episode, and sleepy from the bath, Apollo curls into his favorite spot on the couch and snuggles under a blanket.

 

“Hey,” Clay says. “Dinner’s almost here. What do you wanna watch?”

 

“You pick,” Apollo mumbles sleepily. “Something low stakes and stupid.”

 

“‘Kay. Let me know if you get any ideas while I’m scrollin’.”

 

Apollo doesn’t. He’s asleep before dinner arrives.

 

---

Phoenix chews on the end of his pen, deep in thought under the dim, dreary lighting of the Hydeout. His little notebook laden with half-legible clues and theories lay open in his palm, scrawled all over with messy ink. Shadi Smith = Shadi Enigmar = Zak Gramarye. No entry or exit other than stairs? Find evidence of self defense.

 

KG = Zak's first lawyer. Need motive. Why set me up? Why frame Apollo?

 

He looks up from his notes. Klavier Gavin is staring at the cabinet along the back wall like it owes him money, oblivious to Phoenix's thoughts. The kid's been deathly serious all week, almost stone cold. Phoenix hasn't brought up the forgery—it's not exactly relevant to the crime at hand, so for now, Phoenix will be playing that particular card close to his chest.

 

Speaking of cards. Phoenix studies the detritus of Apollo's poker victory on the table. It's been shuffled all around in the scuffle, but from what he can tell, Apollo won with a pretty good hand. He can't help the weird sense of pride that threatens to split his face open in a grin; he has to chew his pen some more to quash it. A man is dead, Phoenix. Have some decorum.

 

…But Enigmar kind of deserved it, right?

 

Phoenix shuts that thought away with a shake of his head. Trucy hasn't spent the last week having nightmares just for him to write off Enigmar's death as a positive. Everything about his daughter's life has been a tragedy, other than finding her big brother (and maybe his adopting her, if Phoenix feels like tooting his own horn).

 

Ema pulls off her goggles and huffs a world-weary sigh. She holds them out to Phoenix with a frown.

 

“Here,” she says. “See for yourself.”

 

Phoenix grabs the goggles. “Are you even allowed to be using this stuff without forensics here?”

 

“Fuck off. As if you're supposed to be here either.”

 

“Yeesh, sorry.” Phoenix slips the glasses on and the room shifts into a deep pink hue. Through them he can see the places where luminol has reacted with traces of blood: on the table, on the floor, even on some of the cards.

 

“Holy hell,” Phoenix mumbles.

 

“Some of it's definitely old,” Ema assures him. “From old bar fights and shit. I mean, you'd have known if that much blood was spilled that night.”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Phoenix pulls the goggles back off. “What does this even tell us, then?”

 

Ema stands over the tape outline of Enigmar's body. A splatter of blood has stained the grimy floor where his head would be—Phoenix doesn’t need luminol to see that.

 

“All these blood traces, and still no sign of a weapon,” she muses.

 

“The culprit must have taken it with him. Which means his fingerprints are probably on the weapon. So he wasn't wearing gloves, meaning it was probably not planned.” Phoenix scratches his chin. “Then there's gotta be a trace of him somewhere, something he couldn't cover up.”

 

“Or he was wearing gloves, and took the murder weapon because Apollo wasn't. Because we'd expect to find Apollo's prints.”

 

A beat of silence passes. Phoenix takes a step toward the card table, where he brushes a gloved finger along the border of a smear of blood on its edge. He breathes out against the wave of nausea that rises in the back of his throat, the tears that prick at the back of his eyes.

 

“Mr. Wright?” Ema prompts.

 

“That's Apollo's,” he says, solemn.

 

“What, do you have some kind of bloodhound ability?”

 

“No. I just… I just know.”

 

Ema steps up beside him and stares down at the blood, passive. “...He's okay, you know.”

 

“Only if…” Phoenix breathes deep. “Only if I don't fuck this up.”

 

“You won't,” Ema says. “You never do.”

 

Phoenix looks away from Apollo's blood. “I don't like this, Ema. I don't like doing this to him.”

 

“I know. But it's the only way.”

 

“Not if—Not if we can find evidence here, something conclusive, something that can warrant his arrest—”

 

“We won't. Gavin's sure of it.”

 

“And I should trust him?”

 

“Mr. Wright?” Ema frowns.

 

Phoenix blinks. Then he sighs. “Sorry, Em. I'm just—This is a lot.”

 

“I know. It's personal for you.”

 

“Feels like it always is, somehow.”

 

Ema hums in acknowledgment to that, and they fall into contemplative silence for another beat. Phoenix frowns, considering the scene. The winning hand is on Enigmar's side of the table, where his body was found. Did Apollo lie about winning? But, no, that's definitely the smear of blood from Apollo's head hitting the table.

 

Huh.

 

“Hey, give me those glasses again,” Phoenix says hurriedly, making a grabbing motion.

 

Ema hands them over. “Why? What's gotten into you?”

 

Phoenix slips the goggles back on and studies the scene again. There, on the opposite side of the table, there's traces of blood on the floor right beneath where the smear should be. But the other side is clear, even amongst the older stains.

 

Phoenix takes the luminol glasses back off and passes them back. “Someone rotated the table 180 degrees to make it look like Apollo lost.”

 

“Huh? Why?”

 

“To create a motive, maybe?”

 

Ema purses her lips. Then there's a loud scraping noise that catches both of their attention from the other side of the room, where Klavier has still been inspecting the walls.

 

“Gavin, are you done with whatever you're—Holy shit,” Ema breathes.

 

Phoenix follows her line of sight toward the back of the Hydeout, where Klavier has pushed aside the cabinet to reveal a hidden passageway.

 

“He used this,” Klavier says darkly. “I know he did.”

 

“Fuck,” Ema mutters. “There's your evidence of a third party.”

 

“How did you—What is—” Phoenix stammers, mouth agape.

 

Klavier shrugs. “This place used to be a speakeasy, no? There had to be a secret entrance somewhere for avoiding the police.” A tight smile forms on his lips. “And that's just the sort of thing my dear brother would know.”

 

---

Ema calls bright and early the morning of Apollo's assault trial, shouting expletives down the phone at a rate that would get her fired if the police chief were to hear her, most likely.

 

“Slow down,” Phoenix pleads, still scrubbing sleep from his eyes.

 

“It's the fop,” she huffs. “He's in the hospital.”

 

“ What? ”

 

“Ran his motorcycle off the road into a ditch last night, apparently. Blew a tire or something, I don't know!”

 

“Well is he okay?” Phoenix barks.

 

“He's conscious, if that's what you mean,” Ema fires back. “But he's been pulled from the trial today. Payne's taking his place.”

 

“Shit,” Phoenix hisses, beginning to pace circles around the apartment. Trucy pokes her head out of her room and frowns at him. “Well, that's fine, right? We can still—I can call a witness. We have the evidence we need.”

 

“So long as he can't wriggle out of it.”

 

“Did you talk to Klavier?”

 

“Yeah. He was furious. He's convinced someone sabotaged his bike.” Ema groans.

 

“ Shit ,” Phoenix whispers again, harsher this time. “Did he say anything else?”

 

“He said not to underestimate his brother, and to focus on bringing him in as a character witness for Apollo's self defense plea. If we can get him to let slip that he was on the premises that night…”

 

“...then we can indict him for the murder, and Apollo goes home,” Phoenix finishes for her.

 

“Right,” Ema says. “Are you gonna tell him?”

 

“I have to, or else he'll find out in front of the judge and the gallery. I'll need to keep him calm somehow.”

 

“Good luck. I'll see you in there.”

 

“See you then.” Phoenix hangs up and turns around to find Trucy staring up at him, stonefaced.

 

“Daddy, what happened?” she asks. Her attempt at intimidating him is undercut by her pink bunny-print pajama pants and the bedhead keeping her curls a cute, frizzy mess.

 

“Change of prosecutor,” he tells her evenly. “Trucy, baby, I have a really important job for you today.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest in a perfect mirror of her uncle. “And that is?”

 

“I need you to sit with your brother, and I need you to hold his hand and keep him calm for me, okay?”

 

Trucy smiles softly. “I can do that.”

 

“Good.” Phoenix ruffles her hair. “I also need you to keep an extra sharp eye out and signal me if you notice anything—Apollo might not be able to.”

 

She nods firmly. “Got it.”

 

“Atta girl. Go get dressed.” He gives her the most encouraging smile he can muster. “It's showtime.”

 

---

Apollo manages not to have a complete anxious meltdown in the defendant lobby, not even when Nick breaks the news about Klavier's accident and the change in prosecutor. Trucy is allowed to sit beside him in the defendant's chair, and she holds strong, even when Prosecutor Payne glowers at her for holding Apollo's hand during opening statements.

 

“This is an open-and-shut case, Your Honor,” Payne squeaks after Ema gives the facts of the case. “The evidence points to the defendant, having lost a game of poker, physically assaulting the victim, Mr. Shadi Smith, in a fit of rage. Case closed.”

 

“Objection! Case very much not closed, Mr. Payne,” Mr. Wright shouts. “There is no evidence to suggest that my client lost the game.”

 

“There very much is, Mr. Wright. Take a look at the photo of the table; you know poker, yes? Tell me, whose is the winning hand?”

 

Mr. Wright shakes his head. “It's not the cards that concern me in that picture. Your Honor, take a look at the winning side of the board. You see that smear of blood on the edge of the table?”

 

“Why, yes I do!” the judge says.

 

“DNA testing confirmed that it's the defendant's blood, drawn when he hit his head on the table after being pushed by the victim. You'll notice that the victim's body was found next to that chair, which is why the prosecution asserted that my client lost.”

 

“What are you suggesting, then, Mr. Wright?”

 

“My client had the winning hand. The blood on the table proves that's where he was sitting.”

 

Payne voices an objection. “What difference does it make? The defendant still struck the victim!”

 

“The difference is intent. You have no evidence to prove my client attacked Smith for no reason.” Mr. Wright turns his attention to the judge. “The defense asserts that Mr. Justice was provoked. My client is not someone who lashes out unless frightened. In fact, I'd like to call a character witness.”

 

“Mr. Payne, do you have any objections?” the judge asks.

 

“Very well, Mr. Wright. Who is this ‘witness’?” Payne sneers.

 

“The defense would like to summon the defendant's boss, Kristoph Gavin, to the stand!” Mr. Wright shouts with a dramatic point. The gallery erupts in confused murmurs. Apollo's ears start ringing; Trucy squeezes his hand to ground him, but Apollo spends the next few minutes dissociating anyway, as plans are made and a recess is called to subpoena Mr. Gavin as a witness.

 

“Apollo? You doing okay?” Nick asks. The courtroom has largely emptied during the recess; Trucy is nowhere to be seen either. Apollo doesn't remember her leaving.

 

He forces himself to nod. “Sorry. I spaced out.”

 

Nick tilts his head sympathetically. “I know. I need you to try and hang in there for me, okay? This is the hard part now.”

 

“It's not going to work,” Apollo whispers. “He's not going to stand up for me.”

 

Nick shakes his head. “I know it hurts to hear, but I don't need him to vouch for you. I just need him to prove he was there.”

 

“What if he doesn't let anything slip? What if—”

 

“Apollo.” Nick lays a hand on his shoulder. “You have to trust me, okay? I'm probably going to need you to testify at some point. You think you can do that for me?”

 

Apollo gulps. “What do I say?”

 

“You tell the truth, and you answer honestly. I'm not going to ask you to lie.”

 

“Even if it means revealing Shadi's identity?”

 

“Yes, even then. Odds are we'll have to anyway, to connect Gavin to the case.”

 

Apollo nods. “Okay,” he says weakly. “Okay. I'll try to keep it together.”

 

Nick squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you.”

 

Trucy comes back shortly before the recess is up with some water for Apollo, which he sips at slowly while the courtroom refills with muttering onlookers. Apollo scans the gallery for Clay and eventually spots him across the room; Clay gives him a thumbs up and an encouraging smile, which dispels some of the gloom from Apollo's mind.

 

He takes a deep breath, squeezes Trucy's hand, and steels himself for what's to come.

“Name and occupation, witness.”

 

“Kristoph Gavin. Defense attorney. Please, make this quick; I left my dear baby brother's hospital room for this.”

 

Mr. Wright steps out from behind the bench. “Mr. Gavin,” he begins, “please tell the court how you know the defendant.”

 

Mr. Gavin smiles evenly. “Mr. Justice is my apprentice, and the junior partner at my firm.”

 

“Thank you. Could you please testify to the court about the events the night of the incident as you recall them?”

 

“Certainly. I drove Mr. Justice to the Borscht Bowl Club to meet with a new client. I let him out of the car a block away, and then I left.”

 

“A block away? Why?”

 

“That place is rather shady. I didn't want anyone unsavory to catch a glimpse of myself or my expensive car.”

 

Mr. Wright raises his eyebrows; Apollo can't tell if the disdain dripping from his next question is coming from his lawyer brain or his protectiveness of Apollo. “You were concerned about your car, but not your apprentice's well-being, as you left him in a seedy bar alone?”

 

“Objection!” Payne crows. “That's a leading question, Your Honor.”

 

“Sustained,” the judge agrees. “Mr. Wright, please keep your questions relevant to the matter of the defendant's actions that night.”

 

“Understood, Your Honor,” Mr. Wright says with a tight smile. Not the lawyer brain, then—that was pure Nick. Trucy squeezes his hand; she knows it too.

 

Mr. Wright shifts gears. “Mr. Gavin,” he asks, “please continue. Did the defendant contact you again that night?”

 

“No, he did not.”

 

“I see. When was it that you received word of what happened?”

 

“I received an email from Mr. Justice the following morning. He informed me that he had been arrested in connection with Mr. Smith's death but ultimately released.” Mr. Gavin's eyes meet Apollo's, stone cold. “I did not realize he was actually charged with assault.”

 

Apollo tries not to shrink back in his seat. Trucy squeezes his hand again, and he forces himself to breathe.

 

“And did my client return to work the following day?”

 

“No. He took some time off to recover from a concussion he sustained that night.”

 

“Interesting. Your Honor, the defense would like to point out what the witness just said. My client sustained a head injury during the incident—this was not a one-sided act of violence. As the defense asserted before the recess, the defendant did not lash out unprovoked.”

 

“Objection! The defendant stated quite clearly in his police statement that he was knocked out. How could he have acted in response to that?” Payne asks.

 

“Objection,” Mr. Wright fires back. “There is no reason to believe that was the only hit my client sustained. The order doesn't matter; only that my client had reason to fear for his own well-being. On that note, Mr. Gavin: Please testify to the court about your apprentice's behavior. What type of person would you say he is?”

 

“Mr. Justice is very intelligent and a capable apprentice. I certainly look forward to his first lead case,” Mr. Gavin says, and Apollo is pretty sure it isn't a lie, though his vision isn't the best right now.

 

“Were you shocked when you heard about what happened?”

 

“Oh, I was extremely disappointed,” Mr. Gavin laments, and oh , there's the lie. Trucy taps her foot twice on the floor; she sees it too. Mr. Wright's eyes flick over to her for the briefest second.

 

“How so?” he asks Gavin.

 

“As I said, Mr. Justice is a capable young man. Violence is absolutely unbefitting of a professional. But I can't say I was terribly surprised.”

 

Apollo's heart skips a beat. Trucy taps out counts on the back of his hand for him to breathe with.

 

“Please testify to the court about that.”

 

“Apollo can tell you.” Mr. Gavin's eyes slide over to Apollo, his smile tight and face pinched in the corners. “I don't want to air his personal information, but he has a history of erratic behavior and mental health issues. Isn't that right, Mr. Justice?”

 

“Mr. Gavin!” the judge exclaims. “P-Please refrain from speaking directly to the defendant.”

 

“My apologies, Your Honor. I got carried away. I simply care for his well-being.”

 

Apollo's vision is swimming, but Trucy taps her foot again. Another lie. Apollo's breath catches; Mr. Gavin homes in on that like a shark.

 

“Your Honor, I believe I've upset him. I must apologize again. He is very easily wound up, you see.”

 

“Your Honor,” Mr. Wright cuts in sharply. “My client's mental health is of no concern to this court. The witness is being hostile.”

 

“Mr. Wright, this your witness,” the judge points out.

 

“Now, I don't mean to imply that Mr. Justice is a bad person,” Mr. Gavin insists. “He simply… has a history of such behavior. Apollo, this is not your first fistfight, is it not?”

 

“How do you know that?” Apollo asks, too loudly.

 

“Prosecutor Payne,” Mr. Gavin says, entirely ignoring Apollo, “I don't mean to accuse my apprentice of anything, but is it not entirely possible that he, in his state of rage at having lost a game, accidentally dealt a blow that ended in the victim's death?”

 

The courtroom erupts into hushed chaos again until the judge bangs his gavel and calls for order.

 

“Mr. Gavin! You are here as a character witness for the defendant!” he exclaims.

 

“I am simply telling the truth, Your Honor. That is Apollo's character: a truly bright but tragically unstable young man.”

 

“Objection!” Mr. Wright shouts. “The witness is making unfair assumptions based on his understanding of my client's mental health history. The defendant has never been arrested or charged with any crime prior to the incident. We have no reason to believe this is a pattern of violent behavior.”

 

“Objection! The prosecution is prepared to subpoena the defendant’s medical records if necessary,” Payne squawks.

 

Apollo squeezes Trucy's hand for dear life. His chest constricts, arms tingling, breathing raggedly enough that the courtroom turns its eyes on him.

 

“Mr. Justice, are you quite alright?” the judge asks.

 

“I'd like to ask the witness another question,” Mr. Wright jumps back in. “Mr. Gavin. You said something interesting a minute ago. I believe it was, what, that the defendant lost the game? How did you know that?”

 

Mr. Gavin's face twitches. “The evidence. Besides, he told me.”

 

“That's funny, because my client maintains that he won. And we went over that evidence in the beginning of the trial—while you weren't here, visiting your brother in the hospital.” Mr. Wright takes a step toward the witness stand; Apollo realizes only as it's happening that he's trying to block Gavin's view of Apollo, like a human shield.

 

“Well—how else would I know such a thing?”

 

“I can think of one reason.” Mr. Wright tilts his head. “You were there.”

 

Confusion ripples through the courtroom. Mr. Wright steps back and addresses the room at large; arms spread wide, he has the gallery in the palm of his hand, like a true performer. Apollo watches awestruck as Phoenix Wright plays his hand expertly, one final gamble for Apollo's life.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I'd like to return your attention to something I pointed out at the start of this trial. Your Honor, if you would take another look at the photo again, you'll see the discrepancy I noted earlier. Now, if you'll take a look at the next slide—this is a diagram of luminol testing results at the crime scene. Note the drops of blood on the far side of the table, where my client would have been sitting. The source of those droplets—the blood smear from my client's wound—is on the other side, where the winning hand is.”

 

“Where are you going with this, Mr. Wright?” the judge asks.

 

Mr. Wright stands tall. “The defense posits that someone—a third party, and Mr. Smith's killer—turned the table around at the crime scene to make it appear as though my client lost, to fabricate a stronger motive for the assault and to pin the murder on my client.”

 

Through the resulting uproar, Mr. Wright continues, “The LAPD correctly concluded that my client, since he was unconscious at the time of death, could not have dealt the killing blow. But someone else must have! And that someone tried to frame my client for the deed!”

 

“Objection!” Payne shouts over the din. “The bar staff saw no one else go downstairs that night. There's no way a third party could have—”

 

“That's where you're wrong, Mr. Payne! The Hydeout used to be a speakeasy run by the mob. A secret passage was found behind the cabinetry along the far wall, and it had been used recently! A third party could have entered the room, seen the results of the game and altered the scene accordingly, and killed the victim without being noticed!”

 

“Mr. Wright, are you saying…?”

 

“Yes, Your Honor. The defense would like to formally indict the witness, Kristoph Gavin, for the murder of Mr. Shadi Smith—or, should I say, Mr. Shadi Enigmar , AKA Zak Gramarye, your former client!”

 

Mr. Gavin leaps to his feet. “WHAT?” he shouts.

 

With Apollo too panicked to testify, Mr. Wright takes matters into his own hands, and ups the ante: “The defense can prove his identity. After all, he's my client's stepfather.”

 

“And the defendant is your adopted child!” Gavin shoots back.

 

There's the confirmation that Gavin's always known exactly who Apollo was—as if they needed it.

 

Mr. Wright just shrugs. “And? If anything, that just supports my evaluation of his behavior.”

 

“Y-You have no proof!” Gavin spits. “No proof that it was me! So what if Enigmar was my client, that's not a motive!”

 

“Actually, if the court will think back to seven years ago, the victim, Mr. Enigmar, vanished after standing trial for the murder of his mentor, Magnifi Gramarye. The defense in that case was yours truly—before that, however, the case belonged to you, Kristoph Gavin. But you were snubbed by him at the last minute, and robbed of the chance of winning a high profile case against your brother. Correct?”

 

“Objection! How is this relevant?” Payne yells.

 

“Denied,” the judge says, rapt. “Mr. Wright, continue.”

 

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

 

“You have no proof!” Gavin barks again. Apollo flinches, hard. His ribs smart with phantom pains even as Trucy soothingly strokes his hand with her thumb.

 

“OBJECTION!”

 

The courtroom doors fly open as the shout echoes through the rafters, snapping even Apollo out of his panicked spiraling. All heads in the room swivel toward the doorway; there, silhouetted in the too-harsh lobby lights, chest heaving with exertion and hair falling out of a hastily tied bun, stands Klavier Gavin, glowing in the light like something out of a movie. His left arm is in a sling and the right is carrying a plastic bag.

 

“Gavin!” Ema shouts from her place in the gallery, already on her feet.

 

“P-Prosecutor Gavin, what is the meaning of this?!” the judge balks.

 

“Forgive me, Your Honor,” Klavier says. He turns his attention to his brother, sauntering down the aisle toward the bench. “Sorry I'm late, dear brother. I thought someone should go feed your precious Vongole since you were at my side all night, so I went to your house. You won't believe what I found her digging up in the backyard!”

 

Mr. Gavin pales. Klavier reaches into the bag and pulls out a glass bottle from the Borscht Bowl Club—with a splatter of blood on the end of it. He holds it out by the neck, pointing it at his older brother.

 

“I think a simple DNA test would tell us this blood belongs to Mr. Smith—nein, Mr. Enigmar. No?”

 

“...I have no reason to want the man dead. It was to… defend my apprentice,” Kristoph hisses. Trucy taps her foot as though it were necessary.

 

“That's not true, Kristoph,” Klavier says softly. “You and I both know it, don't we?”

 

The courtroom falls so silent you could hear a pin drop. Apollo can hear his own blood in his ears. Then, Mr. Gavin snaps .

 

He lunges across the witness stand at Klavier, but is quickly restrained by a bailiff. “Klavier, you brat ,” he shouts, struggling. “Fine! You know, you really should have seen it!” He turns to Apollo, grinning and wide-eyed. “I heard the whole thing from behind the secret door. Your poor, poor mother. She's the reason for the whole thing, isn't she? Dead at whose hands, her own husband? Or her father's failed protégé?”

 

Trucy's hand goes clammy in Apollo's.

 

“When I heard him knock you out, I thought, here's my chance!” Kristoph continues, manic and desperate with his hair coming loose from its elegant, perfect twist. “And there he was, leaning over your sad, limp little body, checking your breathing like he felt remorse, like he actually cared for you! As though anyone ever has!” Kristoph laughs as the bailiff and another officer drag him out of the courtroom. “Little Apollo Justice, orphan son of a terrorist in some foreign backwater, abandoned and unwanted even by his own—”

 

The door slams shut behind the bailiff, plunging them into silence, but Kristoph's manic laughter echoes down the hall long after he's gone, and lingers in Apollo's mind well after that, too.

 

---

The assault charge is dropped, after that.

 

Klavier collapses in the lobby, and Ema drags him back to the hospital. Trucy is understandably quiet. Apollo is trying not to throw up. Nick is flipping through paperwork as he paces in circles like an older, wiser mirror of himself from seven years ago, waiting for Apollo to calm himself down.

 

“Nick?” he mumbles, standing up from the bench. Nick stops pacing and looks down at him. “How did he know all that? I-I never even told you about… you know…” You know, being raised by rebels in the mountains. Telling Nick he was raised overseas at all had been difficult. The specifics were something he was planning on taking to his grave.

 

“I don't know,” Nick says. “Does it matter now?”

 

Apollo shrugs. Then he asks, “You knew, didn't you? That he ordered the forgery.”

 

“We still don't know that,” Nick says.

 

“But it's true, isn't it? That's what Klavier was talking about.”

 

“...I think so, yeah,” Nick admits quietly. “That all but confirmed my suspicions.”

 

“So, you…”

 

“Yeah. Between the name and his fascination with you, and the Psyche-Locks, I suspected he was involved from the start,” Nick says. “I just… didn't have any proof.”

 

“So I really was just a pawn, then,” Apollo says lowly, fists forming at his sides. Trucy leaps to her feet behind him, sensing the mounting tension.

 

“No, no—” Nick tries to say, but Apollo's pain boils over into something more uncontrollable, like a self-fulfilled prophecy, and he lunges toward Nick.

 

“Polly, stop!” Trucy cries, throwing her arms around his middle and holding him back with all her strength. 

 

Apollo draws a fist back, and swings—only it doesn't collide with bone this time. His hand is stopped in midair by Nick's, casually wrapping a hand around Apollo's wrist. His grip is firm, but not tight. Heart racing, Apollo tries to break free, but Trucy's arms tighten around his waist.

 

“Okay, take a breath,” Nick says calmly, and that sends Apollo into the uncomfortable space between soothed and livid. He’s definitely panicking, and Nick knows it, and Apollo for some reason hates that Nick knows it.

 

“I hate you,” Apollo chokes out.

 

“Fine,” Nick says. “But you’re upsetting your sister.”

 

The guilt trip only makes Apollo strain harder to free his wrist. Nick doesn’t squeeze to hold him back, just holds his ground, thumb pressing gently against Apollo's pulse point.

 

“If you're waiting for me to hit you, I'm not going to,” he adds. “You know I never would.”

 

Apollo does know. Apollo knows he could do anything, he could punch Nick a thousand times, and Nick would never strike a single blow. There's nothing Apollo could do, ever would do, that would be bad enough to make Nick raise a hand to hurt him.

 

Apollo starts to cry. “I hate you,” he snaps again. “I knew you only kept me around to use me. This whole time, for seven years you've just been pretending to care about me so you could figure out the truth about that stupid forged document!”

 

“That's not true, bud.”

 

“Why, then? Was—was it the extra government check every month? Two kids means twice the stipend, right?”

 

Trucy's arms go slack around him at the same time that an unbelievable look of hurt flashes across Nick's face, before he carefully schools his expression into something vaguely neutral.

 

“It was never about money , Apollo.”

 

“Then why didn't you protect me?” Apollo shouts, finally breaking free of Trucy's hold. “I could've—I could've died ! A-And if Shadi had never found my info on Gavin's site, maybe Gavin never would've found him and he'd still be alive! ”

 

Nick's eyes harden. “Then tell me this, Apollo. If I threw you to the wolves, if I don’t care, then why did you call me for help instead of Gavin?”

 

Apollo tenses.

 

“Because you suspected something was wrong too, didn't you?” Nick lowers his voice. “I know I should have tried to keep you from him. But you wouldn't have listened. He sunk his claws in you so quickly it turns my stomach.”

 

“Shut up,” Apollo barks. His hands tingle where they hang, shaking, in front of his stomach. Slowly, movements carefully telegraphed, Nick reaches out and takes one hand in his own, rubbing feeling back into Apollo's palm with his thumb. Apollo hates the way it grounds him, the way Nick is able to so expertly navigate his outbursts after all this time.

 

“Polly,” Trucy says quietly at his side, leaning her weight into his like a rock. Her eyes are sad. “It's over now. We're all we have.”

 

A sob claws its way out of Apollo's aching chest. He doesn't even know why anymore: Relief? Anger? Grief? Confusion? Just pure overwhelm?

 

“Oh, kid…” Nick whispers.

 

“Don't,” Apollo croaks. “I'm finding Clay and going home.”

 

Apollo turns on his heel and marches away from the pair of them, vision blurry. Trucy calls out after him, but Nick must hold her back, because she doesn't follow.

 

Clay intercepts him in the hall, immediately drawing him into a warm hug.

 

“Apollo! There you are,” he says, rocking them back and forth. “I was looking all over for you.”

 

Apollo's skin prickles; he squirms so that Clay releases him from the hug, though he keeps a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Clay assures him with a frown. “It's over now, right? Did something else happen?”

 

Apollo shrugs. “I don't… I don't know. I think Nick was using me.”

 

Clay's brow furrows. “I don't think that's true.”

 

Deep down, as the feeling of overwhelming what the fuck finally starts to leave his nervous system, Apollo knows he's right. But it's too late for that now. God, he’s better than this. He’s supposed to be better than this. Maybe Mr. Gavin was right—unwanted and out of control, a danger to the people he loves.

 

“Clay,” he says weakly. “I think I just burnt a bridge.”

 

“I'm sure it'll be fine.” Clay looks around over Apollo's shoulder. “Do you want to go find him and we can talk?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “Can we go home?”

 

Clay's expression softens. “Yeah, of course. Let's hit the road.”

 

Clay steers him out of the building and piles him into the car. The road back home to their apartment is quiet until Apollo finally speaks.

 

“Thanks for coming today,” he mumbles. “I know it was hard to watch.”

 

“I'm just glad it's over.” A beat. “We don't have to talk about any of that unless you want to.”

 

“I don't,” Apollo says. “Not now.”

 

“Okay. That's fine.” Another beat. Then Clay sighs. “Today was the anniversary, you know. Of my mom's death.”

 

Mortification wells up in Apollo’s throat. “Oh my god. Oh, Clay. I forgot, I'm the worst friend in the world—”

 

Clay shakes his head and chuckles, a little sad. “It's okay. You've been a little preoccupied.”

 

“We can stop at the cemetery?”

 

“Nah, my dad and I are going tomorrow. Today's just gonna be you and me.”

 

“Clay…”

 

“Look, it's what I want, alright? Today sucks for both of us, so maybe I just wanna hang out with my best friend. The one I bonded with over my mom.” Clay turns onto their street. “I just… wanted you to know.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo says quietly. “Do you wanna have another dumpling night? Ride the wave?”

 

Covertly, Clay swipes at his eyes. “Yeah, man. I'd like that.”

 

---

The nightmares come back with a vengeance.

 

They’ve taken on a new form, now. Sometimes they’re the same as ever; the drowning nightmare is probably never going to go away, even though it was more than fifteen years ago. But some nights Apollo dreams of himself killing Shadi—sometimes by accident and sometimes not—or of Kristoph killing him. The worst are the ones where his punch at Nick actually connected, and Nick hits the ground and doesn’t ever get back up.

 

Having a housemate who isn’t legally obligated to take care of him has taught Apollo to be a little quieter when he cries so he doesn’t wake Clay up at all hours of the night, but sometimes he just can’t fucking help it.

 

Apollo bolts upright gasping for air, chest heaving. He’s already in tears before he even realizes he’s awake. Stifling his cries in the collar of his shirt, Apollo stumbles out of bed and down the hall to the kitchen, hitting light switches as he goes. Clay’s a heavy sleeper thanks to all that astronaut training, so hopefully none of it wakes him.

 

There’s unwashed dishes still in the sink from yesterday; Apollo was supposed to do them, since he’s currently unemployed and thus home all day, but he couldn’t find the energy to do it, and then they started to pile up alongside Apollo’s laundry, and now all Apollo feels when he looks at the pile is guilt. Fueled by post-nightmare adrenaline, Apollo sets to work scrubbing off dried-on bits of food and grease with an almost manic intensity. His knuckles go white clenched around the sponge; the repetitive motion soothes his nerves, and the running water helps to drown out his anxious thoughts.

 

By the time Apollo is done, he’s managed to self-regulate enough that his breathing is back to normal. He should be proud of his ability to calm himself down, but any satisfaction is quickly replaced with the shame of his current situation.

 

He hasn’t spoken to Nick or Trucy in the few weeks since the trial. They’ve both called him; Nick stopped trying after he never answered. Trucy still hasn’t.

 

“Apollo? You okay?”

 

Apollo spins on his heel and sees Clay standing in the doorway, scrubbing his eyes. “Clay!” he yelps. “Did I wake you?”

 

“I got up to piss,” Clay mumbles sleepily. “And every fucking light was on. What’s up?” He frowns at the sink. “Were you doing dishes at four in the morning?”

 

Apollo flushes. “It calmed me down,” he murmurs.

 

“Another nightmare?” Clay sighs and pulls Apollo into a hug. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

“No,” Apollo says. “I don’t.”

 

Clay pauses. “Still. The dishes at four AM?”

 

Apollo huffs and pulls away from the hug. “It was bothering me that I said I’d do them and still hadn’t,” he admits.

 

“Well, I’m glad it calmed you down, but still… It could have waited.”

 

“No, it couldn’t,” Apollo insists, louder than he means to. He crosses his arms over his chest in a self-soothing motion. “It couldn’t. I can’t keep letting chores pile up after I say I’ll take care of it, just because I’m—I don’t know, a mess? You go to work every day and I just—I just sit here and feel sorry for myself.”

 

“...Is that what this is about?” Clay asks quietly. “Dude, it’s only been a few weeks. You had to put your boss in jail for—Apollo, I was there. I was at the trial, I know how messed up it was.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “It’s over. I should feel better now that it’s over, but I don’t.”

 

“It’s okay if you need more time. You’re home, you’re safe. We’re still good on rent for a couple months. It’s okay.”

 

“Then why don’t I feel safe?” Apollo sniffles.

 

Clay steps forward and takes him in his arms again. “Aw, dude. It’s gonna take time.”

 

Apollo curls his fist into the back of Clay’s shirt. “Maybe I should just give up on this stupid dream anyway.”

 

“Hey, hey, no. Absolutely not.” Clay holds him by the shoulders, staring firmly into his eyes. “We made a promise to each other, remember? That we’re both going to achieve our dreams.”

 

“B-But all I’ve done is make things worse,” Apollo blubbers.

 

“Nuh uh.” Clay shakes his head. “I knew you way back when. Do you even know how much I’ve watched you go through? Buddy, you’re probably the bravest person I know.”

 

Apollo shakes his head, eyes welling up with tears.

 

“Yes you are. Dude, when we met, you were still having trouble with English. You got into shouting matches with our teachers on the regular. You never wanted to tell me anything. Look at you now, yeah? A law degree, a family that loves and misses you—”

 

Apollo lets out a sob.

 

“—and don’t even tell me they don’t, because they do. Trucy keeps texting me. You’ve gotten so much better, Pollo, you really have. And even though you’ve had a crazy, terrifying few weeks, you’re still like, ‘let me make sure I do the dishes’ when most people would have crashed and burned a long time ago.”

 

“I feel like I’m just a massive crybaby now,” Apollo cries.

 

“So what? Be a crybaby, for all I care.” Clay drags him in for another hug. “Crying’s no crime. I don’t mind; if anything, I appreciate that you feel safe enough to cry.”

 

“I tried to punch Nick,” Apollo blurts out.

 

Clay’s hand stills on his back. He breaks the hug again to give him an unimpressed look. “That’s what happened after the trial? That’s it? Man, you’ve had much worse outbursts in front of him—”

 

“That wasn’t it.” Apollo drops his head on Clay’s shoulder. “I told him I hate him. And I accused him of trying to use me for his own gain o-or for money. And it freaked Trucy out and I know it did but I couldn’t control myself and I could have really hurt him—”

 

“Woah, woah, hey!” He doesn’t realize he’s been leaning his full weight into Clay until Clay is propping him back upright. His eyes scan Apollo’s face. “Dude. Do not let that guy get inside your head, alright? Don’t. You’re not some kind of monster, you know that.”

 

“He’s not the first person to say it,” Apollo mumbles. “They can’t all have been wrong.”

 

“Yes they can.” Clay gets a glint in his eye and a funny little smile on his face. “Trust me, I’m smarter than them. I study astrophysics.”

 

Apollo chokes out a weak laugh.

 

“Look, Apollo.” Clay pokes him in the forehead. “I’ve studied the moon and the stars and the way our planet moves and the way space goes on forever and ever and we’re just—we’re just so small and nothing we do really matters . I know all of that, I think about it every day, and still. Still, you matter to me. Because you’re my best friend, and I’m choosing to stick with you on purpose. And I’m not the only one. Do you get me?”

 

Teary-eyed, Apollo nods. He wraps Clay in a hug of his own. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I get you.”

 

Clay pats his back. “Let’s both go back to sleep, okay? You gonna call Nick in the morning?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then are you gonna text Trucy, at least?”

 

“...Maybe.”

 

Clay chuckles. “Good. Maybe she’ll stop texting me , then.”

 

Apollo snorts. His chest feels just a little bit lighter when he goes back to his room. The pile of dirty laundry mocks him from the corner; he mentally tells it to fuck off, feels a little silly for it, and collapses into bed, asleep.

---

In the morning, he texts Trucy: Hey , followed by, I’m not really ready to talk about it yet. But I’m safe, and I love you.

 

The reply is immediate: I love you too <3

 

A minute later, she adds, Daddy really misses you.

 

I know , Apollo sends back. Tell him I’m sorry.

Notes:

don't worry guys klavier's fine he just needed some goddamn morphine for that broken arm :)

Chapter 11: PART X

Summary:

“Can I come over?” Trucy asks.

“Right now? Uh, I guess so, but—”

“Good,” Trucy says, “because I’m outside your apartment.”

--
In which Apollo takes a series of phone calls.

Notes:

hey gang. another 10k for you.

EDIT: GoatVibesOnly made REALLY REALLY GOOD ART inspired by this chapter! go look at it!!!! https://www.tumblr.com/goatvibesonly/788457026928902144/i-dont-care-if-you-burden-me-the-thought-of-u

I’m not the person that I thought I was / I’m trying to come to terms with what you’ve done / In the fumes of your anguish / Oh, my blistering pride / I’m still burning like a tire fire deep down inside / Oh, I’m burning like a tire fire and I don’t know why / Was I born with a hole in my heart? / A fatal fault at the start? / Tell me it’s inevitable that I end up with scars

- The Crane Wives, “Scars”

 

The next time Trucy calls, Apollo actually picks up.

 

“Hi,” he says sheepishly.

 

“Hi,” Trucy says back, voice crackling over the line. God, he misses her.

 

Apollo flops down on his bed. “So, how’s school?” he asks.

 

“Shut up,” Trucy snaps. “You avoid me for weeks and the first thing you say is how’s school?”

 

“I’m sorry.” Apollo winces. “I don’t know where to even start. I’m sorry I blew up at Nick.”

 

Trucy huffs, “That’s not even the part that matters, Polly. He’s fine, we’re both fine.”

 

Apollo is quiet for a moment.

 

“Can I come over?” Trucy asks.

 

“Right now? Uh, I guess so, but—”

 

“Good,” Trucy says, “because I’m outside your apartment.”

 

Apollo scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of dirty clothes next to his bed. “Wha—Trucy!”

 

“What? Your place is on my way home from school.”

 

Apollo sighs. “You can’t just show up without warning! I told you I wasn’t ready to—”

 

“Well, I’m here now, so are you going to let me in or what?”

 

“Jesus, fine. I’ll be right down. You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

 

Trucy blows a raspberry into the phone and hangs up.

 

Apollo hurries downstairs to let her in. The moment he opens the door, he has his arms full of teenage girl, nearly knocking him backward into the hall. Her hair tickles his chin as she squeezes him around his waist hard enough to crush his vital organs.

 

“Good grief, Trucy!” he wheezes, stumbling to counteract her weight. “I’ve missed you too, but can you let me shut the door first?”

 

Reluctantly, Trucy releases him and runs up the stairs to his apartment ahead of him.

 

“Hey—Truce!” he calls up after her. She ignores him, barreling through his front door without him. When he catches up, Trucy is already in the kitchen inspecting the contents of his pantry. She’s moving on to the fridge by the time he stops her, hands on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

 

Trucy frowns, serious. “I’m making sure you’re not rotting away in here,” she says tersely. “You… felt scrawnier when I hugged you.”

 

Apollo’s shoulders droop. “Oh, Truce. That’s not your job.”

 

“Isn’t it? Will anyone else do it if I don’t?”

 

“If it’s anyone’s job, it’s Clay’s, given that he lives with me, and I promise he’s keeping an eye on me.”

 

That seems to do little to wipe the frustration from Trucy’s face. Her hands tremble in small fists at her sides, white-knuckled; that’s when it hits Apollo.

 

“You’re angry with me,” he says softly, bewildered.

 

“Of course I’m angry!” Trucy shouts, causing him to jump back. She barrels on, “I told you we’re all we have, and then immediately you go running off without me again !” She tips forward and buries her head in his shoulder. “You made a promise and you keep breaking it! I needed you, Apollo!”

 

“Oh, my god. Trucy, I’m sorry.” Apollo wraps his arms around her.

 

“You say that every single time.”

 

“And it’s true every time.” Apollo strokes her hair and scratches at her scalp. “I just… I don’t know. Kristoph did something to my head and it scares me.”

 

“I was right,” Trucy says. “You know, when I said your job was making you sick.”

 

“It wasn’t the job itself,” Apollo says quietly. “But yeah.”

 

It’s ironic, really; Kristoph spent a long time slowly reinforcing the idea that Apollo was sick and that his emotions were shameful and his behavior erratic and dangerous. He would begrudge Apollo for fidgeting, for spacing out, for being anxious and upset; he would react with disapproval and disgust at the very notion of Apollo taking his anxiety meds while on the clock, as if it were something he ought to hide.

 

All that did was drive Apollo deeper into a bubble of anxiety, paranoia, and isolation, until the murder made all of it boil over so badly that Apollo couldn’t control any of it anymore, and he really did get sick.

 

“So Clay is looking after you, then?” Trucy eventually asks sheepishly.

 

“He is,” Apollo assures her. “If nothing else, he makes sure I’m eating and taking care of myself. I promise I’m doing okay.”

 

Trucy nods. She pulls back and toys with her diamond-shaped earring in a nervous tic. “I couldn’t listen when Daddy told me to stop bothering you. I know you’re an adult and can do whatever you want and you were scared , but—”

 

“But it shouldn’t matter, right? I still left.” Apollo lets the silence linger. “You had a lot to process, too.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. “Do you wanna talk about it now?”

 

Trucy’s eyes well up, and she scrubs fiercely at them. “You said you weren’t ready to talk,” she mumbles.

 

“Maybe not about… everything,” Apollo concedes. “But for you, I can try.”

 

He sits Trucy at his tiny kitchen table and fixes a glass of orange juice for her and water for himself (anything else is off the menu, given the whole unemployment thing, which probably isn’t helping the scrawniness, come to think of it). Trucy eyes him strangely for this—she’s used to him and Clay buying her favorite ice cream to ply her with when she comes over—but he just shrugs, and she thankfully lets it slide without commenting on his budget.

 

“Polly,” she starts, hesitant, hands wrapped around her cup, “What did he mean by… ‘dead at whose hands’?”

 

Apollo’s heart drops like a deadweight into his stomach. His face must do something weird, because Trucy quickly backpedals.

 

“W-We don’t have to talk about that part,” she says hurriedly.

 

“You deserve to know,” Apollo admits. “But… I don’t know how he even knew that. Shadi never would have let something like that slip.” Apollo swallows thickly, a hand coming up to rub absently at a phantom pain in his side, where the bruised rib is finally healed. “Except for that night, to me. God, how long has he been lurking over my shoulder, listening—”

 

“Apollo! Apollo, stop, look at me.”

 

Apollo looks up at Trucy. She’s set aside her glass and is leaning across the table towards him.

 

“It’s okay,” she says, holding his gaze. “It’s over. You’re safe. Okay?”

 

After a beat, Apollo manages a shaky nod before forcing down a sip of water. Trucy leans back in her seat, somber.

 

“So whatever it was, it’s true then, yeah?” she asks, and it hurts Apollo’s heart just how much she’s growing up—how much she’s had to grow up just in the last few weeks alone, without him.

 

“Yeah,” Apollo admits weakly. “Yeah, it is. I just—I never told you because you were only five, a-and it was an accident, and ever since then…” Apollo sucks in a shaky breath. “Ever since then, whenever I think about it my mind just freezes.”

 

“...If what I’m imagining is true, it would explain quite a lot,” Trucy says.

 

Apollo nods, trying to subtly shake the tingling feeling out of his hands. He’s not being subtle enough, though, because Trucy offers him a hand palm-up on the table. He takes it, and gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

 

“Does Daddy know?” she asks.

 

“I told him,” Apollo concedes. “Weeks ago. The night he brought me home from the police station.”

 

“The night of the murder,” Trucy clarifies.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So it’s related.”

 

Apollo winces. “Well… no. It’s related to the… other murder.”

 

Trucy raises her eyebrows. “Granddaddy’s?” she blinks at him, and then her eyes go wide. “The blackmail. I remember now, in that trial. At the time, I didn’t know what the word meant.”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

“You knew, then? What it was about?”

 

“I pieced it together,” Apollo says, omitting the part where he definitely knew from the beginning but couldn’t get the words from his brain to his mouth until Shadi forced it out. “Eventually.”

 

Trucy goes quiet. She leans back in her chair, and her hand slides out of Apollo’s and down to her lap, limp. He remembers her the day it all went crumbling down around them, too optimistic and carefree for the circumstances, always bubbly and smiling as adults around her (Shadi, Kristoph) attempted to use her like a pawn, to varied success. But if Apollo thinks back on it hard enough, brings the memory into clearer focus, he can recall the way she forced a smile on her face as he woke up in the lobby, the way she spent all those nights in the children’s home without him and never made a fuss, even though she’d never been forced apart from him before. She was brave and kind and always smiling—for his sake. Because Apollo was the one crying and throwing tantrums and being physically abused for it.

 

You don’t scare me. I get scared because I can’t make you better.

 

Apollo is reminded of something Zak used to say: A true entertainer always keeps a smile on their face. Good stage magic is always about misdirection—making your audience see something that isn't there, so they don't notice what is.

 

How long has this been haunting her the same way it’s haunted him—and she’s just taught herself to be quiet about it? How long has he been falling for it?

 

“Do you remember that trick they used to do?” he blurts out. “The one with the two guns?”

 

Trucy scrunches her eyebrows together. “...No?”

 

“With Mom,” he chokes out. “Zak, and Valant, and Mom. You were little, so—”

 

“Polly, stop,” Trucy insists. “Don’t force yourself to talk about this.”

 

“She was your mom, too!” Apollo shouts, and Trucy jumps—not with fright, but with shock. “It’s… It’s your family. Maybe more than it ever was really mine, considering.”

 

“Polly—”

 

“Don’t. It’s true. You… you deserve to know what happened. Why any of this happened to us.”

 

Trucy goes quiet. Her face looks simultaneously too young and too old for her age, awash in the dwindling orange glow of sunlight coming in through the kitchen window.

 

“The trick w-went wrong,” Apollo manages. “And Magnifi used that as blackmail for the next three years. That’s why they always did whatever he said.”

 

“But why ask them to…?” Trucy trails off.

 

“I don’t know, Truce. Because he was crazy. Is that harsh?”

 

Trucy blinks at him. She, of course, only remembers Magnifi as benevolent. Stern, maybe, but Magnifi did always like Trucy. How couldn’t he?

 

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

 

Trucy shakes her head. “No, I… I think I’ve pieced things together now.”

 

It’s Apollo’s turn to reach for her hand. “It… was an accident, Trucy. And with Magnifi… I don’t think either of them did it. I know Zak didn’t.”

 

“And Uncle Valant?” Trucy asks.

 

“I still don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. And unless you know where Valant’s been the past few years, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.”

 

Trucy says nothing.

 

“Your dad wasn’t a bad person, Trucy.”

 

“I’ll decide that,” Trucy says firmly. “He hit you, Polly. You don’t have to answer, but… did he ever do that before?”

 

Apollo’s heart hammers in his chest. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, breathes through the surge of anxiety, and says, “No, he didn’t. That was the only time.”

 

It’s another half a beat before Trucy says, “Well, that wasn’t a lie, but you’re obviously not telling me the whole truth, either.” She sighs and squeezes Apollo’s hand. Her voice goes soft, empathetic, almost knowing. “I won’t make you.”

 

“...And you?” Apollo asks reluctantly, almost afraid of the answer.

 

“No,” Trucy says with a sad smile. “No one ever did.”

 

Apollo’s bracelet remains loose as ever on his wrist. The relief, the confirmation that nothing ever happened to his baby sister under his nose, is so overwhelming he could cry.

 

“...Come here,” he whispers, holding out his arm. Trucy stands and doesn’t leap right into his arms like she normally would, but instead wraps her arms gently around Apollo and hooks her chin over his shoulder. Apollo breathes a sigh and runs his fingers through her curls, the other hand patting her on the back.

 

“Trucy,” he says into her hair, “if Nick ever did anything to hurt you, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Why would he do that?” Trucy asks.

 

“I’m not saying he ever would,” Apollo is quick to assure her. “Just… if he did, or if anyone did, please promise you’ll come to me right away.”

 

Trucy snorts and gives him a squeeze. “You sound just like Uncle Miles,” she giggles. “He said the same thing to me years ago.”

 

“Trucy, please. Promise me?”

 

Slowly, Trucy pulls back from the hug. She frowns and says, “I promise.” Her brow furrows. “Polly, no one’s ever hurt me.”

 

“I know,” Apollo says quickly, tugging her close again. “Good. Good. ”

 

“Polly.” Trucy’s tone slips into something more serious. “Apollo.”

 

“What?” Apollo asks innocently.

 

“I’m smarter than you think I am. And I’m just as perceptive as you are.”

 

Apollo tenses. “You said you wouldn’t force it,” he mumbles.

 

“And I won’t,” Trucy says softly. “But I’m putting pieces together that I think you’d rather I didn’t right now.”

 

“I’m not ready,” Apollo says.

 

“I know.” She pats him between the shoulderblades, knocking their heads together. “But I’m here.”

 

“I left you,” Apollo reminds her. “Again.”

 

Trucy pats harder. “Yeah, and I’m still mad. But you were in a bad situation. You weren’t thinking.”

 

“Does it matter?” Apollo counters. “I still left you. It was still a choice.”

 

“Then it’s my choice to forgive you,” Trucy intones. “So shut up. Love you, dummy.”

 

“I love you too,” Apollo says, and it’s easier than breathing.

 

---

It’s maybe a week later that Apollo receives a phone call from Mr. Edgeworth. He’s curled up on his couch under a blanket with the TV on—not quite rotting, for once, just resting. He actually folded his laundry right after taking it out of the dryer this morning, a feat so monumental he had to text Clay about it. Clay texted back so many celebratory emojis that it nearly crashed Apollo’s phone, and now Apollo is rewarding himself with rest.

 

He’s been trying to take care of himself, really, really trying. Seeing how much he worried Trucy spurred him to begin dragging himself out of this depressive funk with all his might, no matter how much Clay keeps assuring him he can take his time.

 

(“You’re my roommate, not my caretaker. I don’t want you worrying about me so much,” he tells Clay one night, his legs draped over Clay’s lap while he plays a game. Clay’s face falls just slightly as his character takes a nosedive off the map.

 

“I worry because you’re my best friend,” Clay says a little sadly. “You’re the most important person in my life, and—and I’m sorry if that’s awkward or too weird—”

 

“It’s not weird,” Apollo assures him, kicking his knee with a socked foot. “I just feel bad.”

 

“I just love you, Pollo, okay? And maybe it’s not—maybe someone else could love you, like, the real way, but—”

 

“Clay, stop. Pause your game.”

 

Clay obliges, uncharacteristically shifty-eyed, avoiding Apollo’s gaze.

 

“Look at me, shithead,” Apollo huffs, and Clay finally meets his eyes again. “You are my best friend and I trust you with my life. I don’t wake up every day chomping at the bit to replace that with something more ‘real’. It’s plenty real to me. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

 

Clay winces. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

 

Apollo breathes out through his mouth to calm his indignation. “You didn’t make me angry. I just—I don’t want you to think I’m pushing back because I think there’s something bad about the way you love me. I just don’t want to burden you with—”

 

“I don’t care if you burden me. The thought of you pushing yourself super hard and beating yourself up because you’re struggling is, like, repulsive to me.” Clay shakes Apollo’s ankle. “Take your time , Pollo. I’m not gonna get fed up that easily.”

 

“And if I want to fight it harder?

 

“Then I’m here to help you.” Clay smiles bright. “And I’m here to make sure you rest. ”)

 

All that to say, Apollo's feeling a little okay. Not great, maybe not even good, but better. So he pauses his TV show and accepts Edgeworth’s call.

 

“Apollo,” Edgeworth says evenly. “I hope I’m not interrupting your morning.”

 

Apollo pulls his throw blanket tighter around himself. “I don’t really have much going on these days for you to interrupt.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth hums. “Are you feeling any better?”

 

“Yeah, kind of. Let me guess, Trucy talked to you?”

 

“I had my own suspicions that you may be struggling after the trial,” Mr. Edgeworth says with rye amusement. “But I did speak with her, yes. I was waiting until you smoothed things over with her before I began pestering you.”

 

“So you called to pester me?”

 

“Apollo.” Mr. Edgeworth’s voice slips into something more authoritative, less amused. “I was worried. Trucy has called me repeatedly having meltdowns over the fact that you and Wright aren’t speaking.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo says in a small voice. He tries not to imagine poor Trucy, panicked and crying into the phone at all hours, but fails. His heart hurts.

 

Mr. Edgeworth sighs. “My apologies. I did not call to make you feel guilty. I called to check on you, as Trucy told me the two of you are back on speaking terms.”

 

“I was never upset with Trucy,” Apollo is quick to say. “Only with Nick.”

 

“I know, and you have every right to be angry with him. And with me.”

 

“You knew?” Apollo asks.

 

He imagines that Edgeworth nods here, though he can’t see it over the phone.

 

“Yes, I did,” Mr. Edgeworth says softly, guiltily. “I shared Wright’s suspicions. However, neither of us suspected things would take such a violent turn. So for that, I… am incredibly sorry, Apollo.”

 

“Don’t be,” Apollo says tiredly. “I was really mean to him in return, so—”

 

“I know,” Mr. Edgeworth interrupts. “I know what happened. He is not angry with you.”

 

“He’s not?”

 

“He’s worried, Apollo. We all are.” A beat passes. Then he asks, “Do you remember the conversation we had in my office in LA, after you turned sixteen? You asked me about emancipation.”

 

“I remember,” Apollo says. That was the same night that Nick asked him to stay—the night he promised to keep him, to make space for him. Apollo’s been doing a poor job of keeping up his end of the deal.

 

“I told you that there is no one who wants to keep you and Trucy together more than Wright and I do. I promised you that he would never give up on you. That hasn’t changed. Do you recall what you told me?”

 

Apollo does, but he tells Mr. Edgeworth he doesn’t, just to hear him say it. And he does, voice soft.

 

“You told me it would be easier to leave, because no one has ever stayed.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo murmurs.

 

“I won’t claim to know where such fears originate. I have reason to speculate, but it isn’t my business,” Mr. Edgeworth says. “But please, don’t keep running because you think it will hurt less.”

 

“Because all it’s doing is hurting everyone else?”

 

“Well… Yes, but I didn’t mean it that way.” Mr. Edgeworth breathes deeply on the other end. “The things that have happened to you, Apollo, you have to live with them. You cannot outrun your own pain. Trust me, I… I have tried. All it does is cause more of it.”

 

Apollo’s shoulders deflate like balloons. His fingers, itching for something to fidget with, twist in his blanket. “Mr. Edgeworth…”

 

“Please, we’re both adults now,” Mr. Edgeworth says, voice a little shaky. “You can call me Miles, you know.”

 

Apollo giggles despite himself. “Nick barely even does that and he’s known you for years.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth chuckles. “That’s true. But… please. If I’ve overstepped in some fashion, I—”

 

“No, no, you haven’t,” Apollo is quick to assure him. “I… I’m not ready to talk to Nick, yet, but you’ve given me a lot to think on. It helps.”

 

“Then I’m very glad. And I’m very glad you picked up the phone. I’ve been worried about you. I fear perhaps I should have flown in as soon as I heard—”

 

“No, it would have been suspicious.”

 

“Ah, I suppose you’re correct. Forgive me, I’m just…” Mr. Edgeworth trails off.

 

Apollo decides if he’s allowed to be on a first name basis with the man, he’s probably allowed to tease him: “You just miss us?”

 

To his relief (or perhaps disappointment), Edgeworth doesn’t even miss a beat. He just chuckles again. “Perhaps. I just worry. It’s incurable, really.” He pauses. “Please take care of yourself, Apollo. If there is anything you need, I am here. I won’t tell Wright we had this chat, else he’ll become incorrigible.”

 

“Thanks…” Apollo takes a pause, testing the name out on his tongue. It doesn’t quite feel right, so what comes out instead is “... Thank you, Mr. E.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth makes an involuntary noise somewhere between a small gasp and a hum, and his next words are watery, delivered in a soft, grateful tone:

 

“You’re very welcome, Apollo.”

 

---

June arrives with its long light and hot summer days, and Apollo starts to feel a little more like a person instead of a terrified, exhausted husk. He and Trucy speak regularly, even if he still refuses to come visit or speak to Nick.

 

It’s not even anger, at this point. Now he’s just ashamed.

 

It’s been a little while since Clay has had to talk Apollo through a nightmare or a panic attack, and they spend more evenings just hanging out like they used to than they do keeping Apollo afloat.

 

Tonight is one such night: They’re playing Mario Kart on their tiny TV, both of them losing. Apollo’s phone starts ringing around half past nine, and Trucy’s smiling face lights up his screen. Absently, Apollo pauses the game and picks up the call.

 

“Hi Truce,” he says.

 

The sound of crying greets him on the other end, and Clay frowns like he’s heard it too. A pit forms in Apollo’s stomach, and he immediately finds himself mentally reaching for any strategy at all to ground himself.

 

“Trucy? What’s wrong?” he asks.

 

Trucy sniffles wetly. “Polly,” she blubbers, “I need you to come home.”

 

Apollo sits up. “What happened?”

 

“Daddy got hit by a car,” Trucy says weakly, like it pains her to even say it.

 

“ WHAT? ” Apollo yelps.

 

“Please don’t yell, Polly,” Trucy whimpers.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Apollo forces himself to take a deep breath. Clay’s hand finds his and squeezes. “It just shocked me. Is he okay? Where are you?”

 

“I-I’m at home. Daddy’s in the emergency room. W-We were on the phone and I heard a crash so I-I called 911 and told them,” Trucy explains.

 

“Good job. Good.” Apollo hears Trucy’s breath hitch. “Hey. Trucy, it’s gonna be okay. Stay in the house, okay? I’ll come.”

 

Trucy sobs, “I’m sorry, I wanted to call Uncle Miles but he’s in Germany a-and—”

 

“Hey,” Apollo cuts in gently. “It’s okay. You can always call me for help. Always. I’m your older brother. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

 

Trucy sucks in ragged breaths, crackling through the phone. Her voice is clearer when she pleads, “Polly, I really need you.”

 

“I know, I know.” Apollo looks up; Clay is already putting on his shoes. “Clay and I are gonna drive over right now. Can you hang tight until I get there?”

 

“I think so,” Trucy squeaks.

 

“Good.” Apollo leaps to his feet and scrambles to the front door to jam his feet into his sneakers. Clay is shutting off the TV and turning off the lights. “I won’t be long, I promise. I love you, Trucy. It’ll be okay.”

 

“I know,” Trucy sniffles. “I love you too.”

 

Apollo hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket with shaky fingers. “Clay, let’s go,” he says sharply.

 

Clay follows him out the door, keys jingling in his hand. “Pollo, are you gonna be okay?” he asks.

 

“Once I know Trucy’s alright, I’ll feel better,” Apollo insists. “The thought of her panicking by herself makes me panic.”

 

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ve got you.”

When they reach the Wrights’ apartment, Apollo takes the stairs two at a time and unlocks the door with numb fingers. Clay follows behind him, watching him like a sentinel. Somehow, his presence helps keep Apollo’s anxiety disorder from running through an awful loop of what-ifs.

 

It’s been a couple of months since Apollo’s been home—not since the trial—but the house looks the same as it always has, with unwashed dishes in the sink and Trucy’s magic props strewn about. Her shoes are tumbled over in a scattered mess next to the door instead of lined up nicely, like she kicked them off in a hurry.

 

Apollo finds her in Nick’s room, stuffing things into a backpack seemingly at random. She’s rummaging through his sock drawer when she notices him, and quickly scrubs her tears away.

 

“Polly,” she says, “I’m freaking out.”

 

“Okay, hey, come here,” Apollo whispers, stepping forward and giving her a hug. “Deep breaths. Did you get directions to the hospital?”

 

Trucy nods.

 

“Good.” Apollo pats her on the shoulder and scans the room. “What’s going on here, huh?”

 

With a sniffle, Trucy says, “While I was waiting I thought maybe I should pack a bag of things for Daddy. I know he doesn’t like hospitals.” She chokes on her next words. “B-But I don’t know how hurt he is, or what he needs, or—”

 

Apollo rubs up and down between her shoulderblades. “Shh, it’s okay. Let’s think.” He leans his head toward the doorway. “Hey, Clay?”

 

Moments later, Clay pokes his head into the room. When he sees Trucy’s crying, he flashes her a big smile. “Hey, short stuff!” he says. “What’s the trouble?”

 

“Trucy wants to pack a bag to bring to Nick, and my brain’s running in circles. Any ideas?” Apollo asks, sending him a meaningful look over Trucy’s shoulder.

 

Clay picks up on his request and leans casually against the doorframe, immediately calm as though Nick is fine and just spending the night in the office. “Well, first thing’s first, any medications he takes. A change of clothes, especially clean underwear and socks—something comfy. Basic toiletries, like a toothbrush and comb. Phone cable, for sure. Hospitals are boring. Does he read?”

 

“No,” Trucy and Apollo both say in unison, which makes Clay snort. Mia Fey's old law texts have been gathering dust for years.

 

“Okay,” he laughs. “Uhh, what else… Oh! A snack. Hospital food sucks.”

 

Trucy nods very seriously. Over the course of Clay speaking, she’s pulled back from the hug and slowly stopped crying.

 

Apollo squeezes her shoulders and says, “There we go. Anything else you can think of?”

 

Trucy shakes her head. “I’ll go get what I’m missing!” she says, and brushes past Clay in a whirlwind as she darts off toward the bathroom. As soon as she’s gone, Apollo heaves a sigh.

 

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

 

Clay shrugs. “It’s nothing. You doing okay?”

 

Apollo nods. “Yeah. Honestly, I think getting you to deescalate actually helped calm me down, too.”

 

Clay chuckles. “Happy to be of service. But if you need a minute to calm yourself down, let me know, okay?”

 

“Thanks. But I’m fine.” Apollo breathes another sigh. “I’m gonna help her. The sooner we get to the hospital and make sure Nick’s okay, the better.”

 

Once Trucy’s satisfied, Apollo locks up the apartment and the three of them pile into Clay’s car. Trucy directs them to the correct hospital, and she and Apollo head into the emergency department while Clay goes to look for parking.

 

Asking at the front desk gets them directed to another floor, where Nick's already been admitted to his own room. Apollo takes note of the location on the hospital map; they're decidedly NOT headed for the ICU, which lifts a massive weight from Apollo's chest. He texts Clay where to find them and takes Trucy upstairs.

 

The nurses’ directions lead them down a long, quiet hallway, lit by dimmed fluorescents and rife with the smell of disinfectant and get-well flowers.

 

Not begonias, Apollo hopes. Ugh . He shudders.

 

“Polly, you good?” Trucy asks, poking him in the arm.

 

“Huh? Yeah, sorry. Just smells too much like hospital in here.”

 

“They tend to,” Trucy says matter-of-factly. Apollo hip-checks her.

 

By the time they reach Nick's room, Apollo can hear his voice floating down the hall, hoarse and deeper than usual but clearly alive and well. Trucy speeds up as they get closer until she's practically running into the nurse who's just trying to leave, but Apollo freezes on the other side of the door, against the wall.

 

“Daddy!” Trucy cries.

 

“There you are, sweetheart,” he hears Nick say. There's a muffled oof that sounds like Trucy colliding with his chest. “That's it, there's my girl. It's okay. I'm alright.”

 

“You scared me,” Trucy blubbers, and the cracks in her voice have Apollo curling in on himself, holding his arms.

 

Clay's making his way up the hall; he gives Apollo an unimpressed look.

 

“I'm sorry, babygirl,” Nick is saying in the other room. “I'm not hurt so bad. Just a broken arm and a sprained ankle, mostly.”

 

“That's ‘cuz Auntie Maya says you have a steel skull,” Trucy giggles.

 

“Yeah, and your Uncle Miles says it's hollow,” Nick intones. “The pair of them need to get new material, don't you think?”

 

Trucy giggles again. Clay has reached Apollo now, and is raising his eyebrows in an obvious question: What are you doing out here?

 

Apollo shrugs helplessly.

 

“How'd you make it here so quick?” Nick asks. “I was trying to find a way to reach you.”

 

“I called Polly, and he and Clay came to pick me up.”

 

“Apollo's here?” Nick asks, and is that hope in his voice?

 

Clay crosses his arms. Apollo pouts.

 

Trucy hums. “Yeah. He must be hiding in the hallway.”

 

“So he's being ridiculous,” Nick says just a little too loudly not to be intended for his ears.

 

Apollo's pout deepens as Clay gives him the most exasperated look possible, head cocked and eyebrows raised. Clay gestures frantically to the open door, but Apollo just waves him off.

 

“I'll go get him,” Trucy says, and then her footsteps approach the door. She pokes her head into the hall. “Hey, get in here, you eavesdropper.”

 

She sticks her tongue out and shoves a protesting Apollo into the room, and closes the door.

 

And there in his hospital bed, after two months of very scant communication mostly through Trucy, is Nick, the same as he ever was. His hair is messy, there are bandages plastered over his forehead and his hand, and there's a layer of scruff on his chin that he usually shaves clean every morning.

 

“Apollo,” Nick says. “It's good to see you, buddy.”

 

“Hey,” Apollo forces out. He leans back against the door. “You worried Trucy sick over a broken bone?”

 

“Come on, cut me a little slack. I’d have called her back right away if my phone hadn’t been smashed to bits.”

 

Apollo sighs. “I know, I know.”

 

A beat passes. Only the whirring of the fan and the distant hum of machinery breaks the intervening silence.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Nick says gently. “And I’ve been worried about you.”

 

“I know,” Apollo says again.

 

“...You wanna come sit down?”

 

Reluctantly, Apollo peels himself off of the wall and slumps into the visitor’s chair at Nick’s bedside. He watches Apollo carefully, assessing.

 

“How have you been feeling?” he asks. “Doing any better?”

 

Apollo scoffs. “You’re in the hospital and you’re asking me that?”

 

Nick raises his uninjured hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m hanging in there just fine, kiddo. But you’ve barely spoken a word to me in almost two months, and believe it or not, Trucy did tell me you were depressed.”

 

Apollo scowls. “She told you?”

 

“Yeah, smartass, she was worried about you. If I didn’t trust Clay to make sure you were eating and sleeping, I’d have shown up at your door!”

 

Apollo averts his eyes. “Well, can you blame me for being depressed? And anyway, I’m feeling better now. Mostly. I… feel safer, now, at least.”

 

Nick’s voice goes soft again. “That’s good.” He shifts in his bed with a muffled swear. “Apollo, listen. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I freaked out and jumped to conclusions and lashed out—”

 

“No, no, hey. You were right, at least to an extent. Okay? I should have pushed back at least a little when you went for that internship. I should have kept you a little more in the know about what I was looking into and why, before you ended up in this kind of situation. I should have—I should have given you more agency in the plan. I knew it was unhealthy for you to be in that position, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“Did we really have a choice?” Apollo asks, blinking back hot tears.

 

“We always have a choice, Apollo.” Nick reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind Apollo’s ear. “It’s on me for not making the right ones to keep you safe.”

 

Apollo shakes his head and says, voice thick, “You saved me. He’d have sent me to jail if it weren’t for you, or—or killed me, or somehow convinced me to do it myself, I don’t know—”

 

“Hey, come here. Come on.” Nick scoots closer and opens his arm. Apollo leans over and tucks himself under Nick’s arm, letting him wrap it around his shoulders and squeeze. “Come here, there you go. I’ve got you.”

 

“I don’t hate you,” Apollo hiccups. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“I know. I forgive you.” Nick rubs his arm up and down. “Don’t listen to a word he said, alright? You’re not bad, or wrong, or out of control. Remember how often I’ve told you that?”

 

“I know,” Apollo sniffles.

 

“It’s okay that you’re not perfect, alright? You’ve grown so much since I met you, Apollo. You were always a good kid, even when you were giving me shit. I always believed that.”

 

Apollo scrubs at his eyes. “I still don’t know how he knew all of that about me,” he says, carefully avoiding the specifics. “It freaked me out so bad, and I just—If he knew all of that, what else did he know, right? And I started to worry he was right, and that nobody has ever cared, because I’m erratic and a pain in the ass and I make everyone—”

 

“Shh, stop. It doesn’t matter now. Fuck that guy, alright?”

 

“Do you think what he said was true? About Shadi, checking on me to make sure I was okay?”

 

Nick pauses, giving Apollo another squeeze. Then he admits, “I don’t know. But I don’t think it makes a difference. You just don’t hit your kids. I don’t care that you punched him first, or that you’re an adult, or that he may have felt bad after. You just don’t do it.”

 

“I was never his kid,” Apollo says.

 

“You were supposed to be,” Nick says, “and that’s close enough.”

 

Apollo takes a shuddering breath, and then another, letting the feeling pass. Nick very patiently waits for him to self-regulate, just stroking his arm in a grounding motion.

 

When Apollo’s ready, he says, “The last thing Shadi said to me was that he should have let Magnifi throw me out on the street.”

 

“...If Trucy’s not here, do you mind if I say how I really feel about that guy?”

 

Apollo huffs. “Nick, come on.”

 

“I mean it. Buddy, you gotta make a list of all the nasty shit your stepdad and the old man and Kristoph said to you so I can refute all of it, daily, until you believe me.”

 

“I do believe you,” Apollo insists. “Just… Sometimes I believe them, too. In the moment. Is that dumb?”

 

“It’s not dumb. You’re not dumb.” Nick smooths his hair. “But they’re not here anymore. You don’t need to listen to them.”

 

“I know.” Apollo scrubs at his eyes some more. God, he’s getting tired.

 

Nick continues to stroke Apollo’s hair. “This has gotten long,” he murmurs offhandedly.

 

Apollo flushes. “I haven’t cut it since the trial. And… I kept forgetting to brush it.”

 

“It’s starting to curl, just like Trucy’s,” Nick muses.

 

“Oh. In every other aspect, my hair is apparently just like my biodad’s,” Apollo explains sheepishly, pulling at a stray curl. “My mom’s was curly. I, uh, just didn’t realize mine was too until it started growing and I stopped brushing it out.”

 

“You and Trucy really are so much alike.” Nick’s expression goes soft, fond. “You’re her whole world, you know that?”

 

“I know.” Apollo pushes down a pang of guilt creeping up his throat like a thorny vine. “I keep leaving her.”

 

Nick shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.” He gets a twinkle in his eye, despite how ragged he looks. “I mean that she’s never known life without you, and she gets what you’re going through more than anyone. So if there’s anyone you should talk to…”

 

“Nick, she’s my kid sister. I can’t—”

 

“I’m not saying you should spill every gory detail to her. I’m just saying there’s some stuff Kristoph dug up that you normally keep pretty private, but you could talk to her, even if you don’t want to talk to me. You get me?”

 

“...I guess,” Apollo mumbles.

 

Nick takes his hand and squeezes it. “They’ve gotta monitor me overnight in case I start showing concussion symptoms, so I need you to stay with her tonight. Can you do that?”

 

“Of course.” Apollo looks down at the floor by the chair. The backpack Trucy packed is sitting in a heap, untouched. “Oh, Truce packed some stuff for you, by the way. A change of clothes, your phone charger…”

 

Nick looks down at the bag. “Aw, you guys didn’t need to do that.”

 

“She was panicking,” Apollo admits. “And so was I, a little. I think it gave her a small sense of control.”

 

“I’m just a little beat up. There was no need to panic.”

 

Apollo raises his eyebrows. “Right, like that logic’s ever worked on my brain before.”

 

Nick snorts. “Touche. Besides, I guess you couldn’t have known. It must have sounded like I died.”

 

“For what it’s worth,” Apollo says, voice wobbling, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

 

Nick smiles and pulls him down for another hug. He smells like hospital, but his arm is strong and warm around Apollo’s shoulders, and Apollo feels secure in a way he hasn’t in weeks.

 

“I know,” Nick says softly. “I love you too, kiddo.”

 

That’s the thing that finally tips Apollo over the edge. He sniffles, desperately blinking back tears, and hiccups into Nick’s shoulder. Nick hums in mild surprise and pats his back, and then Apollo’s crying, muffled by Nick’s hospital gown as small, pitiful sounds tear out of his throat. For once, Nick keeps his mouth shut, just patting his back and hushing him gently. It’s nothing like his usual panicked, heart-rending sobs—instead, Apollo cries quietly, almost softly, held tight under the bright hospital lights. The stress of the day—the last few months, really—leeches out of his body slowly and dissipates: the fear and paranoia, the shame and regret, the constant close calls, the feeling of weakness and powerlessness.

 

He’s so, so glad tonight didn’t end in another tragedy.

 

“Are you sure you’re eating enough?” Nick says into his hair. “You’ve gotten a little thin since I saw you last.”

 

“Don’t nag,” Apollo mumbles. “I’m working on it.”

 

“Good.” Nick presses a kiss, of all things, to the top of Apollo’s head. “Just making sure I don’t need to put you on those little vitamin drinks I had to give Trucy when she was little.”

 

“Shut up.” Apollo extracts himself from Nick’s hold and flicks him in the temple. “You’re embarrassing.”

 

“Hey, just lookin’ out for you. That’s my job.” Nick winces. “Even if I… haven’t been doing the greatest job of it lately.”

 

“Better than anyone else has done.”

 

Nick hums. “I know the standard you’re comparing me to, bud, so that's not exactly encouraging.” He reaches over and pokes Apollo in the knee. “Are we okay now?”

 

Apollo nods. “We’re okay.”

 

Nick breaks out into a wide smile. “Good. God, kiddo, I’m so glad you’re safe. If anything had happened to you… Shit, come here.” He wraps Apollo in another hug, gentle and warm and safe . “I’m sorry any of this happened, Apollo. I really am.”

 

The door clicks open slowly. Trucy’s head pops in.

 

“Daddy?” she calls softly.

 

“Come here, lovebug,” Nick says. Trucy scurries over and squeezes herself into the small space on the edge of Nick’s bed, between him and Apollo in the visitor’s chair. Apollo nestles her into the crook of his arm, with Nick’s arm still wrapped firmly around him. Trucy sighs contentedly, leaning her head against Apollo’s shoulder.

 

“There we go,” Nick whispers. “You’re both safe. I’d hug you with both arms if I could.”

 

“Polly’s got me,” Trucy says sleepily.

 

Apollo meets Nick’s eyes over top of Trucy’s head. “I’ve got her,” he concurs, rubbing her back soothingly.

 

Nick smiles and pulls his arm away from Apollo so he can stroke Trucy’s hair. “Kiddo, can you look at me for a second?”

 

Trucy wriggles out from under Apollo’s arm and sits up. She snuggles closer to Nick, letting him wrap his arm fully around her without Apollo as the middleman.

 

“I have to stay here overnight,” Nick says carefully, and Trucy immediately goes rigid, eyes wide. It breaks Apollo’s heart. “Just for one night! So they can make sure all of my brain is in my skull where it’s supposed to be.”

 

Trucy’s hands clench in the hospital sheets. “But Daddy—”

 

“I know, angel. I know you’re scared. Apollo’s gonna take you home and stay with you, alright?”

 

“Okay,” Trucy squeaks, and oh god, when did this anxiety develop? How much has Apollo missed in a matter of weeks? Trucy’s breath hitches.

 

“Okay, hey, breathe,” Nick says gently, holding her hand. “Deep breaths. I’m safe. You’re safe. I’ll be right here in the morning, promise.”

 

Tentatively, Trucy nods.

 

“Good. You’re alright. Get some sleep for me tonight, alright?” Nick kisses her temple. “Be good.”

 

“I will,” Trucy mumbles. She stands up and shakes her hands out a few times. Then, to Apollo, she says, “I’m gonna tell Clay we’re leaving,” and darts out of the room. Apollo rises to follow her, but Nick stops him.

 

“She’s been having nightmares since the murder,” he whispers. “Won’t talk about them, but… Well, you can tell she’s got a little separation anxiety.” He squeezes Apollo’s hand. “Just warning you.”

 

Apollo nods. “I’ve got her,” he says again. “G’night.”

 

“Night, kiddo.”

 

Apollo reconvenes in the hallway with Clay and Trucy. The latter is dead on her feet, but her hand keeps twitching with obvious anxiety. Clay’s swinging his keys around on his finger, and looks questioningly at Apollo when he comes out. Apollo ignores it.

 

“Alright, it’s late,” he sighs. “Let’s get home and get you in bed, okay, Trucy?”

 

Trucy nods solemnly. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders.

 

Clay stands up and ruffles Trucy’s hair. “Let’s roll out, then,” he says lightly. “Want me to bring the car around?”

 

“Nah, we’ll walk,” Apollo says. “I could use the fresh air.”

 

Clay leads the way back downstairs and out of the hospital. It’s a clear night, washed out by the ever-present glow of LA, and traffic hums in the distance. Apollo drapes an arm around Trucy and holds her at his side while they follow Clay across the hospital’s outpatient parking lot to the car. He gets Trucy situated in the back seat and climbs in the front next to Clay; the familiarity of Clay’s car and its hums and clicks and clacks is soothing to Apollo somehow, like shelter.

 

“Aaaalright,” Clay says, tapping his hands on the steering wheel to some unknown rhythm. He glances at Apollo. “I assume I’m driving you both to the Wright residence?”

 

“Yeah, if you don’t mind? I mean, I could bring Trucy back to our place, but I think it’s better for Trucy to be at home. And I guess I need to crutches-proof the house in the morning…”

 

“I don’t mind,” Clay says. He looks in the rearview, and Apollo follows his gaze; Trucy is staring out the window, solemn. “I’d stay with you if I could, but I’ve got work tomorrow.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “It’s fine. I mean, Nick’s okay. I just need to get Trucy to bed.”

 

“And you two are cool now, right?”

 

“Me and Nick?” Apollo pauses. “Yeah, we are.”

 

“Good.” Clay turns into the Wrights’ neighborhood. “Make sure you sleep too, got that?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Get regular sleep, eat regular meals, I know.” Apollo rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Thanks, Dr. Terran.”

 

Clay reaches over the center console and jabs him in the arm. “You’re the worst. Text me if you need anything, got it?”

 

“I’ll be fine. Night, Clay.”

 

“Goodnight.” Clay turns to the backseat. “G’night, Trucy-goose.”

 

“Goodnight, Clay,” Trucy mutters, scrubbing her eyes. “Thanks.”

 

Apollo retrieves his sister from the backseat and guides her up the stairs to the apartment with a hand on her back. It’s quiet with no one around; a sliver of artificial light pours in through the window, casting a glow on the usual carnage of Trucy’s magic practice. Apollo doesn’t even bother with the light—he just sends Trucy off to her room and goes to fish some ancient pajamas out of his old wardrobe.

 

Trucy rejoins him in the bathroom in her PJs, and the two of them brush their teeth side-by-side like they did when they were younger, back in the old apartment with the world’s tiniest bathroom, always stepping on each other’s toes. Back when they shared a room, and even further back, when they still shared the old guest bed.

 

Apollo doesn’t miss that. But he does miss Trucy.

 

After they’ve both brushed, and just because it makes her happy, Apollo carefully combs Trucy’s curly hair the way he did when she was little—back when she relied on him for everything, when Zak was absent and grieving and useless. Useless, but alive.

 

“Will you tuck me in?” Trucy asks, and the unspoken even though I’m too old to need it anymore breaks Apollo’s heart.

 

“Yeah, of course. Come on.” Apollo ushers her to her room and gets her settled in bed, nestled with the blanket up to her chin and the stuffed rabbit she’s had since she was a toddler sitting beside her pillow.

 

“Thanks, Polly,” she mumbles sleepily.

 

“Sure thing.” Apollo smooths her hair with his palm. “Come get me if you need me, okay?”

 

Trucy nods. “G’night.”

 

“See you in the morning, Truce.” With that, Apollo shuts off the light and closes the door. It’s strange at first to climb into his old twin bed; it hasn’t been that long, only a couple of months, but last time he slept here he was concussed and terrified and Shadi was freshly dead. Somehow, though, Apollo falls asleep easily. Maybe he’s just that exhausted.

 

He wakes to Trucy shaking him. When he startles awake, groggy and disoriented, she’s standing at his bedside clutching her stuffed rabbit, tears streaming down her cheeks, trembling.

 

“Woah! Woah, woah, Trucy, what’s wrong?” he asks, dragging himself upright.

 

“I-It’s silly,” Trucy chokes.

 

“Whatever it is, it isn’t silly. Come here, it’s okay.” Apollo scoots over and pulls Trucy to sit beside him, bundled in his arms. “Bad dream?”

 

Trucy nods. She curls in on herself, tiny and uncertain and shaking. “I know Daddy’s fine, and he’ll come home tomorrow, a-and I’m just being silly, b-but what if something happens to him?”

 

Apollo rubs her arm. “They’re taking good care of him at the hospital,” he assures her. “He’s safe there.”

 

“I know, I know, but what if somebody hit him on purpose? W-What if someone still wants to hurt him, o-or—” Trucy leans her weight into him, breath hitching.

 

“Oh, no. Hey,” Apollo soothes. He rests his cheek on top of her head. “I get why you’re scared. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you all that stuff, huh?”

 

Trucy shakes her head. “I needed to know.”

 

“Truce, it’s giving you nightmares.”

 

“Sometimes the truth is a nightmare, Apollo!” Trucy shouts, and bursts into a fresh wave of tears. Watching her face crumble, red and blotchy and covered in tears, Apollo is reminded again how much his sister has had to hold in for his sake, how much patience and grace she’s had to extend him over and over because of his mental health. She squeezes her stuffed bunny like a vice in her arms, as if it could absorb all of her fear and pain and make it all go away. Apollo wishes it could. He wishes he could make it all go away.

 

He settles instead for cradling her head against his shoulder and rocking them back and forth in a steady rhythm, hushing her softly as she cries and soothing her whenever she drifts too close to hyperventilating.

 

“It sucks major ass, I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

 

“You could have died,” Trucy chokes out, and Apollo has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep tears at bay. “Mom, and Granddaddy, and D—Zak, a-and—”

 

“Come on, come here.” Apollo leans back against his pillows and tucks Trucy in beside him. Immediately, she snuggles into his side, sobbing. “I’m okay, Nick’s okay. Whatever you saw, it was just a bad dream.”

 

“It’s dumb,” Trucy wails. “I’m being a baby.”

 

“No, you’re not. What about when I do it?”

 

“That’s different,” Trucy whines.

 

“Why? Because you’re supposed to make me feel better, and not the other way around?”

 

Trucy grumbles into his shoulder.

 

Apollo snorts. “Yeah, well, tough shit.” He plucks a tissue from his bedside table and wipes roughly at Trucy’s teary face with it. “Try to breathe for me, alright?”

 

“Distract me?” Trucy asks timidly.

 

Apollo thinks on it for a moment, and only for a moment, really; what Nick said to him back at the hospital has been running through his mind all night, and while Apollo is loath to admit it, Nick is usually right about that kind of thing. After so many years, after everything, Apollo finds the truth sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting, and it doesn’t even hurt when he lets it free.

 

“Do you want me to tell you some stories about when I was little?” he asks.

 

Trucy lifts her head and blinks at him adorably, the panic shocked right out of her.

 

“You never do that,” she says. “You never tell anybody about your life before you moved here.”

 

“I’m ready now,” Apollo says. “And I’d like to tell you.”

 

Trucy nods very seriously, curling back up. “You can trust me, Polly! Magicians always keep their secrets!”

 

Apollo chuckles. “Sure thing. Now, you know I was raised overseas when I was a baby, right?”

 

“Yeah. Mommy explained it to me once. You went missing, but another family took care of you until they tracked her down and sent you here. Is that right?”

 

“Well, more or less. I didn’t really understand what was happening, but my foster family there, in Khura’in—”

 

“Wait, isn’t that where Aunt Maya is training right now?”

 

“...Yes. But let’s not tell her, alright?”

 

“Maybe we can go visit her some time! If you haven’t been back since you were little, maybe you could—”

 

“I’m sorry, Trucy, but I… I can’t. Not yet, at least.” And this is the part that hurts, that still stings fiercely all these years later. “See, D-Dhurke—my foster dad at the time—he only sent me here to reunite with Mom because it wasn’t safe for me in Khura’in. He’s… He’s kind of a fugitive, and I guess he didn’t feel like it was right to put a kid in danger that wasn’t his.”

 

“But… You were his kid,” Trucy says, and it’s so, so simple, but it cuts straight to Apollo’s core anyway.

 

“Y-Yeah, I guess you’re right. But in the end, they put me on a plane across the ocean and Mom picked me up on the other side. He said he’d come to see me once it was safe, but he never did. If I went back, and somebody found out I was his kid he was hiding, I’d probably still be in danger.”

 

“That’s what Mr. Gavin meant, isn’t it? What he said about…” She trails off.

 

Apollo finishes for her: “The orphaned son of a foreign terrorist? Yeah, that’s what he meant. I don’t know how he knew that about me, if Zak told him way back when or what, but he knew. Either way, he was right.”

 

“No he wasn’t,” Trucy insists. “Because he also said lots of mean shit about how you were unwanted and no one cared about you, and I hope you know by now that that’s not true at all. You don’t have to give him credit just for knowing a secret about you and spilling it in the most insensitive way possible. Fuck him.”

 

Apollo can’t help it; he snorts. Leave it to Trucy to tell it like it is.

 

“I should teach you to swear in Khura’inese,” he muses. “Nick will never know.”

 

Trucy giggles. “Yes, please!”

 

Apollo gives her a squeeze. “Anyway, that’s how Mom learned I was still alive, and how you got yourself a brother.”

 

“That must have all been really scary,” Trucy says softly. “You were still learning English when I was little. And you were upset a lot of the time.”

 

“It was scary,” Apollo admits. “I felt… abandoned. Confused. But I had Mom, and I had you . I was where I ‘belonged’. In America.”

 

“Polly,” Trucy intones, though the effect is diminished by her sniffling. “You belong wherever you’re happy.”

 

“Then I belong right here.” Apollo says, rubbing her upper arm with his palm. He sighs; the next bit flows just as easily. “I used to have a foster brother, you know. Do you want me to tell you about him? I could tell you about all the trouble we used to get into.”

 

Trucy, no longer crying and shaking but still sniffly, nods into his shoulder. She snuggles close, warm and comfy and safe, and says, “If you want.”

 

“Okay,” Apollo says, and he does.

 

---

“Would you quit—God, Nick, work with me here!”

 

Nick, insufferable bastard that he is, drops more of his weight onto Apollo’s shoulders.

 

“You are not this much of an invalid,” Apollo grumbles. “Steady yourself on your crutch and I’ll spot you.”

 

“My fucking back hurts, Apollo,” Nick complains. “Can you show me a little mercy?”

 

Apollo half-lifts him up another few steps. “Only you would get mowed down by a sedan and be complaining more about your chronic back pain than your literal broken arm.”

 

“ You try getting hit by a car and tell me it doesn’t make every ache and pain you’ve ever had act up!”

 

“No thank you,” Apollo deadpans.

 

“Actually, don’t,” Nick says quickly. “Don’t get hit by a car. Look both ways when crossing the street, follow the law—”

 

“I won’t get hit by a car. I’m not stupid and clumsy like you.” Apollo manages to hoist Nick up the last step and shuffles him into the apartment. Now on flat ground, Nick is able to hobble on his single crutch over to the couch where Trucy has already prepared a mountain of pillows.

 

“Good,” Nick says. “That’s what I hope for. I’d rather you not get hurt anymore.”

 

And that feels a little too close to sincerity and care for Apollo’s grumpy mood to tolerate, so he just pouts.

 

Nick ignores his petulance and sinks into the couch with a groan like an old man. He props his sprained ankle up on a pillow on the coffee table and sighs in relief, crutch resting against the arm of the couch.

 

Trucy’s clanging around in the kitchen, fussing over breakfast. She’s been at it since Apollo left to fetch Nick from the hospital—worried, he excuses himself to the kitchen to check up on her.

 

“Trucy?” he asks. “You okay in here?”

 

Trucy stumbles and almost falls right off of her stepstool, but Apollo puts his arms out in time to steady her.

 

“I’m fine,” she says, tapping her chin in thought. “Lookin’ for the chocolate chips.”

 

“Do we really need them?”

 

Trucy gasps, scandalized. “Polly! I can’t make pancakes without chocolate chips! That’d be like—like—Daddy without his attorney’s badge! Or you without your big forehead!”

 

“Shut up,” Apollo says, pulling her down from the stepstool. He takes a peek into the baking cabinet himself and finds the chips shoved in the corner behind a jar of breadcrumbs. Then, after tossing them to Trucy, he makes himself useful by gathering the other ingredients.

 

After a while, Nick’s voice calls out, “Hey, kids?”

 

Apollo and Trucy stop what they’re doing and hurry out to the living room, both expecting something other than Nick sitting in the exact position they left him in, staring at his phone. He looks up at them, bright-eyed, when they walk in.

 

“What happened?” Trucy asks.

 

Nick purses his lips. “They found the guy who hit me last night,” he says, and Trucy grips the hem of Apollo’s shirt with surprising force.

 

“Really!?” she blurts out.

 

“Dead,” Nick adds, and Trucy eeps. “They found him shot dead in People Park this morning, pulling a noodle cart stolen from Eldoon’s place. Already arrested a suspect and everything, though it seems like running me over really was an accident.”

 

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Apollo asks warily.

 

Nick casts Apollo one of his cheekiest smiles. “I’m about to give you a job offer.”

 

“What?”

 

“I just got a call from the suspect’s fiancee. Seems he needs a lawyer, and given my condition, that’s where you come in, Apollo.”

 

“You want me to defend him? Alone?” Apollo shifts from one foot to the other. “I’ve never led a case on my own before.”

 

“I’d like you to at least meet with her and hear her out, yeah. If you do, you can consider yourself the new junior partner at Wright & Co. Law Offices.”

 

Apollo crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s nepotism.”

 

“So? I’m not hiring somebody else in your place if you say no.” Nick grins. “You need a job, I need someone to hold down the fort for me until I’m cleared for takeoff. It’s a win-win.”

 

“You should say yes, Polly,” Trucy sing-songs.

 

Apollo sighs. It’s funny, really, because years ago something like this would have seemed like a fantasy, and now that he’s here, it just feels unearned.

 

“I’ll talk to her,” he says, and cuts off Trucy’s resulting cheer to add, “but I’m earning my place. I’m only agreeing to your offer long-term if I take his case and win without your help.”

 

Nick hums. “Without my help? If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to get my mentorship and advice. That’s how it works.”

 

“Fine. Maybe with help, if I need it. But I’m not taking the job handed to me on a silver platter.”

 

Nick smiles and offers his free hand—his left—to shake. Apollo accepts the handshake and seals the deal, fingers and shirt still sticky with pancake batter.

 

Later, he and Trucy stop at his apartment so he can change before they go to the office. Apollo puts on the red suit he had tailored using an entire month’s wages shortly before the murder, smooths his hair, and steps out of his room. On the couch, Trucy looks up from her phone and immediately bursts out in a fit of giggles.

 

“You look like a comedian in that,” she teases.

 

Apollo flushes as red as his suit. “You really think so?”

 

“You look like you’re going to sell me a used car,” Trucy continues, holding back laughter. “Ditch the jacket, Polly, please!”

 

Grumbling and embarrassed, Apollo returns to his room and sheds the jacket, leaving only the waistcoat behind. In the mirror, he readjusts his tie—the same teal silk one Mr. Edgeworth gave him when he was a teenager. It remains the nicest he’s ever owned. Then he affixes his shiny, practically new attorney’s badge to his lapel and takes a moment to stare at his reflection before deciding he’s ready.

 

“This better?” He asks Trucy. This time, she breaks into a grin.

 

“Much better! You look like a real lawyer!” She jumps to her feet and offers him a white-gloved hand, cape swishing behind her. “Shall we go?”

 

Defense attorney Apollo Justice places a palm over his badge and breathes, in and out, deep. He nods, grabs his keys, and takes Trucy’s hand.

 

The rest, of course, is history.

Notes:

anyone catching onto my aro clay terran agenda. take my hand... life could be a dream...

can you see it on the horizon, reader? can you sense what, or who, is right around the corner?

Chapter 12: PART XI

Summary:

The thing about Lamiroir is that there’s something in her eyes, in her voice, in her posture, that Apollo finds himself oddly soothed by. She seems to look through him, rather than at him, which is more than fine by Apollo, who isn’t the best at eye contact to begin with. But she answers his questions gracefully, as best she can, until Apollo sees it:

The long, flowing sleeve of Lamiroir’s elegant cloak slips up over her wrist, revealing a gold bangle, and Apollo’s world goes still. He sees it like he would a tell, time slowing to a crawl for a brief few seconds as his kinetic vision takes over. It’s only visible for a moment, just a moment, so quickly there’s not a chance anyone else would have even noticed its movement: That’s his mother’s bracelet, identical to the gold band currently squeezing the life out of Apollo’s own wrist.

--
In which the dead come back to life.

Notes:

good lord did this chapter give me trouble. go easy on me, friends. 12k for you heyoooooo

cw for discussions of abuse!

When darlings must be murdered / When your heartbreak overrides the very / Thing you can not face

- They Might Be Giants, “Erase”

 

Working for Phoenix Wright is surprisingly easy.

 

Maybe it’s the nepotism. Maybe it’s the fact that Apollo already spent so much time studying and shadowing him while he was preparing for law school. Maybe it’s just a side effect of spending so much time working for Kristoph Gavin, who pushed him so hard.

 

Whatever the reason is, Apollo finds himself glad he agreed. For the first month they work together, they enter a sort of rhythm: Apollo works cases with Mr. Wright (who’s Mr. Wright at work and Nick off the clock—a boundary imposed by Apollo and Apollo alone), and Trucy accompanies him on many of his solo investigations. They’re happy; things are stable, the work is chaotic but fulfilling, and Apollo’s finally getting a handle on his health.

 

And then, as a half-apology or token of goodwill of some sort, Klavier Gavin invites him and Trucy to one of his concerts.

 

The flashing lights are so fucking bright, and the music is so fucking loud, and the press of the crowd on all sides, even in their VIP spot up front, has Apollo realizing he never really got over his whole thing with the fucking metro.

 

Trucy, on the other hand, is having the time of her life, jumping and dancing and singing along beside him. He reaches frantically for her hand and ends up grabbing her wrist instead. Immediately, she stops jumping and focuses on him.

 

“Trucy,” he chokes out, “I need a little break. I’m—It’s too much.”

 

She nods. “Okay! Okay. Let’s—”

 

“No, you stay here and have fun. Is your phone on you? And it’s secured?”

 

“Yeah, of course. You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

 

“Stay. I’ll be back. I just—I’ll be backstage. I just need a minute.”

 

Trucy nods and ushers him toward the exit. “Go on. Text if you need me.”

 

Apollo stumbles through the VIP area into the backstage. He’s lucky that Klavier felt so bad about everything with Kristoph—if Apollo was in the middle of that general admission crowd, he’d probably pass out.

 

He slumps against the wall outside the dressing rooms and pulls out his earplugs. It’s blessedly quiet, the concert just a low hum through the walls. Apollo places a hand over his chest and shuts his eyes, focusing on his breathing. With time, the hammering in his ears stops and his brain stops running in overdrive. He remains slumped on the floor, just breathing.

 

There are footsteps around the corner, and who should appear in front of him but Ema Skye, in her usual labcoat, police badge pinned to her waistband. A bag of Snackoos peeks out of her pocket.

 

“Apollo?” she asks. “What are you doing back here?”

 

“VIP tickets from Gavin,” he answers weakly. “Needed a break. Trucy’s out front. You?”

 

Ema sighs. “Fop has me on security duty.”

 

“You specifically?”

 

“He says he doesn’t trust anyone else. Insufferable.” She pauses, winces in sympathy. “He’s gotten a little paranoid.”

 

Apollo says nothing, knocking his head back against the wall. What is there to say?

 

After a while, Ema has to continue her security patrol. Apollo heads back out front for the second set, the acoustic segment with the singer, Lamiroir.

 

Trucy greets him upon his return, taking his hand.

 

“Hey,” she says. “Feeling better?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assures her. “Ema’s here, by the way.”

 

“Really? Oh! Oh, it’s starting. You’ll love Lamiroir, Polly. Her voice is beautiful, like an angel!”

 

Apollo hums. The lights on stage shift to reveal three performers: Klavier, with his acoustic guitar; Lamiroir the singer, dressed in an elegant cloak embroidered with constellations with a veil concealing most of her face; and her piano accompanist, a young boy who can’t be any older than Trucy.

 

Klavier’s guitar bursts into flames halfway through the set, but Apollo is too busy watching Lamiroir. He’s almost mesmerized, watching her seemingly disappear and reappear across the arena. But more enchanting than the magic trick is her voice . Trucy was right; Lamiroir’s song feels like a lullaby, a balm on Apollo’s still-frayed nerves. The smooth lilt of her voice, underlaid by the tittering of the piano, brings a sense of peace and safety so strong it makes Apollo want to cry. Trucy curls around his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder; she must feel it too.

 

When the piece ends and a medic rushes on stage to check on Klavier, Apollo blinks out of his trance to find Trucy staring at him, still gripping his arm.

 

“Polly?” she asks quietly. “Is everything okay?”

 

Frantically, Apollo swipes at his face; he did start crying, apparently, quiet tears dripping down his cheeks.

 

“I-I’m okay,” he whispers. “You were right, that was… really beautiful.”

 

“It was.” Trucy pulls a tissue from a little pack in her purse. She passes it to Apollo so he can wipe his eyes. “I’ve never seen you get that emotional about music before.”

 

“Something about it…” Apollo muses. “Didn’t you feel it, too?”

 

Trucy tilts her head thoughtfully. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I did.”

---

They head backstage between sets to check in on Klavier, only to find him arguing with Ema in the hall. Apollo pulls Trucy off to the side to eavesdrop.

 

“You're sure it wasn't just an equipment malfunction?” Ema is asking.

 

The fingers on Klavier's right hand are bandaged from knuckle to tip, and he waves them in the air as he exclaims, “Why would I have attached pyrotechnics to my guitar, Fraulein?”

 

“I don't know, you—”

 

“Our show does not even use pyrotechnics!”

 

Ema sighs. “Look, I'm just trying to understand what you think happened. You think someone sabotaged your guitar?”

 

“Yes, to maim me!”

 

“To maim you?”

 

Klavier huffs something like “Wouldn't be the first time,” but Apollo is too far away to be certain. From this angle, he can see something in Ema's eyes soften.

 

“Gavin, you're paranoid,” she says. “No one here is out to get you.”

 

“I'm famous!” Klavier says like it's both new information and a tragedy. “Anyone could have a reason!”

 

Ema sighs again, and Apollo decides that's his cue to make his and Trucy's presence known.

 

“Prosecutor Gavin,” he calls, turning the corner as if he just arrived and hasn't been standing there. “Are you okay?”

 

Klavier whips his head around, but the fury drains from his posture when he sees who has interrupted him.

 

“Ah, Herr Forehead,” he says evenly. “And Fraulein Wright. Enjoying the show?”

 

“We are!” Trucy says brightly. She quickly adds, “Lamiroir's performance was Polly's favorite part!” and very politely does not mention the fact that he wept. Apollo is forever glad that Trucy's learned some semblance of boundaries.

 

“How's your hand?” Apollo asks. “I take it that wasn't planned?”

 

“Ach, today has been nothing but problems!” Klavier grumbles like the diva he is. He brushes it all aside just as quickly, though: “But please, don't worry about me. Just some minor burns, ja? I can still play!”

 

Ema gives Apollo a look from behind Klavier just as Apollo feels his bracelet tighten, but Klavier barrels on.

 

“Fraulein! How is your father faring?”

 

Trucy perks up. “Daddy? Oh, he's fine! Still grumbling about being in a cast for a couple more weeks, but he's mostly being dramatic.”

 

“Making me do all the work around the office as usual,” Apollo huffs.

 

“Polly's also being dramatic,” Trucy says, poking him in the side. “He likes filing paperwork.”

 

What can he say? The monotony is soothing.

 

Ema sighs. “Gavin, I’ve gotta do another sweep of the stage before the third set. Are you coming?”

 

“Yes, yes, Detective, let’s be off. Auf Wiedersehen, Fraulein Magician, Herr Forehead. Enjoy the show!”

 

“See ya, Prosecutor Gavin!” Trucy calls after him with a wave.

 

With a huff, Apollo leans back against the wall. He’s not looking forward to the third set, that’s for sure.

 

“You’re grumpy,” Trucy points out.

 

“I’m tired,” Apollo counters.

 

She shrugs. “Same thing, with you. Come on, aren’t you at least having a little fun?”

 

“I guess,” Apollo concedes. “But I’m never coming to a show this big ever again.”

 

A flash of yellow passes through the adjacent hallway. “Hello?” Apollo calls. The blur comes back into view, and it’s—Valant Gramarye?

 

Trucy gasps. “Uncle Valant!” she yells.

 

“Is that Miss Trucy I see over there?” Valant exclaims, drifting forward with a flourish of his cape. “And young Apollo too!”

 

“Valant,” Apollo greets tersely. Trucy tugs on the back of his shirt as if to say play nice for once, please .

 

“It’s been so long!” Trucy beams, hopping from foot to foot. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I, Valant Gramarye—” he spins his staff and points the tip at the pair of them “—am responsible for the brilliant display of magic and misdirection you have witnessed before you tonight!”

 

“I should have known! That trick had Gramarye written all over it, Uncle Valant.”

 

“Ah, but of course! Anything to honor my late mentor’s memory.”

 

I think you just aren’t talented enough to come up with your own material, Apollo thinks. Out loud, he says, “Honor? You sure about that one?”

 

Trucy gives him a strange look, but Valant just cringes.

 

“Ah, well… Yes. Indubitably, your grandfather was an adroit performer, brilliantly talented.”

“Sure,” Apollo concedes. A tense silence passes between them.

 

“Well! Lovely to see you both,” Valant announces, “but I must be going. Farewell, my dear Trucy!”

 

“Bye Uncle Valant!” Trucy calls after him. When Valant is gone, she turns to Apollo and pokes him in the shoulder. “That wasn’t very polite, Polly.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Apollo grumbles. “I could have been a lot meaner. He’s a hack. You’ll see.”

---

Apollo spends the third set backstage. He’s with Ema in the hall again when suddenly, a sharp crack rips through the air, and then another—familiar, too familiar, and Apollo is very aware of his own heartbeat and not much else as Ema instinctively throws him to the floor.

 

“Ema?” he croaks. “E-Ema?”

 

“Stay down,” she hisses. “And be quiet.”

 

She’s on alert, standing over him, hand resting against her own holster at her hip. She’s probably saying something more to him, but Apollo can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, and he can’t breathe, and every muscle in his body is frozen, taut, clenched tight.

 

Valant is there. He’s little more than a blur of yellow in Apollo’s swirling vision, but he’s there. Apollo vaguely registers arms wrapping around him and carrying him into a nearby storage closet, but he experiences it as though hovering above his own body. There’s commotion in the hall. Something like footsteps, shouting—Apollo is locked in the storage room with Valant, unsure if he’s catatonic or screaming. He can’t feel his own tongue to be sure.

 

“I-I—” he tries to speak after a few minutes pass and he regains some control of himself.

 

“Stop,” Valant says across from him. They’re both sitting on wooden crates, veiled in near total darkness save for the strip of light streaming in under the door.

 

“I’m dying,” Apollo chokes. His throat is so sore that he probably did scream, at least once.

 

“You are not,” Valant says. He doesn’t question Apollo’s reaction; Apollo has just enough presence of mind to register the fact that he, out of everyone, would know perfectly well why Apollo is dissociating.

 

“Did you do it?” Apollo asks, delirious and suddenly desperate for answers. “Did you kill Magnifi?”

 

Valant doesn’t miss a beat. “I did not,” he says, and Apollo’s too sick with terror to know if his bracelet reacts or not. “It was Zak.”

 

“It wasn’t him,” Apollo insists. “He didn’t! I know he didn’t! S-So it had to be you!”

 

“It wasn’t me!” Valant fires back, firmly and loudly enough that Apollo briefly loses control of his  mind again.

 

He’s not sure if seconds or minutes pass before he says, “I won’t even tell the police. I-I just need to know what happened, Valant, please !”

 

“Why? Why does this matter? The man is dead, Apollo. Zak is gone too. Don’t pretend you hold any fond memories of my late mentor.”

 

“None of you protected me,” Apollo cries. “None of you protected Mom!”

 

Valant flinches; Apollo manages not to miss it.

 

“It does matter!” he wails, and in the back of his mind he gets the slightest spark of awareness that this isn’t about Magnifi at all. “One of you shot her and she’s gone ! I don’t have a mom anymore because you were careless !”

 

“Apollo…”

 

“I just want the truth, Valant!” Apollo grips his bracelet, sobbing uncontrollably. “I want my mom!”

 

Valant says nothing; he just sits there while Apollo has a complete breakdown, bawling into his knees with those gunshots echoing in his ears. He can hear Zak screaming in anguish as if it were yesterday, hear Trucy begging to know when Mommy was coming back, hear Magnifi and Zak arguing about freeing Apollo from his stagehand duties after setting foot in the theater made him nearly catatonic with fear. He can hear his own panicked crying, and can’t tell what’s present day and what’s an echo from a decade ago.

 

Apollo’s screaming must finally lead Ema back to their hiding spot, because by the time he’s coming down from his episode, she throws open the door, gun drawn as if expecting to find him being tortured. The sight of it makes Apollo cry all over again, and she quickly lowers it.

 

“He’s not well,” Valant says tiredly, hands up. “But he is unharmed.”

 

Ema sighs. “Thanks for grabbing him. Hey, Apollo? We’ve secured the whole building. You wanna come back out?”

 

“D-Did someone die?” Apollo whimpers.

 

“...Yeah. Lamiroir’s manager. There’s only one suspect. The pianist.”

 

“He’s a kid ,” Apollo snaps, righteous fury slipping past the panic.

 

“I know, but we have our reasons.” She turns to Valant. “Once we’re done here, we’ll probably need a witness statement from you. I don’t think Apollo here can give one.”

 

“I’ll defend the kid,” Apollo blurts. “Even if he did do it. He n-needs a lawyer.”

 

“...Take that one up with the courts, big guy. Not my jurisdiction.” Ema holds out a hand—clean, her hands are clean—and says, “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

 

 

He ends up sitting outside with a shock blanket draped over his shoulders. That’s where Trucy eventually finds him, escorted by Klavier, whose expression is grim.

 

“ Polly ,” Trucy yelps when she sees him, rushing forward and closing the distance between them with a fierce hug. “Polly, I was so worried about you!”

 

“S-Sorry,” Apollo manages. “I-I’m not hurt.”

 

Trucy rocks back on her heels, clutching Apollo’s forearms. She scans his face, probing every inch of his expression with surgical precision. He tries to do the same, but he’s not able to focus on anything at all. After a moment, Trucy moves to sit beside him, holding his hand in hers. Her head drops onto his shoulder, thumb stroking slow circles on the back of his hand.

 

“They stopped in the middle of the set and made everyone evacuate,” she explains softly. “They wouldn’t say why, but I knew something bad was happening. I wanted to go backstage and find you but I wasn’t allowed.”

 

“Let me guess, you dug your heels in until Klavier found you?” Apollo asks fondly.

 

“You know it,” Trucy says with a proud smile that quickly fades. “They arrested Machi.”

 

“I’m gonna defend him,” Apollo insists, weakened by how hoarse he is.

 

“Of course. And I’ll help. But Polly, you’re not looking too good right now.”

 

Apollo leans his head on top of hers. Police lights flash across the parking lot. The night is growing long, and Apollo knows that soon they’ll have to get in touch with Nick so he doesn’t worry. But for now, he just needs a moment to breathe, to squeeze his baby sister’s hand and remind himself that they’re both safe.

 

“...You didn’t see, did you?” Trucy asks with obvious reluctance.

 

“No,” Apollo murmurs. “Heard. V-Very loud.”

 

Klavier crosses the parking lot toward them. His hair is even more of a mess than before, and his burnt hand hangs limp at his side. As he approaches, it’s with a somber but relaxed gait, projecting some semblance of control.

 

“Apollo,” he says as he takes a knee in front of the pair. The horrible fake German accent has slipped out of his voice almost entirely. “I spoke with Detective Skye. Can I ask you to please tell me how much you remember?”

 

Apollo pulls his shock blanket tight around his shoulders and Trucy smooths his hair. “I-It’s not a lot,” he warns.

 

“That’s alright,” Klavier says with a nod. “Anything at all that you can tell me.”

 

Apollo takes a shaky breath. “I-I was in the hall backstage, talking to Ema, and w-we heard two loud g-gunshots.” He flinches at the memory; Trucy interlocks their fingers. “Ema knocked me on the ground, and that’s where it stops.”

 

“Stops?” Klavier prompts.

 

“I dissociated,” Apollo admits. “Valant picked me up and locked us in a storage closet.”

 

“Did you hear or see anything else?”

 

“N-No.” Apollo is a little too embarrassed to admit to screaming and crying about his mom. “There was some shouting, I think? B-But I was panicking until Ema came back to get me, so I-I don’t know.”

 

Klavier nods. “Alright. Thank you, Apollo.”

 

Feeling a little bold, Apollo asks, “Do you really think a fourteen-year-old did it?”

 

Klavier blinks a few times before breaking into a grin. “Ach, good to know that stubborn, headstrong lawyer is still in there behind the tears, ja?” And the stupid fake accent is back, too.

 

Apollo bristles a little—Klavier doesn’t know him well enough to know that the crying is an act of bravery, even when he can’t help it. To separate Apollo’s strength of will from his soft heart is a grave mistake people have been making since Apollo was just a little kid.

 

“You didn’t answer Polly’s question,” Trucy pipes up, and gratefulness blooms in Apollo’s chest. As his unofficial investigative partner, Trucy’s always finding the words that Apollo can’t. It helps that she’s been learning to read him like a book since she was two years old.

 

To Klavier’s credit, his surprise lasts only a brief few seconds. Then, smile plastered on tight, he says, “I believe what the evidence tells me. I wish it weren’t that way, but it is the only explanation. All other parties have an alibi.”

 

“So you’ll send a small kid who doesn’t even speak English to prison? He’ll—He’ll—” Apollo swallows thickly. Shamefully, his vision begins to blur with tears.

 

“Hey, Polly, let’s go home, okay?” Trucy suggests, patting his knee. “We’ve gotta call Daddy before he worries.”

 

Klavier, thankfully, can read the room. With feigned nonchalance, he stands back up and offers Trucy a hand like a gentleman. She stays on the ground with Apollo, because the weight of her presence beside him is the only thing keeping him from dissociating again. He already can’t understand what they’re saying anymore, garbled as it is through the blood rushing through his ears.

 

When Klavier’s gone, Trucy pulls out her phone. She taps on it a few times and brings it to her ear, little charms dangling against her wrist.

 

“Hiya Daddy!” she says cheerfully. “I know, we said we’d be home earlier. There was an emergency. …What kind of emergency? Daddy, I thought you watched the news… It’s not on the news?” Trucy sighs. “You’re gonna freak out when I tell you. There was a murder backstage during the show—no, no, we’re both okay. I was nowhere near it.”

 

Apollo wriggles feeling back into his fingers and toes as he sits and waits. A part of him thinks he should feel terrible for his baby sister having to soothe him, but that gets very easily drowned out by the part of him that has been ready to jump out of his skin all night and really wants to be soothed.

 

“Polly’s right next to me. We’re going to get a ride home from Ema.” Trucy smooths Apollo’s hair some more with a frown. “He’s not very chatty right now, Daddy. The concert was a lot even before that, and—”

 

Desperate to speak for himself, Apollo croaks out, “I had a bad episode,” and hopes it was loud enough for Nick to hear. Based on the silence that follows, he does.

 

“Sure, Daddy,” Trucy says softly. She lowers the phone, smiling gently at Apollo. “Daddy wants to talk to you.”

 

Clumsily, Apollo takes the phone and holds it to his ear. His fingers are trembling.

 

“Hey,” he mumbles.

 

“Hey there,” Nick says, calm. “I know you’re not super verbal right now, so just let me talk a little, okay?”

 

Apollo hums in acknowledgement.

 

“I'm gonna assume from context that you were close enough to hear the shots, huh?”

 

“Hallway,” Apollo ekes out.

 

“I see. I understand. That's scary, bud. Don't beat yourself up for this, okay? Do you have your meds?”

 

“No.” Apollo picks at the edge of his blanket. “Security.”

 

“Security? Oh, like at the venue? They wouldn’t have confiscated them if they're properly marked. But that's okay. When you and Trucy get home, stay the night. I'll take care of you. Okay?”

 

What Apollo wants to say is that he doesn’t need to be taken care of, that he's a grown adult and doesn't need coddling. But the logical part of Apollo knows he's probably going to have a nuclear-level nightmare tonight, and Clay doesn't deserve that. Not that Nick necessarily does, but at least he’ll understand why Apollo’s screaming.

 

“Okay,” he rasps.

 

“Good. Take a deep breath. I’ll see you two soon. Can you put your sister back on, please?”

 

Apollo hums and passes the phone back to Trucy, who happily resumes babbling on to her father. Apollo tunes them out, focusing on his breathing exercises so that he can stay calm. At some point, he pulls out his phone and shoots Clay a quick text to let him know he’s staying overnight, and doesn’t get a reply—Clay is probably asleep. It’s not long after Trucy hangs up that Ema finally comes to collect them and give them a ride home.

 

The drive is silent, save for Trucy softly humming Lamiroir’s song in the backseat.

 

Nick is waiting up for them when they get in, watching late-night reruns on the TV. Immediately, he has Trucy in his arms.

 

“Hi Daddy,” she giggles. “I’m gonna shower. I’m covered in so much glitter!”

 

“Alright, pumpkin.” Nick kisses her forehead. “Tomorrow I want to hear all about the fun you had, okay?”

 

Trucy nods sleepily. Then, to Apollo, she whispers, “Night, Polly. Get some rest.”

 

Then Nick and Apollo are left alone, and Apollo is still struggling to form sentences. Thankfully, Nick doesn’t need him to.

 

“Okay, bud. First thing’s first,” he says lightly. “Are you hungry?”

 

Apollo blinks and realizes that yes, he is a little hungry. He nods sheepishly. This is usually the part where he and Clay order dumplings.

 

“I thought you might be.” Nick opens his arm and nods toward the kitchen. “C’mon, I’ll make you a grilled cheese.”

 

Apollo steps forward and walks with Nick into the kitchen. There, he sits at the table and pouts.

 

“I can do it,” he grumbles, even though he knows Nick won’t fall for it.

 

Sure enough, Nick sends him an unimpressed look with his head inside the fridge.

 

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “But I want to. I’ll show you how well I can do it with one arm in a cast.”

 

They’re both lucky Apollo’s been forced to start working on the whole “accepting help from others” issue, or else Nick would probably have a secondary meltdown on his hands. Instead, Apollo resigns himself to sitting and watching while Nick makes him a late-night snack like a little boy. The butter and cheese sizzling in the pan give off a mouth-watering aroma, and Apollo’s stomach growls.

 

While Nick is cooking, Apollo gets up to get himself some water. Nick just smiles at him and doesn’t try to do it for him, which Apollo appreciates.

 

“Valant was there today,” Apollo eventually says.

 

“Oh?” Nick perks up at that. “What for?”

 

“Lamiroir did a stage trick that he helped with.” Apollo sits back down. He finds his words are coming back to him bit by bit, as he comes down the rest of the way from his episode. “Trucy was happy.”

 

Nick hums as he pulls Apollo’s sandwich onto a plate and slices it in half.

 

Apollo continues, “He was with me. I-I’m embarrassed.”

 

Nick sets the plate down in front of Apollo and ruffles his hair gently. “Well, don’t let that guy get you down. He’s not worth feeling embarrassed around, right?”

 

“He helped,” Apollo tries to explain. “Well… he tried. He carried me to a safe place when I couldn’t move.”

 

“Good.” Nick sits down at the table, pushing the plate closer to prompt Apollo to take a bite, and he does. The cheese is perfectly gooey, and when the salt and grease hit his stomach, Apollo realizes just how hungry he was.

 

“There you go,” Nick mumbles. Louder, he says, “You don’t have to forgive Valant just because he did the right thing this time.”

 

“I won’t,” Apollo assures him with a snort. Then he falters, toying with the crust of his sandwich. “He said he didn’t do it.”

 

To Nick’s credit, he immediately catches on to the pivot in conversation. “Do you believe him?”

 

Apollo shrugs. “Hard to tell.” He squirms in his seat. “Too panicked. I was screaming by then.”

 

“I can hear that,” Nick says. “You sound a little like a chainsmoker.”

 

Apollo pouts some more. “Don’t make fun of me.”

 

“I’m not, I’m not. Eat up.”

 

Grumbling, Apollo takes another bite.

 

“Sounds like your sister’s out of the shower,” Nick says. “I’m going to go check on her.”

 

Apollo nods and watches him slip out of the room. He chews away at his sandwich, enjoying the silence. The night feels surreal in a way he can’t process yet—but what does strike him, piercing through the haze, is an unshakeable need to defend Machi Tobaye from the accusations. It’s the only thing on his mind that doesn’t hurt.

 

Nick comes back while Apollo is washing up. “She kicked me to the curb pretty quick,” he muses. “Told me to put you to bed.”

 

“She says it like I’m a kid,” Apollo huffs.

 

“Hey, come on,” Nick chuckles. “It’s not like she told me to tuck you in and read you a bedtime story. Though, for the record, I would if it would help you get to sleep.”

 

Apollo shuffles on his heels. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. At this point in the night, Clay would already have wrapped Apollo in a blanket and put on a movie, and they would only talk about whatever was wrong when and if Apollo was ready. And it’s not that Nick doesn’t know what to do, but barring those few days after his concussion, Apollo hasn’t exactly been spending many nights at Nick’s in the past few years that he and Clay have spent fine-tuning their system—in the few years since Kristoph Gavin came around.

 

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” he says.

 

“Yeah, I figured,” Nick replies easily. “What would help? Hug?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “Can we sit for a while?”

 

“Sure. Come on.” Nick leads Apollo out to the living room. He doesn’t quite lay him down to sleep, but he does wrap a throw blanket over Apollo’s shoulders when he curls up on the couch. “Comfy?” Nick asks.

 

Sheepish, Apollo nods. Nick sits down a comfortable distance away from him—not touching, but close enough that Apollo could reach out if he wanted.

 

“Can I tell you something?” Apollo asks after a beat.

 

Nick frowns. “What’s up?”

 

“They arrested Lamiroir’s pianist for the murder. He’s only 14 and he’s blind and he doesn’t speak English.” Apollo sinks into the couch. “It’s really bothering me.”

 

“Are you bringing this up for work reasons or personal reasons?”

 

“I don’t know,” Apollo admits. “Both? I mean, I want to defend him. Even if they’re right and he did do it somehow, I want to defend him.”

 

“And you’re sure?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure. I-I mean—” Apollo flushes “---I wouldn’t lie to get him off the hook, I just think he deserves a fair defense. Everyone does. Right?”

 

Nick nods. “That’s right.”

 

“But you won’t defend a guilty client.”

 

“Do you think Tobaye is guilty?”

 

“Well, no.” Apollo averts his eyes. “But what if he is?”

 

“What is it I always say?”

 

Apollo sighs. “Believe in your client until the end. But… Maybe faith isn’t about innocence, or—or complete trust. Maybe it’s more complicated than that.” He looks back up at Nick and frowns; Nick is giving him a funny look.

 

“What?” Apollo demands.

 

“Kid, I think you’re on track to be a better lawyer than I am,” Nick admits. “I’m really proud of you.”

 

Apollo flushes again at the praise. “W-Well, it’s not like I have it figured out just yet.”

 

“No one does. Now, what’s the personal part?”

 

Tired, Apollo curls up even further into the couch cushions. The TV is muted but still playing old sitcom reruns on whatever channel Nick had it turned to when they got home. Picture-perfect families move across the screen in silence; Apollo imagines the canned laughter playing over their antics, the perfectly packaged happy and wholesome ending, a fantasy where the really bad things never happen to good people.

 

“I was a troubled kid from a foreign country, too,” Apollo says, and it’s the closest he’s come to talking to Nick about Khura’in. “I didn’t speak English very well, either. And people thought I was capable of so much more violence than I ever really was, just because I was small and scared and I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.

 

“I’ve started to wonder—if he were from the States, if he spoke English, would he have even been so quickly arrested?”

 

“I don’t know,” Nick says after a beat. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

 

“You parented me through high school,” Apollo says incredulously, “and you never thought about this sort of thing before?”

 

“Touche,” Nick concedes, “maybe I should have.”

 

Apollo lets himself go quiet, leaning against the arm of the couch. His energy is flagging, but he forces himself to stay awake, afraid of his subconscious.

 

“I don’t know,” Nick eventually says. “What I do know is you can’t change what’s already been done; all you can do is advocate for the kid as best you can. That’s your job as his lawyer. Understand me?”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Good.” Nick chances a light pat on Apollo’s arm. “You look like you’re ready for bed there, kiddo.”

 

Apollo shakes his head.

 

Nick chuckles. “Okay. But if you fall asleep there, I can’t carry you with only one arm.”

 

“Not asking you to,” Apollo grumbles, eyes slipping shut.

 

Nick says something else, but Apollo doesn’t really hear it; he’s out like a light within seconds.

(He does wake up screaming and crying, flailing his limbs about in the dark until Nick—who stayed with him on the couch until he passed out himself—is able to catch his arms and steady him. He holds Apollo, whispering soothing affirmations— you’re safe, it’s okay, it’s all over, I’ve got you —until he stops crying.

 

After Apollo’s calm, Nick nudges him off to his old room. He helps Apollo into his pajamas and tucks him in, and he sits down and waits, wordlessly, until Apollo feels safe enough to fall asleep again.

 

They don’t talk about it in the morning.)

 

---

Several arguments with the district attorney’s office and one gag order later, Apollo is cleared to begin investigating Letouse’s murder, Trucy in tow.

 

(He does feel a bit strange about carting his 15-year-old sister around a murder scene, but then again, he’s the one who had a horrible traumatic flashback while she’s remained cool as a cucumber, so she’s not the one most people around them are worried about.)

 

Apollo learns three key facts over the course of an afternoon’s investigation. One, the gun used in the murder would have been too large for Machi Tobaye to operate without severe injury, meaning the police are, as usual, full of shit and Apollo has a strong case. Two, Lamiroir is a witness to the murder, but claims she saw nothing.

 

The third comes when Apollo gets the opportunity to speak to Lamiroir directly. It happens while Trucy is pestering a grumbling Detective Skye as she works, leaving Apollo on his own to question their witness. Klavier and a couple of cops, of course, are present for the whole thing.

 

The thing about Lamiroir is that there’s something in her eyes, in her voice, in her posture, that Apollo finds himself oddly soothed by. She seems to look through him, rather than at him, which is more than fine by Apollo, who isn’t the best at eye contact to begin with. But she answers his questions gracefully, as best she can, until Apollo sees it:

 

The long, flowing sleeve of Lamiroir’s elegant cloak slips up over her wrist, revealing a gold bangle, and Apollo’s world goes still. He sees it like he would a tell, time slowing to a crawl for a brief few seconds as his kinetic vision takes over. It’s only visible for a moment, just a moment , so quickly there’s not a chance anyone else would have even noticed its movement: That’s his mother’s bracelet, identical to the gold band currently squeezing the life out of Apollo’s own wrist.

 

“E-Excuse me,” he says to all present and yet no one in particular, and ducks his head and hurries off to the bathroom, where he promptly locks himself in a stall and presses his knuckles into his eyes.

 

He’s glad for the NDA meaning no one’s really around, so the bathroom is deserted. It’s the perfect place for Apollo to have a major freakout, which he is most definitely seconds away from.

 

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself, sitting on the toilet fully clothed. “Holy shit .”

 

Apollo pushes down the memories that try to bubble up and overwhelm him, but something unexpected and terrifying breaks through the surface, something he’d long since repressed. His mother, motionless on the stage floor, bleeding out from a head wound; Zak screaming ; Valant calling for help; and Magnifi, on the other side of the room, eyes locked on the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Thalassa’s chest.

 

The memory cracks open Apollo’s ribs with a searing phantom pain, and he muffles a cry into his hands. Breathe, you idiot, he thinks. Breathe!

 

He’s not sure how much time passes before, horrifyingly, there’s a knock at the stall door.

 

“Ah… Herr Forehead? …Apollo?” Klavier Gavin’s voice calls. “Are you alright in there?”

 

Apollo gulps and tries to steady his voice. “Leave me alone, Gavin,” he calls back, unconvincingly.

 

“You have been in here for twenty minutes,” Klavier says. “Your sister is looking for you all over.”

 

Trucy , Apollo thinks with mortification. How is he going to tell her Thalassa is alive ?

 

“I’m fine,” Apollo insists. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

 

Klavier sighs. “Are you sure you’re… alright handling this case?”

 

“Why, afraid I’m going to win?”

 

Tutting in disapproval, Klavier raps his knuckles against the stall door, rattling both it and Apollo’s nerves. “I’m afraid you’re going to compromise the trial if you cannot remain composed, ja?”

 

Apollo feels the sudden urge to strangle Klavier Gavin. Or to cry, whichever comes easier. He yanks open the stall door and is met with Klavier’s stupid, smug, pretty face, tinged with concern and alarm.

 

“You don’t have the right to question my composure,” Apollo snaps, fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t know the half of what I’ve been through.”

 

Klavier throws his hands up. “I… did not mean it that way,” he says.

 

Apollo huffs. “Sure you didn’t.” He brushes past Klavier to wash his hands. Then, a little voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Clay tells him he’s being a bit of a jerk, so he takes a deep breath and says, calmer, “It has nothing to do with the case, and I’m more than capable of standing in court without losing my cool. Happy?”

 

Klavier lowers his hands. “Ja. I was just checking, Forehead. As you are, technically speaking, a witness.”

 

Drying his hands, Apollo shakes his head. “The murder didn’t… traumatize me, if that’s what you’re so worried about.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m fine. I have my own shit going on that doesn’t involve you.”

 

“Doesn’t it?”

 

Apollo stops in his tracks. “This isn’t about your brother, Klavier.”

 

Klavier shrugs. “Most things are, aren’t they?”

 

“Not this,” Apollo says. “Not this time. Like I said, you don’t know the half of it. And it isn’t your business, either.”

 

“Understood.” Klavier backs toward the door. “But if you ever need to talk, well, then I’m happy to lend an ear.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Tell Trucy I’m fine and I’ll be out in a minute, would you? And mind your business.”

 

Klavier nods and exits, at last leaving Apollo alone again. The shock hits him all over again like a freight train, and he steadies himself against the sink. He’s going to have to keep it together until he gets Trucy home, although she’s so perceptive she’ll probably know something is bothering him anyway, so he’ll have to work hard to convince her it’s just stress from the other night. Once she’s out of his care, then he can have a proper meltdown.

 

The very thought of being alone with the revelation makes him anxious. Apollo decides, reluctantly, that he might need a little help.

 

---

Just as the sun is sinking below the horizon at the end of another day, the door to Phoenix’s office swings open and in slinks Apollo, because the guy never knocks or announces his presence regardless of whether the door is ajar or not. This time, Apollo shuts the door behind himself and hurries over to Phoenix’s desk, eyes wide.

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Phoenix asks. “Where’s Trucy?”

 

“She’s at home,” Apollo says. “I dropped her off. She doesn’t know I came back here.”

 

Phoenix feels cold dread curl in the pit of his stomach. Apollo is pale even in the golden light as he takes a seat across the desk; whatever he’s seen today must have shaken him nearly as much as the murder, somehow, which makes even the hairs on Phoenix’s arms stand on end.

 

“You can’t tell her what I’m about to tell you,” Apollo says.

 

Phoenix furrows his brow. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” he admits.

 

“Mr. Wright, I’m serious.”

 

Phoenix meets his stare; Apollo’s eyes are glassy and deeply solemn, almost haunted. His hand is in view on the desk, trembling in a telltale sign of mounting panic.

 

“Apollo,” he says after a beat. “What’s this about?”

 

Apollo looks away. “I met Lamiroir today,” he starts. “I got to talk to her up close, properly.”

 

“Okay,” Phoenix says.

 

“She—Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

 

“Apollo, she’s famous and I’ve read the case file. Yes, I know what she looks like.”

 

“No, like—like up close. Close enough to see her face?”

 

“Well, no. Any pictures of her I’ve seen tend to obscure most of her face pretty well.”

 

Apollo buries his face in his hands. “I thought I was going crazy, at first, when I heard her voice,” he says, voice muffled. “I mean, it’s been ten years. But then I saw—When her sleeve moved, s-she—She’s my mom .”

 

Phoenix’s heart stops. “ What? Apollo, are you absolutely sure of that?”

 

Apollo lifts his head and meets his eyes again; his face is streaked with tears. Orange light flickers off the bracelet on his wrist. “Mr. Wright— Nick ,” he croaks, voice pained. “It was the same bracelet. It’s unmistakable. Lamiroir is Thalassa Gramarye. She’s alive .”

 

A beat passes in heavy silence. Apollo is quaking, breath coming short and quick. Phoenix pushes himself out of his chair and shuts the blinds against prying eyes at the Gatewater across the way before hefting Apollo out of his seat and easing him onto the floor as best he can with one arm still in a cast.

 

“Okay, just try to breathe,” he says gently as he sits down in front of him. “You’re working yourself up into a panic attack.”

 

“Nick,” Apollo says wetly. “I-I was right all along.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I always knew she was alive. I-I knew it. B-But Magnifi—I convinced myself she had to be dead.”

 

“What’s this about Magnifi?”

 

Apollo shakes his head and draws his knees to his chest. Worried, Phoenix slips a hand into his and squeezes.

 

“Apollo, I don’t want to push you, but whatever happened—I think I need to know.”

 

“You can’t tell Trucy,” Apollo wheezes.

 

“I won’t, I promise. Tell me what Magnifi has to do with this, please.”

 

Apollo takes a broken, shuddering breath. He squeezes Phoenix’s hand back, hard, knuckles white as he struggles to take in air. Finally, he looks Phoenix in the eye and admits, “After Mom was shot, I could tell Magnifi was hiding something, s-so I told him I didn’t think Mom was really dead, and h-he beat me and threatened to throw me out on the street and—”

 

Phoenix lunges forward and tugs Apollo into his arms, right there on the floor. Apollo lets out a sharp gasp and promptly bursts into tears, burying his face in Phoenix’s shoulder. Only the soft glow of Phoenix’s desk lamp lights them, casting long shadows across the floor.

 

Magnifi’s abuse is not new information to Phoenix, but it gets worse every time he learns more about the full extent of it. Trucy doesn’t have any physical scars, but Apollo does—and even more so emotional ones, ones that when prodded leave him shaking and bawling wrapped in Phoenix’s arms in a way he hasn’t since he was a teenager living under Phoenix’s roof.

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Phoenix whispers. “He’s a piece of shit and he’s gone now.”

 

“He knew,” Apollo sobs between gulps of air. “He always knew and he beat the truth out of me until I was too scared to question it but Mom was always out there and we needed her, I needed her—”

 

“Shh. I know.” Phoenix rocks them back and forth a little, carding his fingers through Apollo’s soft hair.

 

“What am I gonna do? She doesn’t remember anything. What do I tell Trucy?”

 

“We’ll figure that out together, okay?” Phoenix breathes deep. “For now I just want you to focus on calming down.”

 

“She was still breathing when they shot her,” Apollo says. “I remember now. I saw it, Nick.”

 

“Does anyone else know about this?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “I couldn't tell Trucy. She was so little at the time, a-and—”

 

“Okay. I understand. Did you tell anyone about Magnifi?”

 

“I told you .”

 

“Good point. Breathe with me, okay? Nice and easy, you know the drill.”

 

Apollo struggles through a few ragged breaths, following Phoenix's lead. He's shaking like a leaf in Phoenix's arms, and Phoenix thanks every god he doesn’t believe in that Apollo is less cagey now than he was at 15, even through the professional walls he's tried to erect between them. It'll never not be awful to hear him in this much pain, but it will always be better than those earliest days, when he walked around the house on tiptoe as if waiting for danger to strike.

 

“It was the worst it ever was,” Apollo says. “That day. I told you before, it was usually just, like, he'd slap me for mouthing off or—or whatever. But it was… That time was worse. I… I was really scared.”

 

“Of course you were scared. Being beaten and threatened, buddy, that's… that's a new level.” Phoenix resists the urge to squeeze Apollo too tightly, knowing it might spook him. In the past, Phoenix could imagine that Magnifi's behavior stemmed from an inherited belief in discipline—wrong, cruel, and inexcusable, but not fueled by malice. Now, he is met with a new reality: Sometimes, it was meant to hurt and to frighten, and to make him forget. The trauma was the point.

 

“Apollo, you didn't deserve it, okay? You know that, right?”

 

“I know,” Apollo sniffs. “I know, I know.”

 

“Shh. Good. You’re okay.”

 

Apollo squirms free of Phoenix’s grasp but holds onto the end of his sleeve—a tether through the storm of his emotions, even when a hug becomes too much. He looks horribly ragged, cheeks pink and tear-stained, hair a mess of half-curls, eyes puffy. Phoenix knows better than to reach out for him again when he doesn’t want it, but god is the urge there.

 

“You’re safe,” he reiterates gently. “You’re not going to be hurt. We’ll figure this out.”

 

Apollo sniffles. “What if when she finds out she tries to get custody of Trucy?” he asks. “It’s—We thought she was dead for so long, is she even legally either of our moms anymore? We have new birth certificates and—”

 

“Woah, slow down,” Phoenix says. “Getting her original identity back—if she even wants to—would be a whole legal process in itself, alright? As for Trucy…” Phoenix’s stomach flips, and he tries to put on a smile. “Well, that’ll be Trucy’s choice, won’t it?”

 

“To be honest,” Apollo confesses, “I don’t know how much she even remembers Mom.”

 

Phoenix swallows down the twisted sense of relief he gets at the idea. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves then, yeah?”

 

Apollo nods reluctantly, breath stuttering in his chest. Phoenix hushes him.

 

“At minimum,” he says gently, “I think you should focus on the trial before you try to approach Lamiroir with this.”

 

“What about Trucy?” Apollo whimpers.

 

“I won't ask you to lie to your sister anymore, Apollo,” Phoenix says. “But… try to make sure she doesn't take the matter into her own hands, please.”

 

Apollo chokes on another sob, and then he’s crying in earnest again, curling his fist around Phoenix’s sleeve.

 

“Aw, buddy,” Phoenix whispers. “It’s gonna be okay.”

 

“I feel bad,” he says through his tears. “A-All that time I wanted my mom back, and now she’s alive and I’m relieved but I don’t—I don’t—”

 

“You don’t want things to change,” Phoenix finishes for him.

 

Apollo nods vigorously. “But she’s my mom ,” he cries. “I missed her, I-I needed her!”

 

“And she was gone for ten years. How many years of your life has she missed in all?”

 

“It wasn’t her fault!” Apollo releases Phoenix’s sleeve, indignant.

 

“I know it wasn’t,” Phoenix is quick to soothe. “But it’s okay if you’ve moved on.”

 

Apollo scoots forward so Phoenix can give him another hug. “But I haven’t,” Apollo insists. “I-I still wake up screaming thinking about her. I-I hear it.”

 

Phoenix wraps his good arm around Apollo and holds him. “That’s because it was traumatic, kiddo. Come on, now, you’re getting yourself all worked up again.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

 

Apollo sniffles wetly, and a burst of awareness seems to flash through him. “Oh, god,” he croaks. “I’m crying all over you at the office .”

 

Phoenix chuckles and pats his back. “This office has seen plenty of tears, Apollo,” he says. “What’s a few more?”

 

Apollo just blubbers into his shoulder a little while longer, and Phoenix is simply glad the kid is this emotive. Apollo becoming completely closed off was a worry Phoenix had for quite some time, and Kristoph Gavin certainly didn’t help.

 

“Hey,” he says softly once Apollo calms down. “Just trust me. We’ll figure it out, alright?”

 

“What if when she finds out,” Apollo asks, “she decides she doesn’t want me anymore?”

 

Phoenix makes careful note of the specificity of “me” and not “us”. To some, it would sound like a lack of concern for Trucy. To Phoenix, who has spent the last seven years learning—with mixed results—how to parent, it registers as a lack of self-worth. What if she doesn’t want me anymore, Apollo said, as though loving Trucy were an inevitability and loving him a chore.

 

“Why would she decide that?” Phoenix asks carefully.

 

Apollo shrugs. “What if I’m not what she hoped?” he asks. “What if I grew up to be too much of a mess?”

 

Phoenix rubs his back and tries to find the right words to say. He settles on, “Then it’d be her loss, Apollo,” and Apollo’s lip quivers as he nods.

 

“Let’s get up off the floor now, okay?” Phoenix suggests. “My physical therapist’s not gonna be too happy with me as it is.”

 

Despite himself, Apollo snorts and clambers to his feet like an awkward baby deer. Phoenix instinctively puts an arm out to steady him, but Apollo is fine, brushing dust off his pants casually like he didn’t just have a panic attack. Once he’s standing himself, Phoenix stretches his back with a wince as his vertebrae pop back into place one by one. Apollo scowls at the grotesque noise his joints make, but unfortunately for him, Apollo’s surliness will always come off as more cute than intimidating to Phoenix, no matter how old the kid gets.

 

But Apollo is visibly trying to slot himself back into Work Mode, so saying as such will likely only piss him off. So Phoenix packages away his affection for a later day and settles for clapping Apollo on the shoulder.

 

“Alright,” he says. “If you’re feeling better, why don’t you tell me what you can about your investigation? I’ll see what I can do to help.”

 

A little spark lights up in Apollo’s eyes the way it always does when Phoenix offers him advice, though he pretends to be nonchalant about it when he replies, “Sure, I guess I can tell you something .”

 

Suppressing a chuckle, Phoenix leads him back to his seat at the desk. There’s plenty of work to be done.

 

---

At Mr. Wright’s suggestion, Apollo visits Machi alone.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “The court is dragging its feet with getting an interpreter. For today, let’s do our best.”

 

Machi doesn’t answer, but behind his dark glasses, his eyes flick left and right. Just what Apollo was hoping for.

 

“I figured it out, you know,” he says. “You’re not really blind. Lamiroir is, right?”

 

Machi flinches.

 

“And another thing,” Apollo pushes onward. “You do know some English.”

 

Arms wrapped around his middle, Machi curls in on himself, tiny and fearful. “...Yes,” he says. “A few words I know.”

 

“You can understand way more than you can speak, can’t you?” Apollo asks. After a beat, Machi nods. Apollo says, “I thought so. I was the same way.”

 

Machi tilts his head. “You are American,” he says, and it’s so matter-of-fact that Apollo almost giggles.

 

“Well, yeah,” Apollo says, “but I actually grew up in Khura’in for a while with a foster family. When I moved here, I had to learn English. A lot of people thought I couldn’t understand them even though I could, and it was hard to express myself. I got into trouble quite a bit.”

 

Machi looks skeptical of that. “You?” he asks.

 

Apollo does laugh that time. “Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe,” he admits. “But it’s true. Adults thought I was a bad kid because I was in a bad situation. Well, most adults.” Apollo grins. “I proved them wrong though, right?”

 

Machi cracks a smile. It’s bright and a little lopsided, like a young teenage boy’s should be.

 

“Machi,” Apollo says, “do you think you could tell me what happened?”

 

Predictably, Machi falters, squeezing his arms.

 

“You can trust me,” Apollo assures him. “No matter what happened, I’m on your side. Everyone deserves a friend in their corner.”

 

“...Okay,” Machi says at last. “I explain.”

 

“Thank you.” Apollo’s shoulders slump in relief. “I promise to get you an interpreter, Machi. We’re going to give you a fair shot tomorrow.”

 

---

By some measure, the trial is a success.

 

Machi pleads guilty to the crime of smuggling—and not murder—and wins. With Trucy’s help, Apollo paints a narrative of a boy fallen victim to circumstance and manipulated into conspiracy by adults. He has the courtroom in the palm of his hand by the end, and even Klavier, clinging to the innocence of his bandmate, is swayed to Machi’s side. The judge, sympathetic to the kid, sentences Machi to juvenile detention; he’ll be out in a year with good behavior, and Apollo promises to help him seek asylum to avoid prosecution in Borginia when the time comes.

 

Watching his young client be led away in handcuffs still stings, even if it’s the win Apollo was aiming for. But as he goes, Machi finally removes his glasses, looks Apollo in the eyes, bright and earnest, and smiles.

In the defense lobby, Apollo and Trucy speak face-to-face with Lamiroir following the trial’s conclusion.

 

“I owe you both very much. Machi…. He is like a son to me,” Lamiroir says, and Apollo pushes down the spike of painful jealousy that scratches at his insides like barbs. “I do not know why he would do such things, but I thank you. He will be safe now.”

 

“It was nothing,” Trucy says brightly, as if she’s the one who did all the work. She doesn’t budge when Apollo tries to shove her. “Will you be performing more shows around here?”

 

Lamiroir winces. “Ah… I do not know, without Machi. But I start to think, perhaps I should consider the eye surgery. I would like to paint you, as thanks. Perhaps I should be brave, and begin to uncover my past.”

 

“I think that’s very admirable,” Apollo says, slightly choked in a way that has Trucy eyeing him strangely.

 

Lamiroir nods. “Thank you, Mr. Justice.”

 

Trucy bounces on her heels. “I gotta go find Daddy,” she says. “Be right back, Polly. It’s nice to meet you, Lamiroir!”

 

“And you, Trucy,” Lamiroir says kindly and Trucy darts off down the hall. With another nod to Apollo, Lamiroir says, “I should be going as well. I… must figure out where I am to go now.”

 

A sudden, frantic desperation claws its way up Apollo’s throat. Be brave, be brave, he thinks. She deserves to know the truth!

 

“Oh, um, Lamiroir,” Apollo beckons, and the woman—his mother —turns back toward his voice. Apollo thinks if the accident hadn’t blinded her she’d probably still be able to feel his own anxiety mirrored on her own wrist. “There’s something I want to tell you, before you go.”

 

“Yes?” she asks.

 

“Um… This is going to sound kind of crazy, but… Can I see your hand?”

 

“...I suppose,” Lamiroir says, and allows Apollo to cradle one of her hands in his own. It sends a shock up his spine; he hasn’t held his mother’s hand in years, and it feels strange, not being so tiny anymore. Her hand feels delicate in his now.

 

“See, I noticed the other day that you wear this bracelet,” Apollo breathes. “And I… also wear one. I got it from my mom when I was really little, and there’s only two like it. And, um… Here.” He draws Lamiroir’s hand to his own wrist, and her fingers instinctively run over the etching on his bracelet. It’s no doubt a perfect match to her own, and her hand starts to shake.

 

She pulls it back to her chest as if burned. “I—” She gulps. “I’m… I’m sorry, I should—I need to be going now.”

 

“M—Lamiroir, please,” Apollo begs.

 

“Thank you, Ap—Mr. Justice. And T-Trucy too. Thank you again for saving Machi,” Lamiroir chokes out. “I must go.”

 

“Wait!” Apollo calls, but Lamiroir is already turning the corner. When he peeks down the hall she, in true Gramarye fashion, is already gone.

 

---

Apollo lays awake, tossing and turning in his old twin bed. He misses his apartment, but with the trial over and Clay visiting his dad for the weekend, it was Trucy’s request to spend time with him. And then Nick suggested it would be better for him than being by himself when he’s been so on edge lately, and suddenly it wasn’t really a suggestion anymore.

 

Speaking of being on edge, Apollo stifles a frustrated, anxious groan into his pillow. He can’t get his limbs to relax, all taut with nervous energy. Every muscle in his body feels like it’s out to get him.

 

It’s that damn memory—now that he’s not repressing it anymore, all he hears each night is the shot and the screams that followed.

 

Going to wake Nick and ask him for reassurance feels humiliating, and besides, Apollo very much needs to get this off his chest. So he does the unthinkable: He slips into the hall and knocks on Trucy’s door.

 

“Come in!” she calls brightly. When Apollo enters, he finds her sitting at her desk with headphones on, scribbling in her notebook—he recognizes it as the one she uses to plan out all of her magic tricks, and his heart warms at the fact that she trusts him enough not to hide it from his sight.

 

“Hi,” she says, pulling off her headphones. She tilts her head. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Can’t sleep,” Apollo murmurs, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Can I talk to you about something?”

 

“Huh? Of course.” Trucy spins her chair around to face him. “What’s up?”

 

“It’s family stuff,” Apollo warns. “It might make you kind of upset.”

 

Frowning, Trucy rolls her chair closer.

 

“So, um. You know the thing we sort of talked about, with the accident with the guns, and Mom?” Apollo starts. Trucy nods. “Well… I was there that day.”

 

“I know, Polly. We don’t have to talk about that.”

 

“It’s important,” Apollo insists. “There’s stuff I’ve gotta tell you.”

 

“If you’re sure…”

 

There’s a moment where neither of them speak. The fan in the corner of the room whirs on and on in the background.

 

“Trucy,” Apollo says weakly. “Did you know that Magnifi used to hit Mom?”

 

Trucy winces. “I kind of had a feeling?”

 

“Okay.” Apollo breathes. “Well, he, um. He—Do you remember h-how you used to find all those bruises on me?”

 

“Polly.” Trucy gets out of her chair and sits beside him on the bed, linking their arms together. “You really, really don’t have to say it.”

 

“I do,” Apollo ekes out. “For my own sake. Okay?”

 

“I guess so.” Trucy takes his hand.

 

“Magnifi didn’t like me very much. He hated the way I cried, the way I didn’t always understand what he was saying, how loud I was, how much I misbehaved. So he—would hit me. Usually not, like, a lot—and you might even remember that much.”

 

“I do remember him yelling at you,” Trucy admits. Her thumb strokes lazy circles on the back of his hand. “It’s hard to remember… a lot about him.”

 

Apollo takes a deep breath. He’s reached the really, really hard part, the part he’s repressed for ten years, the part he only told Nick in a fit of panic, the same way most of his traumatic memories get dumped onto Nick.

 

“Trucy,” he says, “back to Mom’s accident, I—I remember it really vividly, now. It’s why I had that really bad episode at the concert. It all just came back at once, I—” Apollo gulps. “I remembered something important. When Mom went down, she was still breathing.”

 

“...Huh?”

 

“I could tell because of our vision. I could see her chest moving, which—which means Magnifi could, too.”

 

Something dawns on Trucy; her hand clenches tight around Apollo’s.

 

“S-So I asked him about it one day, when no one was home. A-And he beat me. Like, badly—and I got so, so scared that I just—I basically forgot what I saw, I didn’t know how to think about it without shutting down.”

 

“Oh no, Apollo,” Trucy says in a low murmur.

 

“It was so, so much worse after Mom was gone.” Apollo flops backward onto Trucy’s bed, and she follows suit, still joining their hands. “Never as bad as that day, but—I was so scared in that house after that, Trucy, and I just—I never wanted to tell you because you were always so little and I didn’t want to ruin our family for you.”

 

“I’m not little anymore, Polly. You can tell me anything.” Trucy pokes his side. “I pieced this together before, you know. I just didn’t push.”

 

“I know, but I had to—” Apollo huffs a sigh. He steels himself. “Truce. The thing is, I… The other day, when we were investigating, and I went to speak to Lamiroir—Do you remember how much her performance moved me to tears? Both of us?”

 

“Yes?” Trucy replies, puzzled.

 

“I… I was right, ten years ago. Magnifi beat me because I was right. It’s—Mom’s alive, Trucy. She just doesn’t remember us.”

 

Trucy bolts upright, eyes wide, and pulls her hands to her chest like she’s been burned.

 

“T-Trucy?” Apollo asks, clutching his own chest. He can feel his rabbiting heart through his shirt.

 

“Sorry, I just need a second,” Trucy whispers. She breathes shakily. “I can’t believe I didn’t—I couldn’t recognize her.”

 

“I barely did,” Apollo assures her. “It was her bracelet that gave it away.”

 

“And you’re sure it was her?”

 

“Yes, Trucy. I’m positive.”

 

“But she has amnesia. And she’s blind.”

 

“Yeah.” Apollo rubs at his sternum. “She has no idea who we are.”

 

Trucy hunches further in on herself. “Do we tell her?”

 

“I… Already tried,” Apollo says. “After the trial.”

 

“You told her without me?” Trucy barks, whirling on Apollo with a wounded look.

 

“I just—All I did was show her my bracelet,” Apollo insists, blood running cold. You’ve made Trucy upset, he thinks, you’re going to make her cry, you were impulsive and stupid and you ruined this for her, and Nick is going to get mad. “She got spooked, though, and—I don’t know how to reach her.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me first ?” Trucy cries, kneeling beside him and gripping the hem of Apollo’s shirt. “Why am I always the last to know everything? She’s—she’s my mom too, Apollo!”

 

“I know,” Apollo whimpers, slapping his hands over his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

“What do you mean you didn’t mean to?” Trucy tugs on his shirt. “You can’t just—”

 

“I panicked!” Apollo snaps. “I wanted you to know first, but she was right there, and I just wanted to try !”

 

Trucy huffs. “You always do this. You always—”

 

The door to Trucy’s room creaks open the rest of the way, and Nick staggers in. “Woah, woah, what’s going on here?” he asks, all scruffy and groggy from sleep.

 

Trucy’s lip quivers. She drops from her knees onto her butt, arms over her chest.

 

“You two should both be asleep,” Nick says in his dad voice, firm. “What’s with the shouting, huh?”

 

“I bet you told him, didn’t you?” Trucy asks Apollo.

 

Apollo, still on his back, yells out, “I was going to have a panic attack, Trucy, what did you want me to do?”

 

“Tell me ,” Trucy cries. “I’m supposed to help!”

 

“Okay, okay, alright,” Nick says, stepping up and sitting in Trucy’s vacated desk chair. “I see what’s going on here. Both of you need to take a breath.”

 

Apollo covers his eyes again. He presses his palms in so hard he starts to see stars. “It’s my fault,” he says.

 

“No, shh,” Nick quiets him. “It’s not anybody’s fault.”

 

Trucy bursts into tears.

 

“Why can’t it be somebody’s fault?” she blubbers. “It’s Granddaddy’s fault! It has to be his fault because—because—”

 

Apollo opens his eyes and reaches for Trucy’s wrist. “Because if it’s not his fault,” he finishes for her, voice quavering, “then the problem is us.”

 

Trucy yanks her hand away, but she nods.

 

Nick sighs. “Let’s go through this piece by piece, okay? Apollo, you didn’t scare anybody anyway. Thalassa needs to take this at her own pace; amnesia’s hard. That’s not your fault.”

 

“But if I hadn’t spoken up at all,” Apollo insists, “she wouldn’t have run off before I could tell Trucy.”

 

Nick shakes his head. “The outcome would have been the same.”

 

It does little to unravel the tight knot of guilt in Apollo’s chest, but he forces a nod anyway. Trucy grumbles beside him.

 

“Trucy, sweetheart,” Nick says then, eyes flicking over to Trucy. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

 

Trucy sniffles loudly. “Why did you wait?” she demands.

 

Apollo’s heart bursts. “Because I needed to tell you about Magnifi and I was scared,” he shouts, prompting Nick to place a hand on his knee and shush him. Apollo struggles through a breath and says, quieter, “I was scared to tell you.”

 

“I’d already figured out you were abused, Polly,” Trucy says, and the word makes Apollo flinch. “Remember?”

 

“Admitting it out loud feels different,” Nick offers.

 

“Polly told you ,” Trucy fires back with a pout.

 

Nick’s gaze sharpens. “Trucy, we talked about this,” he says firmly.

 

“I was having vivid flashbacks,” Apollo explains again. “I was panicking. I needed help.”

 

Trucy grabs her pillow and throws it to the floor. “Of course you needed help!” she shouts. “You always need help. And I can’t—I can’t even be mad because it’s not your fault !”

 

“Trucy, please don’t throw things,” Nick says with an eerie calm. “Both of you need to stop right now and listen to me, got it?”

 

Apollo and Trucy both go still.

 

“Listen. Neither of you are at fault here, okay?” Nick says slowly, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “And it’s not your mother’s fault this happened to her, either.”

 

A beat passes.

 

“I’m glad Granddaddy Magnifi is dead,” Trucy grumbles.

 

“Trucy—” Nick warns.

 

“I am too,” Apollo croaks, finally tugging himself upright. The confession slips out so easily, after so many years: “I wished for it.”

 

Nick looks taken aback for a moment, stunned into silence by their mutual certainty.

 

Apollo knows, after painstaking time spent in therapy, that Magnifi is not the sole architect of his misery. But it feels good to finally be free of the secrets he’s held onto these last ten years.

 

Magnifi Gramarye is dead. And Thalassa… Thalassa gets to live.

 

And so do they.

 

“Okay,” Nick eventually says after he’s recovered from his shock. “Well, be patient with Thalassa, alright? We can try to get a hold of her.”

 

“She probably doesn’t want us anymore,” Trucy says, despondent. “I wouldn’t.”

 

“Why would you think that, babygirl?”

 

“Because our family’s only brought her pain. I wouldn’t want anything to do with us.”

 

The truth finally settles in Apollo’s chest. Taking Trucy’s hand, he says, “They haven’t been our family for a long time.” He gives her hand a squeeze. “We don’t even carry the Gramarye name. We never have.”

 

“That’s right,” Nick affirms, holding Trucy’s other hand.

 

“That’s Wright?” Trucy giggles. Apollo rolls his eyes. Nick laughs, hearty and warm.

 

“You got it, sweetheart,” he says. “I love you both, you know that, right? No matter what happens—no matter what Thalassa thinks—we’ll always be a family, whatever you want that to mean.” His gaze slides over to Apollo. “I promise.”

 

Apollo wipes his eyes. When did he start crying?

 

“Both of you need to get some sleep now,” Nick says gently. “It’s late.”

 

“Yes, Daddy,” Trucy sniffs. “Polly? Will you stay?”

 

“Please.” Apollo wraps her in a hug. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I don’t.”

 

“Okay, under the covers with you both,” Nick urges. Both of them climb under the blankets, Trucy pillowing her head on Apollo’s chest, over his heart. Nick smooths the covers over them and presses a kiss to Trucy’s forehead. “No more arguments tonight, okay?”

 

Trucy hums and nods. Nick brushes a lock of hair behind Apollo’s ear.

 

“Get some rest,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”

 

Apollo nods, already starting to drift at last. The two of them barely fit in Trucy’s bed, but Apollo doesn’t mind. He wraps his arms around Trucy and holds her, content to let her presence chase his anxiety away. Her breath comes soft and steady against his clavicle as she settles.

 

“Goodnight,” Nick whispers, stroking Apollo’s hair.

 

“Goodnight,” Apollo says back, eyes closed. Trucy murmurs something that sounds like “Night, Daddy,” but it’s barely intelligible.

 

Nick chuckles softly, and the door clicks shut.

 

“Sorry for yellin’ at you,” Trucy mumbles into Apollo’s shirt.

 

“It’s okay. Sorry for dumping all this on you, and not telling you sooner.”

 

“S’okay. I love you.”

 

“Love you too. Sorry if I have a nightmare and wake you.”

 

Trucy hums. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

 

Apollo lets himself drift off, slumping his weight into Trucy’s mountain of extra pillows. He’s asleep at last within minutes, curled up with his baby sister like he’s a kid again. They’ll solve this; but for now, Apollo rests. He doesn’t wake in tears even once.

 

---

Apollo tries to contact Lamiroir in the days that follow—none of his calls connect. He tries reaching out to her through Klavier, but Klavier says he hasn’t been able to reach her since the trial concluded.

 

“I don’t know where she’s gone,” Klavier admits over the phone while Apollo is finishing up filing paperwork at the courthouse. “I worry for Machi.”

 

Machi’s the least of my concerns, Apollo thinks, and then he feels horrible for such a thought.

 

There’s anger boiling in Apollo’s stomach by the time he makes it home that day, fists clenched tightly around the straps of his backpack and heart pounding viciously in his chest. There are opposing mantras running in his head, one urging him to lash out and the other saying don’t, you’re better than that, you need to calm down. The latter only fuels the first, and Apollo reaches his bed shaking.

 

He grabs a pillow and squeezes it to his chest, hard, willing himself to breathe. The last thing he wants is to fly into a rage in front of Clay, even though Clay’s seen him at his worst. He doesn’t trust himself not to be mean, or snappy, or worse—physical. Apollo hasn’t hit anybody since he tried to hit Nick months ago, but the desperate anxiety in his veins still freaks him out.

 

Apollo tips onto his side and muffles a scream into his pillow. How is he going to break it to Trucy now? How does he tell her that not only did he scare their mother off, but now no one can reach her at all?

 

It’s all his fault. Trucy had a chance at getting her mother back and Apollo ruined it.

 

He slams his fist into his pillow—it doesn’t really help, but it breaks the dam, and Apollo starts crying. He buries his face in the pillow again and wails, kicking his feet in the hopes of making it all go away. All he succeeds in doing is getting his bedding tangled up around his ankles, which only riles him up more.

 

He’s grumbling and weeping and fuming when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.

 

“I made dinner,” Clay calls through the door. “You hungry?”

 

“...Be there in a minute,” Apollo replies into his pillow.

 

“Okay. You alright?”

 

“No,” Apollo admits.

 

“Oh.” Clay pauses. “Can I come in?”

 

“I guess so.”

 

The door creaks open and Clay’s footsteps move closer. The mattress dips; Clay reaches out and pokes Apollo in the side. Apollo smacks his hand away.

 

“Are you wallowing in here?” Clay asks. Apollo just grunts in response. “Let’s get you up out of bed, you big grump.”

 

“Don’t touch me,” Apollo pleads.

 

“Message received, sunshine. What’s wrong?”

 

Apollo rolls over. “My mom’s alive,” he says, and Clay’s eyes bug out.

 

“She—What?” he balks. “Pollo, that’s amazing!”

 

“But she has amnesia and I think I scared her away.”

 

“That’s—” Clay fidgets like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He settles for making a fist in Apollo’s blanket, next to him since he’s not allowed to touch him. “Apollo, this is a miracle, she’s alive !”

 

“But she doesn’t want to be around me,” Apollo says. “Does it even matter?”

 

“What?” Clay’s face does somersaults. His fist tightens, and his eyes are watery, words shaky when he says, “Of course it matters.”

 

Guilt wells up in Apollo’s throat and he forces himself to sit up. He grabs his pillow and squeezes it to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right, she’s alive, and that matters, and I should be happy.”

 

“But you’re not happy,” Clay offers, and it isn’t a question.

 

“I’m angry,” Apollo confesses, “and I don’t even know who I’m most angry at.”

 

“Maybe she’ll come around. I mean, imagine finding out you had two kids you can’t remember. That’s probably a shock, right?”

 

Apollo shrugs. “It doesn’t make me feel better.”

 

“Would dinner make you feel better?” Clay stands back up, giving Apollo his space.

 

“Maybe,” Apollo concedes. He tentatively reaches for Clay, arms outstretched. With a smile, Clay grabs hold of his wrists and gently tugs him to his feet. He doesn’t linger, hand hovering away from Apollo’s back as he leads him out of his room.

 

---

There’s one more person Apollo needs to tell about Thalassa’s survival, and really, it’s a wonder he didn’t already figure it out on his own.

 

The only person who might have his number is Klavier, but when Apollo reaches out, the response is not what he expects.

 

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier greets. “I have been meaning to contact you myself. It’s about Valant Gramarye.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo says. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about.”

 

“I got a call when he showed up at the police station two nights ago,” Klavier explains, accent slipping out of his voice. “Something you said must have gotten to him. He turned himself in and confessed to everything.”

 

Apollo’s heart stops. “To the murder of—”

 

“No,” Klavier cuts in. “For tampering with evidence to frame his partner for the murder of Magnifi Gramarye.”

 

A beat passes. A thousand questions form on Apollo’s tongue and die before they can be spoken.

 

“Tell Phoenix Wright that the Gramarye case is finally closed,” Klavier continues. “Magnifi Gramarye committed suicide. Zak Gramarye was innocent. Valant found the body and chose to frame his partner in order to obtain the performance rights.”

 

“Which went to Trucy anyway,” Apollo points out.

 

“Correct.” Another beat. Static crackles over the phone line. “I’m sorry, Apollo.”

 

“Don’t be,” Apollo says. “Thanks for letting me know.”

 

He hangs up the phone and lays his head on his desk. It’s strange: Magnifi covered up everything, from the accident to Thalassa’s survival, and blackmailed his proteges into silence. By the time the truth finally comes to light, he and Zak are both dead, Valant’s life and career are in ruins, and Thalassa is more alone than ever.

 

And then there’s Trucy and Apollo, with nothing left to show for it.

 

Stupid, selfish old man , he thinks. Fat lot of good the truth does any of them now.

Notes:

thalassa :)

Chapter 13: PART XII

Summary:

Now, the cars drift by on the street below, with the blinds drawn tight against the ever-present artificial glow of Los Angeles and its constant hum. And Apollo has a box of items sitting on the floor of his apartment, waiting to be tested for poison contamination tomorrow. Somewhere across town, there’s a nineteen-year-old girl spending the night in jail, mourning her father alone while Apollo sits here in his childhood bed, reminiscing with his best friend and thinking about the brother he hasn’t seen in thirteen years.

A passing car’s headlights spray through cracks in the blinds, casting shadows on the wall. In the glint of light, Apollo can see Clay’s face, looking at him—just observing. Thinking.

--
In which Apollo finally puts the whole damn thing to bed.

Notes:

good god this chapter was really really difficult. but i'm quite proud of how it turned out! enjoy!

cw for canon-typical discussions of poisoning and paranoia.

I was born to believe / The truth is all there is

- Mumford and Sons, “Truth”

 

Miles’ round glasses are sliding halfway down his nose as he paces the length of Phoenix’s office, muttering to himself. Phoenix pours over the mess of paperwork strewn across his desk. His left hand is buried in his hair as the right taps out an anxious rhythm with his pen.

 

Miles looks up with a scowl. “Wright, if you would be so kind as to stop clicking that thing so I can think,” he says.

 

Phoenix points at him with the pen tip. “You’re the one going in circles right now,” he shoots back. He sighs. “Miles, come on. It’s gonna go great.”

 

“Years of planning and research has gone into this proposal!” Miles squeezes his elbow as he paces. “You know how much I—how much we —worked on this!”

 

“And that’s exactly why I know it’s going to go great,” Phoenix says gently. “The courts wouldn’t be giving us this shot if they didn’t think it was worth something.”

 

Miles huffs, making that twisted up expression he only makes when he knows Phoenix is right and doesn’t want to admit it. Phoenix plows ahead.

 

“You, Miles Edgeworth, are brilliant. The proposal is brilliant,” he says. “But we’re not going to get these final preparations done if you get stuck in one of your little thought spirals.”

 

He watches Miles release his death grip on his arm and take a deep breath.

 

“Come sit down and—”

 

Phoenix is cut off by the sound of the door to Wright & Co. opening. Trucy’s at school and there’s no distinctive slam to signify Apollo’s arrival (though Miles jolts like there is), which means it’s probably a client. But then Klavier Gavin himself pokes his head into Phoenix’s office, hair slightly amok like he’s been running his fingers through it.

 

“Ah, good, you’re both here,” he says a little breathlessly, stepping inside and shutting the door.

 

“Klavier, what on earth—” Phoenix tries, but Klavier cuts him off.

 

“There’s been a murder,” he says, low. “The victim is an artist, Drew Misham. His daughter Vera is suspected of poisoning him with atroquinine.”

 

“Atroquinine?!” Miles whisper-yells.

 

“O-Okay,” Phoenix says, “I can ask Apollo to—”

 

“Are you the prosecutor on the case?” Miles asks.

 

Klavier looks at him, eyes hard. “I will ensure that I am. She didn’t do it.”

 

Phoenix barks out an almost hysterical laugh, “Klavier, if you’re the prosecutor and you don’t think she did it, you can literally just drop the—”

 

“I cannot,” Klavier fires back. “It’s just a hunch, but—Herr Wright. Do you recall the trial seven years ago?”

 

“Obviously, why?”

 

Klavier begins pacing circles. “You replaced my brother in Enigmar’s defense. We spoke of this in April.”

 

“Mr. Gavin, please, get to the point!” Miles snaps, glasses already askew again.

 

“The night before, my brother visited me in my office. He warned me that the opposing attorney had obtained forged evidence, and that I should be prepared to call a special witness.” Klavier takes a shaky breath. “You presented no such evidence, so I did not call him, but—that special witness was Mr. Drew Misham, the forger.”

 

Phoenix slumps back into his chair, stunned.

 

Miles picks up his slack, as always. “You believe your brother poisoned Drew Misham?”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

“How would that be possible from prison?” Phoenix rasps. Miles raises a concerned eyebrow in his direction.

 

“I don’t know! ” Klavier repeats, scrubbing his hands over his face. “All of the available evidence points to Vera as the only possible culprit. But isn’t it suspicious ? Why would a nineteen-year-old girl poison her father? And the man just so happens to be the one who forged evidence that my brother knew about?”

 

“Klavier,” Phoenix cuts in firmly, as firmly as he can manage in his shock. “Did your brother order that forgery?”

 

“I don’t know. He never told me.” Klavier heaves a defeated sigh, leaning against Phoenix’s desk. “I… don’t know where else it could have originated. Did you not come to the same conclusion?”

 

“I did,” Phoenix admits. “But why? Why do any of it? He forged it for himself to win, obviously, but why frame me? Jealousy? Why kill Zak Gramarye?”

 

“Herr Wright, I do not know !” Klavier insists desperately.

 

Miles puts out a placating hand. “Wright, this isn’t the part that matters right now,” he says evenly, solidly. “What matters is how we proceed to indict a man in prison without any concrete evidence. No judge would convict.”

 

His eyes widen the moment the words leave his mouth. Phoenix meets his gaze.

 

“Change of plans?” he asks.

 

Miles nods. “Change of plans,” he concurs.

 

---

Nick calls Apollo’s phone seven times while he’s away in the bathroom.

 

“Hey,” Apollo greets warily when he picks up on the eighth call.

 

“Apollo,” Nick says rapidly, and oh god , he’s panicking.

 

“What’s wrong?” Apollo asks straight away.

 

“I need you to listen to me very, very carefully, okay? Can you do that for me?”

 

Legs shaking, Apollo slumps onto the couch. “Y-Yeah?”

 

“Buddy, I need you to think back,” Nick says. “Did Kristoph Gavin ever have access to your medications?

 

“Access? I mean, I brought them to the office a few times, b-but Mr. Gavin didn’t like when I brought them out, so—”

 

“Was there ever—and I mean ever —a time you can think of where he would have been able to go through your belongings without you knowing?”

 

Apollo’s chest starts to feel funny. “Ever? I mean, probably. I didn’t bring my bag with me every time I got up.”

 

Nick makes a sort of strangled noise on the other end.

 

“Nick? You okay? What’s this about?” Apollo asks.

 

“Do you still have the same bottle from six months ago?”

 

“Yeah? I don’t take them that often anymore.”

 

“Then I need you to throw them out.”

 

Apollo’s stomach drops. “What?” he blurts. “Nick, what the hell is wrong with you? I’m not—I’m not going to just throw out my anxiety meds, do you know how hard it was to even get a prescription?”

 

“I know, I know, I just—”

 

“They cost so much, too; you know how our insurance is!” Tearing up, Apollo picks at a loose thread on the hem of his shorts. “Why do you want me off of my meds?”

 

There’s shuffling and a brief, hissed argument on the other line, and then a new voice takes Nick’s place.

 

“I’m sorry, Apollo,” Edgeworth says. “Wright is having a difficult time thinking clearly about this. Please do not dispose of your medication on a whim.”

 

“I wasn’t going to,” Apollo mumbles.

 

“I would, however, suggest you refrain from taking them for the time being. Is there anything else in your possession, particularly anything that would be ingested, that Kristoph Gavin gave to you, or otherwise had an opportunity to tamper with in any way?”

 

“M-Maybe?” Apollo squeaks. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

 

“Okay, that’s alright. Please take a deep breath. Let me explain. We—meaning, Wright and I—have reason to suspect that Kristoph Gavin may have had access to an extremely potent lethal poison. I don’t think you have reason to be afraid, but we are taking precautions, given your position.

 

“I have very specific instructions for you. Put on a pair of gloves, get an empty box, and gather any items you believe Gavin may have had access to, including your prescription. Set the box aside and do not touch it, and dispose of the gloves immediately after. I will send Detective Skye over to you with a test kit. Do you understand?”

 

Apollo can’t feel his fingers. “I understand.”

 

“I assure you this is out of an abundance of caution.” There’s more chattering on the other line. “Apollo. Wright would like you to come home until this is sorted.”

 

“Is that necessary?”

 

“I don’t think it is.” Edgeworth lowers his voice. “But it would certainly make him stop fretting.”

 

“Okay,” Apollo says. “I-I can do that.”

 

“Good. Bring Mr. Terran, too. Just in case.”

 

“A-Alright. I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Mr. E.”

 

“Of course. Wright wants to speak to you again. I’ll see you shortly, I assume?”

 

“Mmhm. See you.” Apollo waits; there’s more shuffling, and then Nick’s voice returns.

 

“Hey, bud,” he says, sounding a little winded. “Sorry I freaked out on you. I’m just a little shaken up. Are you and Clay going to come stay?”

 

“I think so,” Apollo says. “I have to talk to him. Are you, like… okay now?”

 

Nick chuckles. “I’m okay. Or, I will be. But I’ll feel way better knowing you two are safe. Can you do one more thing for me?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Take a second here and breathe with me?”

 

Apollo smiles despite himself. “Sure.”

 

“Thanks, buddy. Nice and easy, okay?” Nick audibly takes a deep breath, slightly shaky. Apollo follows suit, letting Nick guide him as if it’s for Apollo’s sake and not his own. After a few breaths, Nick says, “That’s it. Very good, Apollo.”

 

It’s funny—Apollo doesn’t actually feel very soothed (if anything, he’s getting more anxious by the second). But Nick seems calmer, so Apollo just hums in acknowledgement.

 

“I’ll see you soon,” Apollo says.

 

“Good. Be careful.”

 

Nick hangs up, leaving Apollo sitting alone on his living room couch. After a moment of shock, he jumps up and fishes a cardboard box out of the recycling pile they have waiting by the door. Then he pulls on a pair of kitchen gloves, gets his meds out of the bathroom cabinet and tosses the bottle into the box, and that’s when the situation comes crashing down on top of him.

 

His vision blurs.

 

“Clay?” he cries out in a wavering, frantic tone, standing in the middle of the apartment, paralyzed with fear and panic and indecision.

 

There’s thumping and rustling in Clay’s bedroom, and then he nearly bursts through the door, his face the picture of concern.

 

“What are you—” Clay stops and frowns at the scene before him: Apollo, clad in a pair of gloves, standing over a box in the middle of their living room, fists pressed to his forehead. “What happened?”

 

“We have a situation,” Apollo whimpers.

 

Clay steps up and glances in the box, and his frown only deepens. “Dude, tell me what’s wrong.” He takes Apollo’s wrists and gently tugs them away from his face. “Hey. Breathe. What’s going on?”

 

Apollo forces himself to pause for air. Clay’s thumbs brush gently over his wristbones.

 

“Nick and Mr. E called me,” he says. “I-I need to think of anything we have that Mr. Gavin might have tampered with and put it in this box so it can be tested for poison.”

 

“What?” Clay moves his hands up to Apollo’s upper arms, rubbing them in a soothing motion. “The hell are you talking about?”

 

“I don’t know!” Apollo cries. “S-Something about Mr. Gavin maybe having access to a poison? A-And as a precaution, Nick wants you and me both to stay the night until they check. But I-I don’t—I can’t think straight, I don’t know—”

 

“Okay, shh. I got it, I got it.” Clay glances down into the box again. “Not off to a great start, I see.”

 

Apollo swipes at his eyes with his sleeve. “Mr. Gavin didn’t like that I had them,” he explains. “It would have been so easy for him to l-lace them with poison.”

 

“You’ve taken them since then more than once,” Clay points out. “A bunch of times, in fact. You stopped bringing them to work ages before your arrest, right?”

 

“I did, but—I don’t know, Clay, I don’t know!” Apollo starts shaking out his hands to get out his anxiety, and Clay keeps rubbing his arms.

 

“Shit, man,” he mutters. “I should yell at Nick for putting this much anxiety in your head.”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “He already feels bad. C-Can you just help me figure out what we need to test?”

 

“Of course, dude. Just—sit down a second, okay? Let’s think.”

 

“Okay. Th-thank you.” Apollo lets himself be guided to sit and regain his bearings, Clay’s hand on his shoulder.

 

After a while, they end up with a box full of random odds and ends: mostly things like pens that Apollo, who used to fidget by chewing on his pens and pencils when anxious (a habit that Kristoph loathed), may have put in his mouth. There’s thankfully very little still in their apartment that Kristoph touched, but it occurs to Apollo that he’ll have to check his desk at work for any office supplies he may have purloined from Gavin Law Offices, and he shoots Nick a quick text to let him know.

 

When they’ve concluded, and the box is left by the door for Ema’s perusal when she comes by, and after Apollo has discarded the gloves and washed his hands thoroughly , he and Clay each pack an overnight bag, pile into the car, and go.

Truthfully, Nick looks terrible.

 

There’s no way he wasn’t having a panic attack earlier. He’s always been cagey about his own feelings, because he’s a hypocrite who wants the best for Apollo and Trucy even if he won’t accept it for himself. But Nick’s expression loosens when Apollo gets home, Clay in tow, and he draws Apollo into a warm hug right away.

 

“Good to see you,” he says quietly. “Glad you’re safe.”

 

“I’m fine,” Apollo mumbles, pulling back. Clay is already in the living room with Trucy; he can hear the TV. “You freaked me out.”

 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to blow things out of proportion.” Nick sighs. He smiles, squeezing Apollo’s shoulder. “But thank you for humoring me. Clay doesn’t mind?”

 

Apollo shakes his head. “He and Trucy are like two peas in a pod,” he muses. “This is fun for him.”

 

Nick looks at him appraisingly and his smile softens. “Good. If you’re up for it, go into the kitchen and talk to Miles. I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

Apollo nods and slips down the hall to the kitchen, where he finds Edgeworth glowering at his laptop at the table, furrows in his brow stretching down as deep as caverns.

 

“Hi,” Apollo says awkwardly, and Edgeworth startles, glasses nearly slipping off his nose.

 

“Ah!” he coughs out. “Apollo. You’re here. Are you quite alright?”

 

“Mmhm. I’m fine.” Apollo slips into the opposite chair. Then he admits, “Nick really had me freaked out.”

 

Edgeworth sighs. “I know. I tried very hard to reason with him, but I couldn’t. But I assure you, this is just a layer of added precaution.”

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

 

A beat passes. Edgeworth looks like he wants to say something; his face contorts itself like he’s trying to figure out how. But then he slides a series of papers out of the folder at his side—case files and court forms to be filled out for a murder. The murder of Drew Misham. The suspect? One nineteen-year-old Vera Misham, suspected of poisoning her father’s coffee.

 

Apollo frowns. Mr. Edgeworth watches him over the rim of his teacup.

 

“Okay, but…” Apollo chews his lip. “What’s this have to do with—”

 

“Prosecutor Gavin alerted Wright and I to the case just this afternoon,” Mr. Edgeworth says carefully. “He had… suspicions.”

 

“But he’s pinning it on the daughter,” Apollo points out.

 

Mr. Edgeworth grimaces. “Yes, well… unfortunately the police provided no other suspects.”

 

“But Gavin could just drop the case, couldn’t he?”

 

“He could,” Edgeworth concurs. “But the role of a prosecutor, of our judicial system, is to seek truth and justice. The person who did this should not be allowed to evade consequences.”

 

“So have the police search harder,” Apollo insists. “There has to be evidence, there has to be a way to prove—”

 

“Apollo,” Nick’s voice cuts in from behind. He steps into the kitchen and sits at the table between them. “It isn’t that simple. You know why it’s not that simple, don’t you?”

 

Apollo buries his hands in his hair. “But there was evidence. Klavier found it in the backyard!”

 

“That was a lucky break,” Nick says gently. “Kristoph had no real plan and underestimated his brother, and you. This is different. Do you really think there’s evidence linking him to this? When he’s been in jail for six months?”

 

“Then… Wait. Why does Klavier suspect his brother in the first place?”

 

Nick and Mr. Edgeworth share a look.

 

“Seven years ago,” Nick says after a beat, “Klavier’s brother tipped him off that yours truly was going to present forged evidence in court. He provided Klavier with the name of a special witness, the artist who made the forgery.”

 

“And that man was Drew Misham?” Apollo asks dismally.

 

Nick actually almost smiles, a little glint in his eyes like he’s proud. “That’s right,” he says. “And now he’s dead from atroquinine poisoning, with his daughter as the only potential suspect. Don’t you find it strange?”

 

Apollo feels a wave of anxiety and disgust wash over him. He breathes through it slowly, and asks, “What am I working with?”

 

Nick blinks. “Huh?”

 

Apollo just blinks back. “I’m going to defend Vera, obviously. So tell me what you know.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth chuckles under his breath; to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch when Apollo sets his stare on him.

 

“What’s so funny, Mr. E?”

 

“My apologies,” he says. “It’s just that Wright thought it would take more convincing than that. But we didn’t want to force you.”

 

“Well, I’m not about to sit here and let Vera be used as bait when I can help her!”

 

Nick winces. “She’s not b—”

 

“Yes she is, Nick, and so was I. And if she has to be used as bait for the greater good, then I’m going to make sure we win. So tell me everything you know.”

 

The pair of them share another look, this one almost bemused, fond. Apollo almost starts barking at them to spill it, but then Mr. Edgeworth turns his computer screen around.

 

“You familiar with the jurist system, Apollo?” Nick asks.

 

Apollo looks askance at him. “Yes, I went to law school.”

 

“Well,” Nick whispers, “do you wanna help us bring it back?”

 

“This is just like old times,” Clay muses, collapsing into a pile of spare bedding on Apollo’s bedroom floor. “Feels like we slept over each other’s houses all the time when we were kids.”

 

Apollo climbs onto his bed. “I used to love sleeping over at your dad’s,” he says. “Especially before Magnifi died.”

 

“Do you remember the first sleepover we ever had, back in middle school?”

 

Apollo snorts. “You mean when I had a nightmare and pissed myself?”

 

Clay has the decency to turn pink at that. “Oh yeah… Well, clearly it wasn’t a big deal!”

 

“I mean, it was,” Apollo says, sitting cross-legged. “I was so scared and embarrassed. But you caught me trying to figure out how to use the washing machine in the middle of the night, and you were really cool about it, considering we were what, 13?”

 

Clay smiles. “I didn’t want you to feel so bad that you stopped wanting to be friends with me. Honestly, I was mortified that you were that scared sleeping over.”

 

“I’d just lost my mom,” Apollo says softly. “I was in a bad situation. You didn’t know. But it meant a lot to me that you didn’t hold it against me.”

 

“I’m glad you still came over all the time after that,” Clay says. “I still remember the first time you invited me to sleep over. That was in the old place, wasn’t it?”

 

Apollo grins at the memory. “Yeah, it was. It was the first time I was ever allowed to have a sleepover. I still remember Trucy roped us into helping her build a blanket fort, and you and I fell asleep in there, and we woke up when it collapsed on top of us.”

 

Clay laughs. “You were so mad. You were convinced Trucy knocked it over on us on purpose.”

 

“I’m still not convinced she didn’t,” Apollo grumbles, half-jokingly.

 

They both laugh some more, and then silence falls between them, that syrupy, late-night quiet of sleepovers and camping trips and delirious whispered conversations that always, always makes Apollo’s heart ache thinking of Nahyuta. He can still remember the cicadas singing, the breeze blowing through the open window, his brother hissing at him to shut up when he couldn’t stop giggling about something when they were meant to be asleep.

 

Now, the cars drift by on the street below, with the blinds drawn tight against the ever-present artificial glow of Los Angeles and its constant hum. And Apollo has a box of items sitting on the floor of his apartment, waiting to be tested for poison contamination tomorrow. Somewhere across town, there’s a nineteen-year-old girl spending the night in jail, mourning her father alone while Apollo sits here in his childhood bed, reminiscing with his best friend and thinking about the brother he hasn’t seen in thirteen years.

 

A passing car’s headlights spray through cracks in the blinds, casting shadows on the wall. In the glint of light, Apollo can see Clay’s face, looking at him—just observing. Thinking.

 

Apollo is the first to speak up.

 

“Hey, Clay? I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

 

Clay hums and stretches out on his back like a cat. “No biggie,” he says, resting his arms behind his head. “None of it’s your fault. Besides, I won’t say no to a sleepover.”

 

“We live together. We can have a sleepover whenever you want.”

 

“It’s not the same.” Clay smiles sheepishly. “And I like your family.”

 

Apollo’s heart warms. He hugs his pillow to his chest. “You’re my family too, you know that, right?”

 

Clay blinks at him, mouth forming a little round O. Then his lip quivers and, eyes watery, he says, “You can’t just say sweet shit like that to me.”

 

“Why? I mean what I say.”

 

“Because I’ll cry, dummy.” True to his word, Clay begins to sniffle, scrubbing at his eyes.

 

Apollo scrambles off his bed and kneels beside Clay, yanking him upright. “Clay, what’s wrong? Was that too—”

 

“No, no ,” Clay interrupts, voice firm. “It means the world to me, Pollo. I just—I think it’s going to make things even harder, you seeing me as family.”

 

Apollo blinks, hurt. “Huh?”

 

Clay shakes his head frantically. “No, wait, that came out wrong. Apollo, listen. The HAT-2 is launching in a year.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“And… they selected me to go.”

 

Apollo’s eyes blow wide. Clay is looking at him like the world is ending, but in the same breath he’s saying his biggest dream is coming true. It’s everything they always talked about when they were kids.

 

“They did?” Apollo asks, breathless. Clay nods solemnly. Overcome with affection and joy, Apollo slings his arms around Clay’s neck, nearly knocking him over. “Clay, that’s amazing !” He pulls back and grips Clay by the face, wiping tears from his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I’m so excited for you I could kiss you on the mouth!”

 

Clay lets out a startled chuckle. “Please don’t,” he says.

 

“I won’t, I won’t!” Apollo laughs, drawing Clay into a hug again. He’s more prepared for this one, wrapping his arms around Apollo in turn, steady and warm. “This is great news. Why are you upset?”

 

“I’m not upset,” Clay insists, but Apollo just holds up his wrist—bracelet and all—and raises his eyebrows. Clay sighs and pulls away from the hug. “It’s just that… I have to start even more intensive training, so I won’t be around as often. We won’t get to hang out all the time, even though, like you said, we live together. And then—I won’t really get to talk to you, once I’m up there.”

 

“But the mission’s not that long, right?” Apollo asks, frowning.

 

“Well, no… Assuming it all goes well.”

 

Apollo’s heart skips a beat at the thought, but he forces strength into his voice and says, “Clay, what happened to Mr. Starbuck won’t happen again. You’ll be fine. Right?”

 

“I hope so,” Clay says weakly.

 

“No, come on, say it. You don’t have to shout, because it’s late, but I want you to say it.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Clay says. “I’m Clay Terran and I’m fine.”

 

Apollo smiles bright. “There you go! We’re fine!”

 

“We’re fine,” Clay chuckles.

 

Apollo knocks their shoulders together. “And sure I’m gonna miss you like crazy, and I’ll probably worry, but I’m so happy for you. It’s your dream!”

 

Clay breathes deep. “I know. I’m thrilled, I promise! I just didn’t want to tell you right away because I thought you might be upset that I’m leaving.”

 

“You’re not leaving ,” Apollo says. “Trust me, I know how it feels when people leave . This is just like—like what Mr. E does. He’s overseas a lot, but he always comes back. So will you.”

 

Clay snorts. “The distant planet of Europe.”

 

Apollo elbows him. “I’m serious. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying about me and focus on what you want, okay?”

 

“I would give it all up if you needed me to,” Clay confesses, tearing up again.

 

“Clay, you’re my best friend in the whole world. I would never ask you to do that.”

 

“I know.” Clay’s voice becomes choked. “And that’s the sweetest thing you could have said.”

 

“Oh, Clay…” Apollo whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing.

 

Clay continues, “So that’s why I don’t mind. I’ll take any chance to hang out with you while I have time.”

 

“Even if it’s an emergency sleepover because my old boss might have wanted to kill me?” Apollo asks, deadpan.

 

Clay smiles. “Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

 

Apollo shoves him again. “You’re impossible.”

 

“But you’ll be alright,” Clay says easily. “This mess you’re in, you’re finally going to put it to rest. I just know it.”

 

Apollo smiles. “I think so.” He stands back up, ruffling Clay’s hair as he does so. Apollo crawls back into his bed and snuggles against his pillow, looking down at Clay on the floor as he does the same.

 

“You know I love you, right, Pollo?” Clay asks. “In… In my own way?”

 

“You tell me often,” Apollo replies gently. “I love you too. In our way.”

 

Clay beams up at him. It reminds Apollo of when they were kids—scrawny middle schoolers, both reeling from loss, relying on each other to make it through. Not much about that has really changed, other than that they aren’t boney little pre-teens anymore. But Clay has spent the past few years helping Apollo hold the pieces of himself together when he was falling apart, no matter how messy or unpleasant it got. Most friends wouldn’t do that for him, Apollo thinks. Maybe that’s why he’s never really had anyone other than Clay.

 

“I’d tell you to just come up here with me,” he says quietly, “but I don’t think we’d both fit.”

 

Clay waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He yawns and rolls over. “G’night.”

 

“Goodnight, Clay,” Apollo whispers. Low snores tell him his best friend is already out; Apollo follows suit not so long after.

 

Apollo wakes early. He steps carefully over Clay, who’s sprawled on his back like a starfish with his blanket tangled up in a heap around his leg, just like he does at home. Apollo tiptoes out of the room and nudges the door shut with a smile.

 

Trucy’s still in bed, but the sound of Nick humming to himself as he bumbles around the apartment drifts down the hall. Apollo follows the sound to the kitchen, where Nick is making pancakes—it’s a familiar sight, one that dredges up bittersweet memories of mornings when he was a teenager. Nick’s favorite thing to do after a tense night was get up and make pancakes. Some semblance of control, perhaps, or a peace offering.

 

Today, he gives Apollo an easy smile and claps him on the back.

 

“Morning, bud,” he says lightly. “Sleep okay?”

 

“Yeah, actually,” Apollo says. Nick smirks when he thinks he’s turned away from Apollo enough to hide it. “What’s that look for?”

 

“Nothing! Nothing!” Nick insists with his hands in the air but a shuffle in his step that suggests it isn’t nothing. Apollo drops it for now, anyway.

 

He sits down at the table in his customary spot, leaning on his elbow. “Are you ever gonna tell me what last night was about?” he asks.

 

Nick gives him a look. “We… did. We talked through what Klavier said. Do you not remember?”

 

“Not that.” Apollo rolls his eyes. “The reason why you panicked so hard about my meds being tampered with.”

 

“Oh, that.” Nick flips a pancake with a little more force than necessary. “No.”

 

“Come on, Nick.”

 

“You know, Apollo, if you really were such a big fan of me back in the day, I’m surprised you don’t already know the whole story top to bottom,” Nick scoffs.

 

Apollo frowns and flinches back, hurt. “That’s not fair,” he says.

 

Nick sighs, scrubs at the stubble smattered over his chin, and says, “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool.” He transfers the pancake to a plate and pours out more batter with white knuckles. “You wouldn’t have ever seen those court records. I was only 20.”

 

“Oh,” Apollo says.

 

Nick stills, standing over the pan. “Someone tried to poison my cold meds,” he admits. “That’s the short version. Do you get it now?”

 

Apollo blinks. White hot shame fills his gut. He gets it—in fact, he gets a lot of things now. Namely, the lack of pills in Nick’s house ninety percent of the time.

 

“Yeah,” he says timidly. “Sorry for being pushy.”

 

“No, as always, I deserve you being pushy. It’s only fair.” Nick turns around and leans his hip against the counter, keeping a passive eye on the stove. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Clay still asleep?”

 

“Yeah, sprawled on my floor,” Apollo says fondly, and there’s that little shuffle in Nick’s movements again. He narrows his eyes. “What, Nick.”

 

Nick yelps, “What?”

 

“You’re being weird. Whatever it is, cough it up.”

 

“It’s nothing, I swear!” Nick turns back to the stove and pretends to be very preoccupied with his spatula. “Just, uh… Well, is there anything you want to tell me?”

 

“Anything I want to tell you?”

 

“Yeah! Anything at all! You know I support you.”

 

Apollo huffs. “Nick, I’m not playing this game with you. Spit it out or I’m going to get very upset.”

 

Nick sighs. “Are you and Clay together?”

 

Apollo freezes. He can feel his cheeks burn up slowly in real time.

 

“No,” he says. “Oh my god, no. That’s what you think?”

 

“Apollo…”

 

Apollo feels a jolt up his spine and shakes it out through his hands. “No, Nick, that’s not—What even gave you that idea?”

 

Nick winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your voice really carries, bud. I heard you last night.”

 

Mentally, Apollo runs through last night’s conversation at light speed trying to find the contradiction. And then he remembers: “I’m so excited for you I could kiss you on the mouth!”

 

He turns beet red.

 

“You shouldn’t have been listening to my private conversation,” he mutters.

 

“It wasn’t on purpose. I was still up, and you’re loud.”

 

“Is that all you heard?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

 

Apollo rests his head on his arms. “Then you missed the context! Fuck this is so embarrassing. Clay would be so upset right now.”

 

Nick steps closer and gently places his palm on Apollo’s head. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to be supportive.”

 

“Then be supportive by not making assumptions about my private business!” Apollo bites out. Then he grumbles, “As if you’ve never had the urge to kiss your friends.”

 

Nick flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Glass houses.”

 

“Hey.” Nick moves his hand to Apollo’s back and begins rubbing slow circles between his shoulderblades. “I’m sorry for being nosy. I just know how important Clay is to you.”

 

“He is important to me,” Apollo affirms. “Just… not in the way I think you assumed.”

 

“I understand,” Nick says, running his hand through Apollo’s hair. He chuckles. “ Believe me, kiddo, I understand.”

 

“Clay’s really sensitive about this,” Apollo says. “So keep your mouth shut.”

 

“Apollo.” Nick takes a knee beside the table so he can look at Apollo’s face pillowed on his arms. His eyes are bright, kind, but endless; it’s that same searching look he’s always given Apollo on days like this. “When I said I support you, I meant it unconditionally. And that means I support Clay, too, whatever that looks like. Okay?”

 

Apollo takes in the sincerity in his expression and nods, slowly. “Okay.”

 

“Good. Sorry for being a pest.” Nick stands up with another ruffle of Apollo’s hair. A burning smell wafts over from the stove, and Nick swears under his breath. He scrambles to salvage the forgotten pancake, muttering to himself, and Apollo smirks at his back.

 

“I’ll go see if he’s up now,” he says.

 

“Go wake your sister, too,” Nick adds absently, scraping burnt batter out of the pan. “Tell her to come help set the table.”

 

“Will do,” Apollo sing-songs, already halfway out of the room.

(Apollo gets a call later that morning from Ema Skye.

 

“I tested everything you set out for me, did some other tests on my own,” she says.

 

“Yeah?” Apollo asks, choked.

 

“You’re all clear,” Ema says kindly. “Not a single reaction to any of my reagents.”

 

Apollo, to his utter embarrassment, is so sick with relief that he cries.)

 

---

Drew Studio is small, just one room in the front of Misham’s house. The floor is lined with paint-covered tarps, and half-finished paintings lay propped up throughout the room. The far wall is rife with some kind of advanced drafting equipment Apollo has never seen before—probably for making forgeries.

 

“I’ve already checked the whole place top to bottom,” Ema is saying, popping Snackoos into her mouth. “The only prints are from Vera and Drew. Not surprising, considering they practically never had any contact with the outside world other than through that letter box.”

 

“That explains why Vera won’t talk to us,” Trucy muses, tapping her finger against her chin.

 

Apollo sighs. “This investigation is a disaster,” he mutters, and Trucy jabs him in the ribs. Grumbling and rubbing his side, he asks Ema, “And the poison?”

 

“No traces of poison found in the coffee,” Ema reports. “Only on the rim of the mug.”

 

So then, it was possible the poison came from somewhere else. But what else would Drew have recently put in his mouth that could have been laced? The tip of a paintbrush? Other food and drink?

 

“Did you check elsewhere?” Apollo asks.

 

“Yup. Haven’t found a single trace.”

 

Apollo scans the room, eagle-eyed. If there is another culprit other than Vera—and Apollo knows there must be—then there must be other evidence. His eyes land on a small desk; Apollo tilts his head.

 

“Ema,” he says, “can I borrow that reagent?”

 

“...Sure, why not,” Ema says. “Not like I’m supposed to have it anyways.”

 

Apollo sets to work inspecting the contents of the desk. In the drawer, he finds a red envelope dated seven years ago, which he passes to Ema for analysis. Trucy hovers over his shoulder as he applies the reagent to various objects, including a peculiar empty picture frame, no larger than a playing card.

 

The center of it turns a vivid blue.

 

“Shit,” Trucy whispers beside him.

 

“Found something,” Apollo calls out to Ema. She hurries over, labcoat swishing behind her.

 

“What the hell?” she mumbles. “That’s… really odd. Who keeps a tiny frame like that with nothing in it?”

 

“More importantly,” Apollo deadpans, “why does it have traces of atroquinine on it?”

 

Ema frowns. “...I’m not sure.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a few sheets of paper. “Here, by the way. X-ray printouts of the contents of that envelope for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Apollo says distractedly, eyes flicking to that telltale blue splotch. Trucy takes the papers herself and reads them over.

 

“Polly,” she says, “I think this is a letter from the person who ordered the forgery.”

 

Immediately, Apollo whips his head around. “Huh?” He reads the letter over Trucy’s shoulder. “The enclosed stamp… Is there an enclosed stamp?”

 

“Didn’t seem like it,” Ema says, frowning at the paintings on the floor.

 

Apollo’s gaze is drawn back to the empty frame. Something isn’t right.

 

---

The air in the courtroom is… different. Apollo figures it’s probably the cameras set up to broadcast the proceedings to the jurists’ chamber. It makes the whole affair seem cheap, like an amusement park sideshow. The idea of it turns Apollo’s stomach.

 

To one side of him stands Trucy, ever his faithful co-counsel despite her lack of legal training (it’s Wright & Co. tradition, Mr. Wright always says); to the other, in the defendant’s chair, sits nineteen-year-old Vera Misham, clutching her sketchbook to her chest.

 

She hasn’t spoken a word to him. Apollo is woefully underprepared.

 

“Vera,” Trucy says in yet another attempt to get the girl to talk, “do you wanna see something cool?”

 

Apollo groans internally. “Truce, don’t—” he starts, but he’s already too late. Trucy reaches back and pulls the lever under her cape, and out pops Mr. Hat in all his glory, just as wretched as he was when Trucy was little.

 

Vera flinches backward in surprise, gripping her trusty notebook tightly like a shield. Apollo almost scolds Trucy, but then, miraculously, Vera’s posture loosens and she peers at Mr. Hat with a look of quiet awe.

 

“This is my trusty assistant, Mr. Hat! Say hello to Vera, Mr. Hat,” Trucy says. She lowers her voice and makes Mr. Hat say, “Hello there, madam!”

 

A small smile cracks through Vera’s mask. Her eyes sparkle when she asks in a small voice, “A-Are you a magician?”

 

Trucy grins a mile wide. “Sure am! Do you like magic?”

 

Vera nods. “Troupe Gramarye are my favorite magicians!” she says excitedly.

 

Apollo raises his eyebrows. It’s actually working, for all the good it’s going to do them this close to the trial’s start.

 

Trucy beams. “Troupe Gramarye is—er, was—my family!” She preens under the attention, putting Mr. Hat away and spinning with a flourish of her hat. “I’m the certified heir to all of their best work!”

 

And Vera, four years Trucy’s senior, beams like she’s meeting her hero.

 

“That’s so cool!” she whispers.

 

Trucy gives a little bow. “The honor is all mine,” she insists. “It’s not often you meet people interested in magic these days!”

 

Apollo pats her on the back in thanks. Trucy looks up at him and winks.

 

“Vera,” he starts, and Vera flinches back a little. “Have you always liked magic?”

 

Tentatively, Vera nods. Her eyes scan the room warily, and she pulls out a little glass bottle shaped like a hand and starts doing her nails, of all things.

 

“I went to see them when I was little,” she says quietly. “I have a rare commemorative stamp with their pictures on it in a special little frame.”

 

Apollo’s veins turn to ice. A stamp in a tiny frame? An empty frame, traces of poison, and a letter box to the outside world?

 

Where the hell was that stamp now?

 

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool,” he says. “Where’d you get it?”

 

Vera doesn’t answer, seemingly focused on painting her nails.

 

“That’s a pretty color,” Trucy offers. “And a pretty bottle!”

 

“It’s my good luck charm,” Vera says. “It helps me to go outside.”

 

“That’s cool,” Trucy says. “I guess Mr. Hat is kind of my good luck charm.”

 

Vera nods sagely at this. Apollo wants to press for more answers, but people have started to file into the courtroom, and Vera returns to clutching her sketchbook with obvious fear. Across the aisle, Klavier steps up to the prosecutor’s bench and gives Apollo a nod. Everything about him screams exhaustion, sluggish movements and bloodshot eyes and eyebags barely concealed with a layer of makeup.

 

Apollo can’t blame him, really. He responds with a stiff nod of his own and tears his eyes away.

 

Before the trial starts, Vera freezes up like a prey animal. She shrinks back in her seat, afraid, and refuses the hand Trucy offers her in support. Apollo feels worse than ever about doing this to her; if this is anything like he looked six months ago, it’s a wonder Phoenix Wright managed to get through it without throwing up.

 

“I’ll get you through this, Vera,” he says to his client, and she nods, posture softening just a little. “No matter what it takes.”

 

---

The first day of the trial is cut short when Vera Misham collapses on the stand from acute atroquinine poisoning.

 

Apollo, for all the good it does, manages to win them a second day of proceedings by proving the existence of the poisoned stamp as potential evidence for the culprit to have acted from the outside. But without the stamp itself as evidence, his case is looking slim—even with the jurists to back him up.

 

He also manages, before her collapse, to get Vera to admit that she was the one creating forgeries under her father’s name. Vera was the one to create the diary page, Vera was the one to meet the client face-to-face, Vera was the one who received a good luck charm—her nail polish—from the very same. They don’t need Drew’s testimony. The real forger is right in their grasp, and she can tell them who the client is—if only she wakes up.

 

As court adjourns for the day, Klavier looks withered behind the bench, as though he’d been desperately, desperately wishing for another way out.

 

---

It’s been years since Phoenix has spoken with Kristoph Gavin.

 

Well, unless you count six months ago, when Phoenix put him on the stand and accused him of murder. But they haven’t had a proper conversation since Apollo was fresh out of high school, before he even began his internship. That was before Gavin really sunk his claws into the boy; before Apollo stopped coming home every weekend.

 

He would have come by sooner to pull the truth out of him, but there were more important things to do for a while, like help his daughter with magic practice, or worry about Apollo’s well-being, or get hit by a car. That doesn’t leave much time in a day for confronting the man who tried to ruin your life and your family’s lives more than once.

 

“Phoenix Wright,” Gavin says evenly as Phoenix is let into his cell. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

Sometimes, though, circumstances force your hand.

 

Phoenix shuffles forward in his sandals, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie and hat perched on top of his head. He’s dressed down for the occasion, in part because he’d like to remain somewhat inconspicuous, but mostly because Kristoph Gavin doesn’t deserve his Sunday best. There’s another reason for the hat, too: a button Ema gave him with a little camera inside.

 

“Gavin,” Phoenix replies. “Long time no see. I would ask how prison is treating you, but it looks like you’re living in the lap of luxury here.”

 

Kristoph smiles placidly amidst the furnished trapping of his solitary cell. It seems even murderers get preferential treatment in prison, if they have the right connections, and Kristoph has plenty.

 

“It’s nothing so spectacular. How is young Mr. Justice faring?”

 

Phoenix forces his tone to remain steady at the mention of Apollo. “He’s doing well now, no thanks to you.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Kristoph says, and it turns Phoenix’s stomach that no Psyche-Locks appear when he does. “I hope he’s been able to get the proper treatment.”

 

“That’s really not your business, Gavin,” Phoenix says sharply. “I’m not going to disclose my kid’s medical history to you.”

 

“No need to get testy with me, Wright.” Kristoph crosses one leg over the other. “I’ve asked for no such thing. Besides, last I spoke to him, he insisted he was not your child.”

 

“I know. You aren’t going to get inside my head that easily.” Phoenix straightens his spine. He and Apollo have been locked in this back and forth since the day Zak Gramarye disappeared, and it’s never mattered. Phoenix is not Apollo’s father. But Apollo is every bit a part of Phoenix’s family as Trucy is, even if they didn’t have the adoption papers legally stating as such. They don’t need any other words for it.

 

But still—Phoenix has a job to do. He casts a furtive glance around the cell. On the desk he spies a yellow envelope and an elegant glass bottle shaped like a hand. He scans the envelope under the guise of admiring the bottle.

 

“That’s pretty glass,” he says.

 

“Ariadoney nail polish,” Kristoph says. “The only brand I use. I have extras if you would like one.”

 

“Extras of an expensive nail polish? Really?” Phoenix gets a good long look at the envelope; he won’t be able to open it, but there on the front is a stamp featuring Troupe Gramarye. It’s exactly what Apollo was looking for.

 

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll take one. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

 

“Right,” Kristoph says. “Are you finished snooping through my things?”

 

“Wasn’t snooping,” Phoenix lies. “Just curious what sort of stuff they let you keep in prison these days.”

 

“Nice try. This is about Gramarye, isn’t it?”

 

Having only partly been caught, Phoenix pretends Gavin is right. He turns back around, hands shoved deep in his pockets. One curls loosely around the magatama.

 

“I just had a question for you,” he says. “Why did you kill Zak Gramarye?”

 

“Because I’m an evil, evil person, Phoenix Wright,” Kristoph says evenly. “Is that not the answer you want?”

 

“What I want is the truth, and I’m not buying that excuse,” Phoenix insists. “I know you were his lawyer before I was. I know you were watching Apollo’s meeting with him that night. I’ll ask again: Why did you kill him, Gavin?”

 

Kristoph looks away, and several Psyche-Locks snap into view—only these, instead of the usual red, are jet black. Phoenix carefully schools his expression to hide his shock and alarm. Instead, he takes his hand off of the magatama and clenches it into a fist, still within his pocket.

 

“Fine then, don’t tell me,” he says. “Answer me something else, then, before I go.”

 

“And what might that be?” Kristoph says with a placid smile.

 

“How did you know so much about Apollo?”

 

Kristoph’s smile turns eerie. “I’m very good at my job, Wright.”

 

Protectiveness flares in Phoenix’s gut. “That’s not an answer. What were your intentions with him? To turn him against me? To keep tabs on him? Why do you know about his entire childhood? How long have you been watching my fucking family?”

 

“I assure you none of my actions were done with the intent of bringing harm to the boy,” Kristoph says evenly. “I have not known who he is any longer than you have. Both of us only wanted a better life for a troubled young man, hm?”

 

Phoenix forces himself to breathe evenly through a wave of white-hot anger. He remembers, with just as much indignation as the day it happened, the many, many meetings he had with social workers, with teachers, with doctors. A troubled teen. Behavioral problems at school. Are you sure about this decision, Mr. Wright? He’ll age out of the system in a few years anyway, Mr. Wright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mr. Wright.

 

And then he remembers Apollo, smiling and giggling with his little sister in the waves on the sunny California coast, happy and carefree despite his fear. Trucy, snuggling up with her brother no matter how old she gets, and never being pushed away. And he thinks, as he so often does, of Kristoph six months ago, spitting vitriol across the courtroom and weaponizing Apollo’s mental health so cruelly that Apollo stopped breathing.

 

And Phoenix decides right then and there that it doesn’t even matter if he believes Gavin or not. It doesn’t matter even if Kristoph Gavin’s intentions were pure. It never mattered.

 

“Fine,” Phoenix says, stepping back toward the door of the cell to be let out. He stares Gavin down as fiercely as he can muster. “But if I find out that you ever did anything to Apollo, if I find out that you ever even came near my daughter , I will put you in the ground.”

 

“You would threaten me, Wright? How untoward,” Gavin says, the veins in his hands twitching. Phoenix knocks on the door for the guard.

 

“No court would convict,” he growls, and is led away from the cell and down the hall, and leaves.

 

On his way out, he calls Apollo.

 

“Hey, bud,” he says, letting the anger drain from his muscles. “Got you the information you needed.”

 

---

Before the trial even begins, Phoenix knows this is their last stand.

 

The jurists, having heard his and Edgeworth’s opening spiels, sit poised behind him to watch the day’s proceedings. The MASON system functions just as they intended, packed with the fruits of Phoenix’s seven years’ worth of research: the case seven years ago, the forged diary page, notes from the investigation at the Borscht Bowl, recorded conversations with one intrepid journalist, even footage of Phoenix’s encounter with Gavin last night (with his own threats edited out, of course). He thinks that, had he known of the Mishams’ involvement seven years ago, perhaps he could have seen some of this coming. He would have liked to speak to Drew, given the chance. But Klavier was just a snot-nosed kid back then—Phoenix supposes he can’t blame him for wanting to forget it all happened, and deny any doubts he may have had about his only family. Unfortunately, said snot-nosed kid was a lawyer with more power than any underaged kid should have. Wouldn’t be the first time.

 

Apollo looks ready , standing behind the defense bench. He’s out for blood, not holding back now that Vera’s life hangs in the balance. Sometimes, he shakes when he objects, or his breath catches, or his hand trembles beneath the bench. Trucy will occasionally grip his hand or nudge his ankle with her foot; most of the gallery can’t see it, but on close-up shots, the jurists can. Phoenix isn’t sure either of his kids know that, but it’s likely helping their case.

 

“Vera Misham bites her nails when she’s nervous,” Apollo posits to the court. “The defense asserts that her nail polish was laced with atroquinine!”

 

“Objection!” Klavier shouts. “Yes, but this only furthers my previous claim that the poisoning was self-induced out of guilt! She even used the same poison!”

 

Phoenix has to keep from rolling his eyes. He can’t tell if Klavier is just doing his job by playing devil’s advocate, or if he really believes the horseshit he’s peddling.

 

“How would a nineteen-year-old recluse even have gained access to such a poison?” Apollo demands. “By mail order?!”

 

The judge cuts in, “Mr. Justice, where do you assert the poisoned nail polish came from?”

 

Apollo straightens up. “Your Honor, the defendant informed us yesterday that her favorite nail polish was a good luck charm gifted to her by the client seven years ago. It’s not inconceivable to think that said client laced it with poison seven years ago before gifting it to her.”

 

“Objection! Why, then, would the poison only take effect now?”

 

“Objection!” Apollo fires back at Klavier. “Vera stated she uses the good luck charm when she goes outside, which is extraordinarily rare. She also only bites her nails when nervous. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume she never ingested the poison before yesterday.”

 

“The defense’s assertion is plausible,” the judge says, “however, can you prove to the court the identity of the person responsible?”

 

Apollo presents to the court the bottle of nail polish Phoenix received from Kristoph’s cell yesterday.

 

Stupid bastard, Phoenix thinks with a smirk. Underestimated us again.

 

“The defense would like to draw the court’s attention to this identical bottle of nail polish, which belonged to Kristoph Gavin,” Apollo says. Immediately, murmurs start up in the gallery.

 

“Kristoph Gavin?” the judge says, eyes flicking over to Klavier. “He has been in prison for six months! How could he have poisoned the defendant?”

 

Apollo slams his hand on the bench. “The defense asserts that the poisoning took place seven years ago!”

 

“Objection!” Klavier barks, eyes wide. “How… How do you have that?”

 

“Objection, Your Honor,” Apollo says. “I filed this evidence with the court this morning. It’s perfectly legal.”

 

“The defense may continue,” the judge concurs.

 

“Objection!” Klavier shouts again, this time more desperate. “The existence of two bottles of the same branded nail polish is not sufficient evidence to link Kristoph Gavin to the crime.”

 

The judge nods. “Indeed, I’m afraid this court is primarily concerned with the poisoning of Drew Misham, for which the defense has yet to provide evidence.”

 

Apollo doesn’t even flinch. “But the two incidents used the same exact poison!”

 

“Mr. Justice, do have any evidence to link Kristoph Gavin to the murder of Drew Misham?”

 

Indignant, Apollo demands to call a special witness. Phoenix catches Trucy stepping a bit closer to him, bumping their shoulders together.

 

“Only if the prosecution agrees,” the judge says. Bullshit, Phoenix thinks. How come we never have to agree?

 

As the judge prepares to close the proceedings, Phoenix leans forward on the edge of his seat, heart beating fast and hard in his chest. On screen, Klavier is visibly shaking, gripping the bench with force as sweat trickles down his temple. He’s faltering , Phoenix thinks in horror. He’s not going to do it.

 

“Prosecutor Gavin!” Apollo suddenly shouts across the courtroom. The gallery falls silent. “You know what you have to do. You can’t let it end like this! Don’t look away from the truth!”

 

A beat passes. Then, through the screen, Klavier flashes a brilliant smile.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Herr Forehead,” he says softly. Then, back straight, he declares, “Your Honor, the prosecution would like to call a special witness. My brother, Kristoph Gavin.”

---

During the recess, Apollo comes to find Phoenix in the hall. They’re in a quiet spot between the lobby and the jurists’ chambers, nestled away near the vending machines that Phoenix swears haven’t been updated in twenty years. In the corner, a lone custodian mops the floor in silence.

 

“Feeling okay?” Phoenix asks.

 

Apollo nods. “You?”

 

“Stressed, honestly,” Phoenix snorts. “But you’re doing well out there. This is the hard part, though. You gonna be okay?”

 

“I think so,” Apollo says. “I have to. For Vera.”

 

“Good.”

 

A beat passes in silence.

 

“Does it ever stop feeling like a performance?” Apollo asks.

 

With a sigh, Phoenix shoves his hands in his pockets. Ten years as a lawyer and it’s a question he’s yet to answer for himself.

 

“Not really,” he admits. “But that’s the part we play.”

 

Apollo smiles ruefully. “That sounds like something my stepdad would have said.”

 

“Well, magic and lawyering are both about controlling the narrative, right?” Phoenix says, and he definitely doesn’t resent being compared with Shadi Enigmar. “It’s about making people see what you want them to see.”

 

“I thought it was about the truth.”

 

“It is,” Phoenix assures. He pulls a hand from his pocket and drops it onto Apollo’s shoulder. “But the truth can be fickle. Sometimes you have to drag it out into the light, kicking and screaming. You know that as much as I do.”

 

“I know,” Apollo says. “That’s the part I didn’t like about magic, either.”

 

“Then this, today, is what we’re trying to change with this new system.” Phoenix gives his shoulder a squeeze. “And you’re doing really, really great. You’re shaping up to be a brilliant lawyer, Apollo. You know that, right?”

 

“I—Well.” Apollo flushes bright pink. “I have a good teacher.”

 

Phoenix shakes his head, even though the implicit praise makes his chest soar with pride. “That’s not why.”

 

Apollo’s head tilts, but he doesn’t question Phoenix any further. Instead, he bounces from heel to toe in a mannerism he definitely got from Trucy and nervously eyes the clock. Phoenix follows his gaze; there are only a few minutes left before the end of the recess.

 

“You should be getting back,” Phoenix says. “It’s almost time.”

 

With a shaky breath, Apollo squares his shoulders and nods. “Right. I’m fine!”

 

Phoenix chuckles. “Good. Remember, chin up, smile. For Vera’s sake, even if she’s not here. Okay?”

 

“Okay. I can do that.”

 

“I know. You can do anything.” Phoenix gently adjusts Apollo’s tie and smooths his collar. “It’s almost over. Go put this thing to bed.”

 

“Right!” Apollo turns and begins marching off to the beat of his own drum, but then he stops and spins around on his heel again. “Um, Nick, wait.”

 

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, I just—Well, here.” Apollo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar locket on a broken gold chain; it sways like a pendulum in his hand, glinting in the light. “Before I go out there, I want you to have this.”

 

Something flutters quietly in Phoenix’s chest. He pries the locket open and is met with two familiar photos: one of a tiny Trucy, and one of a tiny Apollo scowling in the rain.

 

“A-Apollo, you should keep this,” he says.

 

Apollo shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s… just been weighing me down.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t need it. You deserve it, for actually being a half-decent parent.”

 

“But we always said… You never considered yourself to be my kid,” Phoenix points out, a little breathless as he cradles the locket in his palm.

 

“I was never Shadi’s kid either.” Apollo shrugs. “But I was supposed to be. That’s what matters, right?”

 

“...Right,” Phoenix chokes, very bravely resisting the urge to pick Apollo up and spin him around and hold him tight. He gives the pictures another look and suppresses a chuckle. “Buddy, why is this the picture of you Shadi chose?”

 

Apollo’s expression turns oddly wistful. “He always really liked that picture, for some reason. My mom took it on a trip to Seattle. I always thought maybe he just thought my anxiety was funny, but I don’t know. He kept it around his neck all those years.” Apollo turns to leave again. “I… should actually go now.”

 

“R-Right,” Phoenix says again. He carefully weaves the chain through a button hole on his lapel and drops the locket into his breast pocket. “Apollo? I’m so, so proud of you.”

 

Even he doesn’t know whether he means it as his mentor or as his former guardian, and by the pinched but watery expression on Apollo’s face, he can’t tell either. But the line between those two things has always been far blurrier than Apollo would probably like, anyway.

 

“Thanks,” Apollo says quietly, with a small but sunny smile. “I know.” Then he turns and walks proudly down the hall away from the jurists’ chamber, all squared shoulders and determined posture; but Phoenix catches a glimpse of him breaking into a clumsy little run the moment he turns the corner, just before he vanishes from view, and chuckles.

 

The custodian in the corner looks up from her mop and asks Phoenix with a smile, “Was that your kid?”

 

Warmth spreads through Phoenix’s chest. “Not exactly,” he says, patting his pocket reverently, palm resting right over his heart. “But something like that.”

 

---

Phoenix watches in awe as Apollo pulls apart every statement Kristoph Gavin makes.

 

It’s done with the confidence of someone who has spent much of the last six months picking apart Gavin’s manipulative language in excruciating detail, mulling it over in his own mind over and over again. Apollo is no stranger to the way Kristoph spins every word in his favor—and neither is Klavier.

 

Together, using the knowledge they’ve collected, the two of them weave a complex web for the court: a tale of forged evidence, subterfuge, and egotism, with Kristoph Gavin seething at its center.

 

“Even you, Klavier? My dearest little brother?”

 

“I won’t be fooled by your petty lies any longer, Kristoph,” Klavier says.

 

Kristoph’s eyes turn cold. “Be careful what you say, Klavier. Your reputation is at stake.”

 

“To hell with that!” Klavier says, and the courtroom—even Apollo—collectively holds their breath. “I tire of these stupid, selfish games, Kristoph. Let’s put this charade to bed, shall we?”

 

“Mr. Gavin,” Apollo cuts in, palm planted flat on the bench. “Admit it. Seven years ago, you ordered a forgery from the Mishams: a falsified page from the diary of Magnifi Gramarye. To cover your tracks, you laid a trap for each of them: for Vera, the poisoned nail polish, her good luck charm, in case she were to ever go outside and risk telling someone what she knew; for Drew, the poisoned stamp, which you specifically directed him to use. But you didn’t account for Vera intercepting the stamp and keeping it for seven years.”

 

Kristoph leans over the witness stand, fuming. “If it happened as you said, how would I possibly have known when Mr. Misham would use the stamp?”

 

“Objection!” Klavier shouts. “You intended for him to use it seven years ago!”

 

Apollo taps at his forehead, deep in thought, Trucy whispering in his ear. Come on, Phoenix thinks. You can do it. Turn your thinking around!

 

Then, it’s as if a lightbulb goes off. Apollo stands straight up, pointing, and shouts, “Objection! You’re bluffing, Mr. Gavin!”

 

“What?” Kristoph scoffs.

 

“The timing doesn’t matter; you’re trying to distract this court. That it happened when it did is pure coincidence—this court concerns itself with your motive and your opportunity, for which the defense has provided ample arguments!” He slams his hands down. “The question isn’t whether you could have killed Drew Misham. It’s why Vera Misham could not have ! And the fact of the matter is there is ample evidence to suggest that both poisonings originated outside the home—with you, Kristoph Gavin!”

 

“But you have no proof,” Kristoph snaps. “You don’t have proof linking the stamp to me! You don’t even have proof it still exists! Evidence is everything, Mr. Justice— I taught you that! You owe your entire career to me!”

 

“No,” Apollo says calmly. “I don’t owe you anything at all.”

 

“Hah!” Kristoph barks. “Without any evidence, you will never convince this court of anything! All you have at your disposal are petty bluffs and circumstantial evidence that you learned from that foolish, prideful, idiotic fraud who ado—”

 

“It’s not the judge I have to convince,” Apollo says, voice loud and firm. He pauses, lets the moment breathe, and then Apollo, standing tall, gestures broadly and proudly to his side. He looks directly into the camera, courtroom lights glinting off of his bracelet, and smiles.

 

“It’s the jury,” he says, eyes boring straight into Phoenix’s through the screen, and Phoenix can’t help but grin right back.

 

Apollo’s still pointing at the camera as the courtroom waits for Kristoph’s reaction. His face has a sheen of sweat on it, like it always does when he stands at the bench, and one of his little stray curls that never lies flat is drooping onto his forehead. Even the camera lingers on him instead of returning to a wide shot of the courtroom; it’s all dramatics, all performance and flair and all of the things Apollo hates. All of it except for Apollo himself, who couldn’t fake this moment if he tried. From the day they met, Apollo Justice has never done anything in half-measures. Even this trial, laced with the trappings of a good show, isn’t safe from the genuine heart and soul Apollo pours into every aspect of his life.

 

That look on his face is real, every inch of it. In that moment, he knows they’ve won; and Phoenix has never been more proud in his entire life.

 

The moment shatters when Kristoph starts screaming. Apollo’s expression shudders just briefly before the view swaps back to the wide shot.

 

“A jury?” he sneers. “A jury ? You would have me believe that the common… riffraff of this country are the ones most qualified to decide Vera Misham’s guilt?”

 

“Please, dear brother,” Klavier cuts in, even-toned. “Is that how you wish to speak to the folks at home? They’re watching.”

 

Kristoph’s gaze snaps forward, directly into the central camera. Phoenix senses multiple members of the jury flinch behind him.

 

What happens next, Phoenix doesn’t like to remember. Kristoph is incandescent with rage, spouting vitriol toward the jury and to his brother and even to Phoenix himself, but mostly toward Apollo, who stands like a statue at the defense bench, face solemn, with Trucy’s hand on his arm.

 

Just a little longer, Apollo, Phoenix thinks. Bring it home.

 

Phoenix has to leave the room while the jurists are deliberating. He finds Miles in the empty judge’s chamber, glasses askew as he paces back and forth.

 

“You alright, Edgeworth?” he asks.

 

Miles jumps, smoothing out his suit and adjusting his glasses. “Wright! Yes. Yes, I’m quite well.”

 

“You’re nervous,” Phoenix says. “Stop being nervous.”

 

Miles just glares at him.

 

“Oh, you know what I mean. It’s going great! It’s working! Loosen up!”

 

“Seven years of my career, Wright,” Miles breathes. “That’s how long I've spent on scholarship almost exclusively. If this doesn’t work out, I…” He trails off, squeezing his arm.

 

Phoenix steps forward. “It’s going to work out. Like I told you before, the proposal is brilliant.”

 

“But it isn’t—” Miles cuts himself off with a huff.

 

“It isn’t what?” Phoenix asks. “Perfect?”

 

Miles turns beet red.

 

Phoenix sighs. “Look, sure it has some kinks to work out. It’s the first time anything like this has been tried in the LA courts in years! But I really think we’re getting somewhere. Don’t you?”

 

A beat. Then Miles relaxes. “I… suppose I do, yes,” he says. “Yes, the ideas are good. It will work.”

 

“Good. Then why else are you so nervous?” Phoenix raises his eyebrows at the pinched look on Miles’ face. “Are you worried about Apollo ?”

 

Miles flushes again, stammering, “I–Well. Perhaps I—You see—”

 

“Aww, you are. You’re more worried about him than I am!”

 

“W-Well, you don’t seem worried at all!”

 

Phoenix smiles. “That’s ‘cause I’ve been watching. But it’s sweet that you care.” He pats a sputtering Edgeworth on the back. “Come on, you big softy, let’s get out there before the verdict is announced. I want to see this thing through with you to the end.”

 

Miles nods, fixes his glasses, and then nods again, firmer this time. “Right,” he says. “Let’s—”

 

“That’s me,” Phoenix chimes, because his dear friend just makes it so easy, and it never stops being funny.

 

“Shut up,” Miles grumbles, and pushes him out the door.

---

Vera Misham is declared not guilty on the charge of murdering her father, Drew Misham. Kristoph Gavin is returned to his solitary cell, pending further trial at a later date, but his fate has all but been sealed.

 

Shortly after the verdict, they get a call from the hospital that Vera, though still weak, has woken up. Trucy and Apollo are both so relieved they cry.

 

Phoenix can’t blame them, really. There, in the defense lobby, he throws his arms around them both; Trucy curls into his shirt right away. Apollo freezes stiff for a moment, but then brings his arm up over Phoenix’s back and thumps his forehead against his shoulder.

 

“It’s over, Nick,” he whispers. “It’s finally, finally over.”

 

“You did it,” Phoenix whispers back, pressing a kiss to Trucy’s crown. “You both did.”

 

“Polly’s never been cooler,” Trucy teases, and Apollo coughs out a surprised little laugh into Phoenix’s shoulder. Phoenix pats his back.

 

“I love you both so much,” he says.

 

Trucy sing-songs, “Love you more, Daddy!” and Apollo, brave Apollo, with his whole soft heart and soul, says, “I love you too.”

 

And Phoenix, full to the brim with joy and affection and relief for his family, cries.

Notes:

that's a series wrap on phoenix wright <3

you may notice the final chapter count went up by one. that is official now! the next chapter will be the last regular chapter, and it will likely be far shorter than these last few have been, more on par with earlier chapters. you may have noticed someone very important is missing from this chapter!

following that will be an epilogue. i am probably going to get progressively sappier in each of these remaining end notes, but seeing as this concludes the major plot and next chapter will mostly function as denouement, allow me to take this time to say thank you for reading this far. this fic was never meant to be the behemoth that it is, but i don't regret it. it has been an absolute joy to write, during a time where i haven't been feeling so great about my writing. thank you, thank you, thank you. <3

Chapter 14: PART XIII

Summary:

Mr. Edgeworth waits for him to continue, just staring straight ahead. The question has been weighing on Apollo’s mind since July, and really, since long before then, whenever he thought about what his mother might think of him now. He looks up at Edgeworth and watches his face carefully when he asks, “What if once she knows everything, she isn’t proud of me anymore? What if she wishes she didn’t have a son?”

--
In which Apollo makes a series of resolutions, or something nearing one, at the very least.

Notes:

hi folks. this will be the final regular chapter, but i will save my yapping for the end notes. until then, please enjoy <3

Buddy / You just need to find home / And I think maybe / You just miss your mum

- Cavetown, “I Miss My Mum”

 

A week after State v. Misham, Apollo takes a trip to the DA’s office.

 

The secretary seems surprised when he asks for directions; after all, he’s spent the last seven or so years making a beeline right for Prosecutor Edgeworth’s twelfth floor office, whenever he’s in from overseas. But today, Apollo has other plans.

 

Dressed in his professional court attire, Apollo makes his way up the elevator to the office of Prosecutor Klavier Gavin. He knocks on the door once, twice; and a familiar, weary voice bids him enter.

 

“Ah,” Klavier says when he sees him. “Herr Forehead. This is quite a surprise.”

 

“Yeah,” Apollo says sheepishly, nudging the door closed. “I just thought I’d come see how you were doing.”

 

“How I’m doing?”

 

“Yeah, you know.” Apollo gestures vaguely. “With… everything.”

 

Klavier huffs a broken laugh and leans against the edge of his desk. “I suppose I should be glad to have put to rest these doubts I’ve carried,” he says. The look he gives Apollo is desperate, sorrowful. “But I can’t help but feel I just signed off on my only brother’s execution order.”

 

“Oh…” Apollo shuffles awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Well, I… I know how it feels to find out your family isn’t exactly… what you thought they were. Or what they could be.”

 

“Ah. I’ve forgotten; the Gramarye affair was deeply personal to you.”

 

“Magnifi’s selfish games ruined my life,” Apollo admits. “Everything—Everything you’ve read about the Gramaryes in the past seven years. You’ll only ever know a fraction of what really happened.”

 

“I’d like to hear it from you someday,” Klavier says. “Not… Not as a prosecutor. Perhaps as a… friend.”

 

Apollo raises his eyebrows. “You want to be friends? I helped put your brother and your best friend in jail.”

 

“I… Well.” Klavier turns a bit pink. “I don’t have anybody left. Just you, and Detective Skye, and I’m not so certain she likes me.”

 

Apollo chuckles. Something in his heart does little somersaults—he knows how it feels to have no one. If he didn’t have Clay, he doesn’t think he’d have survived those first few months after Shadi’s murder.

 

Nothing in Apollo’s life has ever been simple. Klavier might be one of the only people who gets that, deep down.

 

“Sure,” Apollo concedes. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the courtroom, anyway.”

 

Klavier laughs awkwardly. “Well, about that. I think I ought to take a break from the courtroom for a while.”

 

“Really? But you’re so good at your job!”

 

“I appreciate the flattery, but I think I need a little time away from trials, time to think. My band is broken up, and my brother is headed to death row. Herr Forehead, I…” He sighs, and the accent drops out of his voice. “I… Apollo. I don’t think I know who I am without Kristoph.”

 

Apollo takes a step forward. “You’re Klavier Gavin. And you’ll be fine.”

 

“I suppose you think it’s that simple.”

 

“Not simple,” Apollo contests. “But true nonetheless.”

 

Klavier blinks at him for a moment, and then just laughs. It’s a genuine thing, bright and warm like bells. Apollo breaks out into a smile despite himself, and Klavier turns pink again at the sight.

 

“So…” he says, “we won’t be seeing much of each other in court for a while, after all.”

 

“That’s okay,” Apollo replies, holding out his hand. “We should keep in touch. Get coffee some time.” He cringes inwardly and hurriedly tacks on, “If that’s something you’d like to do, of course!”

 

Klavier reaches out and accepts the handshake; his hand is calloused and warm. “I’d like that very much, Apollo. Thank you.”

 

---

The visiting room door slams shut with a metallic clang; Apollo’s always hated that, no matter which side of the glass he’s been on. It’s soulless, impersonal—it feels silly, but he often wishes prison weren’t so, well, prison-like.

 

The door opens and shuts on the other side in much the same fashion, and Valant steps up to the glass dressed in nondescript prison clothes. It’s strange to see him in drab gray sweats, after only ever seeing him in bright yellow for most of the time they knew each other. His hair is down, and his mustache is less neat than it used to be, but he’s still Valant, down to the unimpressed look he gives Apollo.

 

“This is certainly serendipitous,” he says, dropping into the folding chair, voice tinny through the speaker. “I didn’t imagine you’d want to see me.”

 

Apollo shrugs. “I figure we owe each other this much,” he says. “I’m not too proud to admit that I wasn’t exactly… pleasant the last time we spoke.”

 

Valant actually cracks a smile at that. “And I’m not so vainglorious as to assume you were deliberately disagreeable to my detriment.”

 

“Touche,” Apollo concedes.

 

“I see you’ve studied your vocabulary in my absence.”

 

“I’m 22,” Apollo deadpans. “And I have a law degree.”

 

“Right, right.”

 

A beat passes. Then Apollo says, “Thanks, by the way.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Bringing me to safety at the Gavinners’ show, and not asking me to explain.”

 

“Ah. That was nothing. Nothing compared to the wrong I’ve done.”

 

Apollo sighs. “I appreciate you coming clean,” he says. “You were the only one who could have brought the truth to light.”

 

Valant shakes his head. “Realizing how much the entire affair had affected you and dear, dear Trucy, and knowing the futility of my own efforts to rise above my station, I… simply could not bear to live with the guilt anymore. If I had simply not framed Zak, then perhaps…” Valant trails off, fists clenched.

 

“I don’t know, Valant,” Apollo admits. “I’ve tried to assign blame for so long, but I think maybe this family was doomed no matter what we did.”

 

“ You are not doomed, my dear unsung stripling,” Valant says in a choked voice. “I beg you, do not take your family’s failures with you to your grave. The name Gramarye has already manufactured enough misery for several lifetimes. No need for you or your sister to go making more of your own.”

 

Apollo stares down at his bracelet in thought, rubbing the cold metal. It looks back at him, watchful and wary, as it has for his entire life.

 

“There’s something else I came here to tell you,” he says, and Valant frowns. “It’s about Mom.”

 

“Thalassa?”

 

“She’s… still alive,” Apollo admits. “You’ve met her. Lamiroir.”

 

Valant’s eyes blow wide. “Alakaz—” He swallows thickly. “I thought perhaps I recognized her. All these years, I had doubts, but—”

 

“Valant, I fucked up. I scared her off, and… I don’t know where she is now. But she’s alive. I promise you, Thalassa is alive.”

 

Shaking his head, Valant covers his eyes with the palm of his hand. “It can’t be,” he whispers. “All of it was built on a bed of… lies . Zak and I, we… we did it all for nothing.”

 

“Oh…” Apollo says, feeling a bit chastised.

 

Valant looks back up at him, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears. “No, no, my boy,” he chokes. “I am relieved. I can now rest with the knowledge that, despite everything else I have done, at least I know I did not kill your mother. I merely wish that my dear partner could know that his wife yet lives.”

 

Apollo swipes at his own eyes with his sleeve. “I know. I’m sorry, Valant.”

 

“No, Apollo,” Valant insists. “I owe you my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude.”

 

---

Rain tap-tap-tap s on the windows at a soothing, steady pace. It’s winter in Los Angeles, as much as it’s ever really winter in Los Angeles, just cooler and rainier than the rest of the year. Trucy’s off at school, and Apollo is huddled up at his desk with a mug of hot tea as he pours over the case files that need to be sorted. Wright and Co. is blessedly quiet; Nick—and he’s slowly but surely just becoming Nick, now—is in his office on the phone and has been for a while, leaving Apollo to work in peace.

 

Apollo takes a generous sip of his tea and labels the binder he’s working on before setting it down on the pile and reaching for another. As he does so, Nick finally emerges from his office, grumbling about his back like usual, and meanders over to Apollo’s desk.

 

“Hey,” he says, pilfering a piece of hard candy from the dish Apollo keeps beside his computer.

 

“Hi,” Apollo says back without looking up from his work. “Busy.”

 

“Sorry to break your focus, but we need to chat,” Nick says. Apollo picks up on the seriousness in his voice and raises his eyes to find Nick already pulling up a chair.

 

“What happened?” Apollo asks warily.

 

Nick shakes his head. “Nothing bad. I just got off the phone.” He smiles faintly. “I got a call from your mother.”

 

Apollo stands straight up, causing his chair to roll back behind him with a loud clatter as it slams into the wall.

 

“Hey, easy,” Nick says, tugging him back into his seat. “She asked me to tell you that she’s decided to have the surgery, and she wants you and Trucy to be there for her when she wakes up.”

 

“What?” Apollo says, dumbfounded. “After six fucking months? Did she suddenly remember everything?”

 

Nick sighs. “Pieces of it, slowly. Enough to want to see you. Apparently her doctor thinks restoring her sight will help, too.”

 

“Is it going to work?” Apollo asks. “Is it safe?”

 

“The doctor seems to think so. Are you going to go see her?”

 

“When’s the surgery?”

 

“In a couple weeks.” Nick winces. “Sorry, bud, I know that’s short notice.”

 

Apollo buries his face in his hands. “B-But… What do we do? Is she—Did she say if she wants custody of Trucy, or—?”

 

Nick leans forward and takes Apollo’s hands in his own, rubbing circles into his wrists. “Breathe, Apollo. No one said anything about that. She just wants to see you both.”

 

“I want to see her,” Apollo says weakly. “I still miss her so badly it hurts.”

 

“I know, kiddo. But don’t feel like you have to rush into anything you aren’t ready for, alright? It’s been ten years, and I know it’s still kind of a big trigger for you, so it’s okay to take things kind of slow.”

 

Apollo forces himself to nod. He can’t help but feel shaken; he gave up hope of Thalassa ever coming back after he accidentally caused her memories to start flooding back. He thought he scared her away for good, but here she is, scheduling her surgery and calling Nick on his office line like it’s nothing. Disappearing and reappearing on a whim like it’s nothing .

 

“I’ll talk to Trucy about it tonight,” Nick offers. “I’m sorry to bother you, bud. You gonna be okay?”

 

With a shaky breath, Apollo nods again. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just surprised and confused.”

 

Nick pats his shoulder. “I know. I’ll let you get back to work, but come let me know if you need anything, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Apollo agrees. Nick gives him another pat and disappears back into his office, with the door open this time and beams of sunlight shimmering through the raindrops plastered on the window overlooking the Gatewater. Apollo settles back down to work, tea having gone lukewarm. He’s lost his train of thought completely, but it’s been replaced by an equal parts excited and anxious mantra: Mom, Mom, Mom.

 

---

Mr. Edgeworth is sworn in as the district’s Chief Prosecutor in front of cameras and reporters and a whole host of legal bigwigs who probably all wish it was someone else.

 

A gala is held afterward in his honor, not that Apollo could ever be convinced that Mr. Edgeworth would ever agree to such a thing of his own volition. It’s held in the same hall as that charity gala way back when, the night Kristoph Gavin had hooked one claw in Apollo and never stopped pulling. Apollo didn’t attend any of those galas during his internship or as a junior partner at Gavin’s firm—Mr. Gavin always said it would be much too stressful for him, what with all of the rubbing elbows with important people who all have ulterior motives. Apollo believed him at the time, although the irony isn’t lost on him, looking back.

 

Nick brought him to that event when he was a teenager coasting on nepotism and determination. And maybe it was a mistake, given what happened; but Apollo still regrets not seeing Mr. Gavin’s isolation of him for what it was.

 

Speaking of Nick, tonight he sits beside Apollo and Trucy at their reserved table at the gala. He has a new suit in the same deep blue as his old one—except this one fits him—with a pale blue vest to match. The chain on Shadi’s old locket sits pinned to his lapel, sparkling in the lights of the reception hall. His leg is bouncing under the table, practically shaking the whole thing; Nick might be more nervous than anyone else about Edgeworth’s impending speech, including Edgeworth himself. Or perhaps he’s just that impatient.

 

“You’re shaking my shirley temple, Daddy,” Trucy complains, steadying her glass.

 

“Huh? Oh. Sorry, sweetpea,” Nick says distractedly. He stills his leg, and starts tapping the table instead.

 

“Nick,” Apollo says, “you’re not the one giving a speech.”

 

“Thank you, smartass. I’m antsy. Can’t a man be antsy?”

 

Trucy pats his hand. “Uncle Miles is going to be fine, Daddy.”

 

“Aw, I know that, kiddo. Just let me fidget.”

 

Apollo himself hasn’t stopped fidgeting since they arrived, but that’s just what large events and crowds do to him, not a result of any particular heightened anxiety. He picks at the hem of his sleeves; he’s wearing the red jacket that Trucy says makes him look like a comedian, because his suit from high school doesn’t fit anymore and he doesn’t own anything else. So far, nobody has paid his gaudy outfit any mind.

 

When Mr. Edgeworth does step up to the podium to talk, he’s the picture of poise, though Apollo can tell he’s a bit nervous. He smooths his cravat and adjusts his glasses before politely thanking everyone for their attendance. His speech is short and to the point, but what he says will stick with Apollo forever:

 

“In my career, I have been on both sides of the glass in the detention center. I have sent possibly innocent men to the gallows, and faced my own possible guilty verdict all the same. As a prosecutor, I once believed it my sworn duty to condemn. I now believe that, as a judicial system, we have the sworn responsibility to pursue truth and justice, even at the cost of personal gain, and even if that truth is a difficult one to accept. The law is not an immutable thing; it is a process, one through which we build a world that is safer, kinder, and more just than the one we inherited.

 

“That is why I, along with my dear friend and colleague Phoenix Wright, created the Jurist System, which was tested to great success in October. After many years of study, and through countless hours of reflection on my time in the courtroom, I have come to understand the law not as a body of facts rigorously studied and upheld by people like myself, but as a system for which we are all, as a society, collectively responsible.

 

“I approach this responsibility with an understanding, gleaned through much personal experience, that none of us, in the system or outside of it, is above judgment. However, no one is incapable of changing either. I, myself, am a perfect example of that. I intend to build a system founded on the principles of truth, redemption, and compassion, rather than on power, corruption, and condemnation. That, I believe, is the path toward justice for all.”

 

After, Mr. Edgeworth stops by their table, looking only slightly frazzled.

 

“There he is, Mr. Chief Prosecutor!” Nick says with a grin. Mr. Edgeworth flushes pink and scowls at him as Trucy comes barrelling into his side.

 

“Congrats, Uncle Miles!” she sing-songs, squeezing him around his waist. His scowl melts away as he pats her on the back.

 

“Thank you, Trucy,” he says softly. Then, to Nick, he snipes, “You are insufferable.”

 

Nick throws his hands up in lazy mock surrender. “I’m happy for you! That was a great speech.”

 

“Daddy almost cried,” Trucy adds, which has Nick sputtering. Apollo would make fun of him for it, except he can’t, because he came pretty close to crying himself, and still might.

 

But unlike Nick, it’s not that he’s moved by the personal growth of someone dear to him. It’s something else—an acknowledgment, maybe, of his own pain. A reflection of Apollo’s past such that, if he closes his eyes and thinks, he still sees Dhurke and his strong shoulders and his unwavering convictions. That the arc of the universe bends towards justice, so long as we work to make it so.

 

Mr. Edgeworth just shakes his head. “You never change, do you?” he asks with fond exasperation. His eye catches Apollo’s watery stare. “I’m glad you were able to make it as well, Apollo.”

 

“Hm? Oh! Of course,” Apollo says hurriedly. “Congrats, Mr. E!”

 

“Thank you very much.” Mr. Edgeworth smiles. “I ought to go greet more people. I’ll be back later.”

 

“You’ve got this, Uncle Miles! You did the hard part!” Trucy cheers him on.

 

He tilts his head. With a chuckle, he says, “Hard part? Trucy dear, my speech was scripted. That was the easy part.” Mr. Edgeworth gives her a little wink behind his glasses and walks away from their table, stiff in a way that only Apollo and Trucy would catch—and Nick, by sheer proximity.

 

“Apollo?” Nick asks once he’s gone. “You okay?”

 

Apollo looks up. Nick and Trucy are both looking at him with twin expressions of vague concern; Trucy is eyeing him sharply, and Nick’s brow is furrowed.

 

“I’m fine,” Apollo says. “I think I’m going to step out and get some air.”

 

“Want company?” Trucy asks.

 

Apollo shakes his head as he stands up. “No, I just need a minute.”

 

“Alright. Text if you need me,” Nick says, graciously letting him go.

 

Apollo slinks out the side door of the venue, into a small concrete patio area that must be exclusively used by smokers. The air is cool, almost fresh (fresh for LA, at least), an invigorating change of pace.

 

He doesn’t know what’s wrong, really. Maybe nothing is wrong, and he’s just feeling a lot at once. It’s been a long year; a year ago, Apollo’s life looked a lot different than it does now. Before his arrest, it’s not that things were necessarily simple, but they made a certain sick sort of sense. Things are better now, mostly, maybe. Apollo is safer, smarter, and—though it took a while—stabler than he was before. Clay is going into space. Mr. Edgeworth is taking over the local district. Nick looks less worried these days, and Trucy’s making new friends at school. And Thalassa—Thalassa is alive, wherever she is, and she’s going to get that surgery, and Apollo is going to see her soon, and maybe then the decade-old wound in his chest will finally scab over. Or maybe it won’t, and if it does, there will always be others both old and new to take its place.

 

But that’s just the way things are: Apollo is an imperfect, messy person on a path to build a life better than the one he inherited, one free of abuse and manipulation and loneliness and greed. A path towards truth, whatever that means. Justice, aptly named.

 

No one bothers Apollo for quite a while. But eventually, the door opens and a cacophony of lights and voices spills out into the dark of the courtyard before it clicks shut again, and Miles Edgeworth, man of the hour, is left standing in the shadows, looking a bit like a frazzled dog.

 

“Ah,” he says, smoothing out his coat. “You’re out here too. Wright did say you had stepped away for some air.”

 

Apollo nods. “You too?”

 

Mr. Edgeworth winces and sits beside him on the bench, an arm’s length away. “Yes,” he admits. “I needed a moment to breathe.”

 

Apollo hums, scuffing the bottom of his shoe against the pavement. “Nick’s not worried about me, is he?”

 

“A bit, only because you have been gone a while.” Edgeworth pulls out his phone. “I will text him to inform him that you’re well.”

 

“Thanks.” A beat passes in comfortable silence while Edgeworth taps out a quick text. Apollo watches the pallid night sky, searching for answers that Los Angeles does not provide. He says, “Your speech was really meaningful,” and keeps his eyes trained skyward.

 

“I see,” Edgeworth says. “Thank you. I am glad it resonated with you.”

 

“Do you think you swayed your detractors?” Apollo asks, and then bites his own tongue, but Edgeworth just laughs.

 

“Perhaps a few of them. But there will always be more.”

 

“How do you deal with it?” Apollo finally looks at Mr. Edgeworth, in time to see his brow furrow in its customary fashion. “I-I mean, keep going despite all of the people who still doubt you, or who look at you and only see the worst in you, the version of you at your lowest point?”

 

Mr. Edgeworth pauses thoughtfully, breathing in deep. His eyes slide away from Apollo’s gaze and out into the vague dark nothingness of the patio. He’s quiet for so long that Apollo begins to think he won’t answer, but he keeps waiting, and eventually Mr. Edgeworth speaks up, quietly:

 

“As I once told you before, you cannot run from your own pain,” he says. “But I have made peace with the worst parts of myself. I continue to follow my convictions and do what I believe is right, because it is right, not to sway others’ opinions of me.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

Edgeworth glances down at him. “Is there something weighing on your mind?”

 

Apollo sighs, picking at the hem of his sleeves again. “My mom is having surgery soon,” he says. “She wants to see me and Trucy after.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Apollo nods. Mr. Edgeworth waits for him to continue, just staring straight ahead. The question has been weighing on Apollo’s mind since July, and really, since long before then, whenever he thought about what his mother might think of him now. He looks up at Edgeworth and watches his face carefully when he asks, “What if once she knows everything, she isn’t proud of me anymore? What if she wishes she didn’t have a son?”

 

Mr. Edgeworth’s face briefly collapses into something vulnerable and almost pained, before he pinches it into something more closely resembling his usual vaguely-constipated tight expression. But Apollo catches enough of a glimpse to see the truth of the matter, swirling beneath.

 

“Apollo,” Mr. Edgeworth says softly, carefully. “I do not know your mother. But I have asked myself the same questions. My father was my earliest inspiration, and I have spent the last decade trying to reshape myself into someone he would be proud of. His words form the foundations of what I believe, and what I want our judicial system to represent.

 

“I cannot say for certain how he’d feel about the person I was at your age. In truth, I’m not entirely proud of that young man, myself.” Edgeworth’s gaze flits back to Apollo’s face. “But I believe he’d be proud of the man I am becoming.”

 

Apollo averts his eyes and doesn’t say anything; if he opens his mouth, he’s worried about what will come out of it.

 

“You have nothing you need to atone for, Apollo,” Mr. Edgeworth adds quietly. “You are young, and haven’t made the mistakes that I have.”

 

“I know.” Apollo winces. “I just—Maybe I’m not what she expects me to be. Maybe I’m… messier than the image in her head.”

 

“I think your mother understands that messiness. My father certainly did.” Edgeworth tilts his head up to the sky, despite its empty, lifeless hue. “I don’t know what my father would say to me now. But I do not doubt for a moment that he would still, despite my mistakes, love me very much.” He looks back down at Apollo, expression open and genuine. “You have many people who love you, Apollo. I can promise you most sincerely that anyone who has cast you aside has done so at their own immense, unfathomable loss.”

 

Apollo says nothing at first. There’s nothing he needs to say, really, nothing Mr. Edgeworth is asking for. But Apollo takes a deep breath anyway, and says, “Thank you.”

 

Mr. Edgeworth just nods, and the silence washes over them once more.

Not long after, light floods the patio from the open door again; it's Trucy, pouting.

 

“There you are!” she scolds, hopping down off the step. “Daddy wanted me to find you.”

 

“I told him where we were,” Mr. Edgeworth says evenly. “There's no need to worry.”

 

“He's not worried, I think he's just bored ,” Trucy grumbles. She waltzes over to the bench, hands clasped behind her back, and gives Apollo a once-over with a tilt of her head. “Feeling better, Polly?”

 

Apollo sends her a smile. “Yeah, I'm all good. Just needed a minute.”

 

“A minute? More like thirty! Sheesh.” Trucy does a little spin on her heels, twirling her dress so the glitter in the skirt shimmers when it catches the light.

 

No stars in Los Angeles. Trucy's always seemed happy to make her own.

 

“Sorry,” Apollo offers. “Lost track of time.”

 

Trucy hums and slowly stops her twirling. She looks up at the sky.

 

“It's nice out here,” she muses.

 

Mr. Edgeworth chuckles. “It's barely more than an alleyway, really, but it's certainly peaceful.”

 

“You don't like the gala, Uncle Miles?”

 

“Ah… Well, I'm honored, truly. But making polite conversation with colleagues has never been my strong suit.”

 

Trucy plants her hands on her hips. “This is the perfect time to practice, then! You're going to be in charge of people!”

 

“Good grief. Yes, Trucy, I am well aware,” Edgeworth sighs. “I'll head back in shortly.”

 

With a huff, Trucy plops down right between them on the bench, leaning her weight into Apollo. He notices her shivering in the night air and removes his jacket to drape it over her bare shoulders.

 

She smiles at him and pulls it tighter around herself like a security blanket, comedian accusations be damned.

 

Mr. Edgeworth shows no signs of getting up.

 

It's only a few more minutes before the door opens again, and there's Nick, looking like a dejected puppy who's dropped his favorite toy into a sewer grate.

 

“Alone and abandoned in a room full of stuffy old farts by my own family!” he exclaims.

 

Trucy blows a raspberry at him, Apollo says, “ you're an old fart,” and Mr. Edgeworth sighs the weariest sigh ever known to man.

 

“Wright, you are a professional lawyer with a decade of experience,” he says. “Surely you can handle being alone with these people.”

 

“Are you for real? Glass houses, Miles. Glass houses.”

 

“Ah! Hmm. Well—Shut up!”

 

Trucy sighs the second weariest sigh ever known to man. “Okay, okay, no one wants to be here!”

 

Nick snorts. “Easy there, Truce. Alright, back inside. Time to get to it, Edgeworth.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Edgeworth stands and smooths his suit before straightening his spine and heading for the door. Before he goes, he turns back and says, “Thank you for the company, Apollo.”

 

“Sure thing,” Apollo says quietly after him, ignoring the probing look Nick sends his way.

 

Trucy hops to her feet. “C'mon, Polly. You too,” she says.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Solidarity, bud,” Nick says, nodding his head toward the door. “Unless you still don't feel good.”

 

“I'm fine,” Apollo admits.

 

Trucy takes his hands and tugs. “Let's go, let's go,” she insists. “I want another shirley temple.”

 

“Patience, babygirl,” Nick pleads, nudging her toward the door. “Easy on the soda, too.”

 

“Polly's the one with the sensitive stomach!”

 

Apollo flushes. “Hey!” he yelps. “Leave me out of this!”

 

“Go on, Trucy,” Nick insists, and Trucy finally obliges reluctantly, though not before making them both swear they'll be in right behind her.

 

“Sheesh, she's gonna crash later.” Nick helps Apollo to his feet. “Everything okay?”

 

Apollo nods. “I promise.”

 

“Good.” He pats Apollo on the shoulder. “Let's go back. She's still got your jacket, too.”

 

“Oops,” Apollo mumbles. He makes it halfway to the door after Nick, and then stops, the revelation hitting him like a truck out here in this empty courtyard, except it isn't a revelation, really, just a new sense of certainty, and he says, “Hey, Nick?”

 

Nick stops too, turns to look at him. “Yeah, kiddo?”

 

“I feel like things are gonna be okay.”

 

A beat. Nick stares at him, then his face softens into a fond smile, and he says, “Me too, bud. Me too.”

 

---

The doctor tells Apollo that the surgery appears to have been a success; after it’s over, he and Trucy are directed down a winding hallway in the post-op recovery ward, where Thalassa is resting up.

 

“Polly?” Trucy stops short and tugs on Apollo’s sleeve. “I don’t wanna.”

 

Apollo frowns at her. “Hm?”

 

She shuffles back and forth on her heels. “I’m scared. We met Lamiroir and I didn’t even—What if I don’t recognize her face anymore? What if I’ve forgotten her? And what if she doesn’t want to see me?”

 

“Truce, she did specifically ask for us both to come,” Apollo points out, smoothing his sister’s hair. “I’m sure she wants to see you.”

 

Trucy shakes her head. “Go on without me for now. I’ll go get a snack and stuff. Um… is that okay?”

 

Apollo sighs and ruffles her hair. “Sure. I won’t make you do anything.”

 

She darts forward and gives him a quick hug. “Thanks, Polly,” she whispers before pulling back and fleeing up the hall, away from the recovery room and toward the elevators down to the cafeteria. Apollo continues onward until he reaches Thalassa’s room, and slips inside.

 

All of the air leaves his lungs in a rush when he sees her. She’s lying asleep, bedraggled and pale with her hair parted back from a little line of stitches in her head. The monitors attached to her beep alongside the steady rise and fall of her chest.

 

Now that she’s no longer covering her face, Apollo has never been more certain—as if he still needed proof. This is his mother, the very same mother who dried his tears and helped him with his reading and was shot in the head in front of him and sang him lullabies that now feel so familiar and fell to the ground in front of him and tried her best to manage his constant screaming anxiety and almost died in front of him and tucked him into bed each night and laughed and told jokes and hugged him and disappeared, disappeared, disappeared.

 

Apollo shuts his eyes and forces himself to breathe. He cannot, under any circumstances, have a panic attack in front of his mother the first time she looks at him after ten years. He moves to the chair at her bedside, almost outside of his own body, and focuses on calming himself down.

 

After a few minutes, Thalassa stirs, and her delicate eyelashes flutter. Apollo clenches every muscle in his body, holding his breath as if to not scare the moment off. Then her eyes flick open—a brilliant blue, just like Apollo remembers.

 

“Um,” he chokes out, “hi.”

 

Thalassa just blinks slowly up at him like a cat. Then, she lifts her hand, trembling. Apollo sits, frozen, as she presses two fingers to her lips and then reaches up, clumsily touching her fingers to Apollo’s forehead. They trail over the bridge of his nose, tracing the slope of it, before her hand flops back down to the sheets.

 

She’s smiling.

 

Apollo takes a shuddering breath and then says, in quiet but joyous relief, “ Mom! ”

 

Suddenly he’s crying, spilling years of anguish into his mother’s shoulder while she pats his back and soothes him like a baby.

 

“Mom,” Apollo says again. “Mom, Mom, Mom! ”

 

“Apollo,” Thalassa says, and hearing his name on her lips makes him cry hard enough that he starts coughing. “Oh my—Breathe, love.”

 

Apollo sucks in a breath, well aware that he’s started practically babbling. Thalassa hushes him and rocks him back and forth.

 

“I have so much to tell you,” Apollo says, “I missed you so much!”

 

“I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so—” Thalassa’s voice breaks. “I’m so sorry for everything .”

 

Apollo lifts his head from her shoulder and scrubs at his eyes; he’s left a wet spot on her thin hospital gown. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” she says, wiping her cheeks. “I’m still sorry. I’ve been such a coward . I began to remember and I—I abandoned you again , and there’s no excuse for it. I don’t know how you could ever forgive me for being such a failure of a mother.”

 

“Mom, hey,” Apollo says, squeezing her hand. He frantically reaches for a cup of water that’s been left at her bedside. “Take a drink. You’re barely out of surgery.”

 

Thalassa takes a sip gratefully, still choking on her tears. Apollo holds her hand and pats her shoulder, and the irony’s not lost on him; he’s been haunted by his mother’s disappearance for a decade, and now he’s the one comforting her for her extended absence.

 

“You aren’t a failure,” Apollo says. “You were a victim, too.”

 

Thalassa sniffles loudly. “I know, baby,” she says. “But whether I meant to or not, I couldn’t be there for my children when they needed me. I failed to protect you. And that failure is going to stick with me the rest of my life.”

 

Apollo shivers. He can almost smell the ocean, like some distant memory.

 

“H-How much can you remember now?” Apollo asks cautiously.

 

“Most of it,” Thalassa says softly, knowingly. “The important things. Where’s your baby sister?”

 

Apollo blinks in surprise and scrambles for his phone. “She’s wandering around somewhere. She was too scared to wait here in case you…” Apollo winces. “In case you didn’t want to see her.”

 

“Call her,” Thalassa demands. “Please.”

 

So Apollo does.

 

Minutes later, there’s a sharp knock on the door, and Trucy’s head pokes into the room, uncertain and watery-eyed.

 

“Hi, Mommy,” she says quietly.

 

At Apollo’s side, Thalassa openly giggles. “Come here, Trucy.”

 

Apollo can sense the trepidation in Trucy’s movements waning as she crosses the room, slowly at first, and then all in a rush, throwing herself into Thalassa’s waiting arms.

 

“Mommy,” Trucy sniffles, “I was worried I forgot you.”

 

“You’ve gotten so big,” Thalassa whispers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

 

“That’s Granddaddy’s fault,” Trucy grumbles. Then, in Khura’inese, she adds, “ Fuck him .”

 

Thalassa’s eyes widen in surprise as Apollo chokes out, “T-Trucy, please!”

 

“What?” Trucy asks, the picture of perfect innocence, curling up under Thalassa’s arm.

 

“Where’d you learn to speak that way?” Thalassa asks, with far more giddy amusement than real disappointment. She gives Trucy a squeeze, and Trucy sets her glare on Apollo, pouting.

 

“Polly, you didn’t tell me that Mom knew Khura’inese!” she shouts. “Traitor!”

 

Apollo holds his hands up in surrender. “At the time, I didn’t think it would ever come up, for obvious reasons!”

 

Thalassa barks out a laugh. Apollo didn’t even know she could laugh like that. “You still have a potty mouth, do you?” she asks.

 

Apollo feels his face burn. So no, maybe he didn’t grow out of that. Nick couldn’t discourage it, Shadi didn’t bother, and really, it was Datz’ fault anyway, whether in English or his native tongue. One last little piece of Khura’in, living on in his little sister’s colorful vocabulary.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Trucy says with an enormously exaggerated eyeroll. “Polly’s gotten in all sorts of trouble.”

 

She means it lightly, but Thalassa, perceptive as any of them, catches the tension that erupts in Apollo’s spine.

 

“That’s okay,” she says gently, with eyes that tell Apollo she knows what he’s worked up about. “There’s nothing wrong with a little trouble.”

 

She raises her other arm, and Apollo falls into her embrace, defenses falling.

 

“You actually talk about Khura’in?” she mutters into his crown.

 

“Only to Trucy,” Apollo admits. At the sound of her name, Trucy’s eyes slide over to meet his. He smiles at her.

 

“Still.” Thalassa holds them both close, breathing deep, making up for lost time. “That’s wonderful.”

 

“It is?” Apollo finds himself asking.

 

“Of course, love. You never wanted to speak of it, even to me.”

 

Trucy’s face goes slack, a little awed. “Really? Not even to Mom?”

 

Apollo flushes again. Thalassa, of course, has always known about his rough edges; before he could even form full sentences in English, she was hearing him cry for Dhurke every night. She’s always known about his fear of water, the horrible nightmares he had ever since he was a little boy, everything. She probably knows perfectly well that her own father used to hit him, too—but if Apollo thinks about that too hard, he’s going to puke.

 

“He’s allowed to have his secrets,” Thalassa says, patting Trucy on the back. “And what about you, little one? I remember from Machi’s trial that you’re still interested in magic.”

 

Trucy laughs awkwardly. “I am. I know it was kind of bad for you.”

 

Thalassa shakes her head. “No, no, I adored magic. The family business was just a little… complicated.”

 

Trucy frowns. She’s smart enough not to bring up the abuse unprompted, but Apollo can tell she’s thinking about it. He is too.

 

“You know,” Trucy says instead, “Granddaddy passed his performance rights on to Daddy when he died, and Daddy passed them on to me.”

 

“The Gramarye Miracle?” Thalassa asks with a hint of trepidation.

 

“Mmhm.” Trucy squirms nervously. “I kind of don’t want it. But… I don’t want to give it away, either. Is that bad?”

 

Thalassa hums and turns to Apollo with a smile, blue eyes mirthful despite how tired she looks. “What do you think, Apollo?”

 

He blinks. “Me?”

 

“Yes, honey. You’re the only Apollo here.”

 

Apollo pouts, which only makes her laugh. “I think Trucy should do whatever she wants with it,” he says.

 

“What a coincidence.” Thalassa winks. “I think so too. Trucy?”

 

Trucy bites her lip. “I… kind of want to burn it,” she admits.

 

A beat passes, and Apollo is briefly worried that Thalassa will be upset with her. But then she laughs again, and presses a kiss to the top of Trucy’s head.

 

“Then we’ll burn it,” she says softly, but with a mischievous smile, and Apollo bursts out giggling. Thalassa raises her eyebrows. “That funny, huh?”

 

Through his giggles, Apollo shakes his head and says, “I’m relieved. I was worried you’d… defend him.”

 

“Polly…” Trucy warns.

 

Thalassa frowns. “I’m still wrapping my head around everything, sweetheart, and my memory is fuzzy,” she says, “but neither of you ever have to forgive our family. And that includes me.

 

“You both grew up to be so kind and brave.” She tucks Apollo’s hair behind his ear with a featherlight touch. “I knew this when I met you again as Lamiroir. You saved Machi’s life. Both of you are smart and strong and wonderful , despite how much pain our family must have put you through.”

 

“Mom,” Apollo squeaks, lip quivering.

 

Thalassa pulls them both closer. At this proximity, Apollo can hear his mother’s heartbeat, solid and steady and true. She strokes his hair, gentle and loving, and says, “I’m so proud of you. I always have been.”

 

A dam breaks open, and Apollo starts bawling.

 

“Polly!” Trucy shouts, lifting her head.

 

“I’m fine,” Apollo insists. “I’m fine. Sorry. Still a crybaby.”

 

Trucy huffs, “Don’t apologize for that. Mom, tell Polly he’s allowed to cry.”

 

Thalassa chuckles. “You’re allowed to cry, Apollo,” she whispers. “You’re safe.”

 

Many years ago now, Apollo’s crying tantrums would wake the whole house, minus Trucy. He knew it frustrated everyone, even his mother, but couldn’t stop it. He’d be scolded, or his mother would be scolded in his place, and sometimes it was less scolding and more hitting, even though neither option ever made him less upset.

 

But that was years back, and now, Apollo sobs. Magnifi is gone, Kristoph Gavin is gone, and this whole tragic ordeal is finally done and dusted. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear Nick’s voice reminding him that crying so much means he feels safe to let it out, and he cries harder. It’s a wonder the nurses don’t come running.

 

“My baby boy,” Thalassa says softly. “ I love you. It will be okay. ”

 

For once, despite everything, Apollo believes her.

Notes:

well, that's it, mostly! there will be a final epilogue to bring things full circle, but this is more or less the end of the road.

thank you, again, for reading if you made it this far. to everyone who left comments, especially the handful of folks who left big wonderful comments on every chapter, thank you thank you thank you! it's been a complicated few months for me, and i haven't always felt great about my writing. but knowing it resonated with you kept me going! this fic is far longer than i envisioned. it's probably the longest thing i've ever written, and certainly the longest i've posted. it's about ten times longer than the long end of what i usually write. so i want to thank you all for coming along on this journey with me. it means the world, and i hope you'll stick around for the epilogue and for whatever i come up with next. <3

if anyone from the save data ace attorney chat read to this point, i want to give a special shoutout to you. thank you for letting my yap about my writing and share my little excerpts and for chatting with me about these funny little lawyer games. i don't think this fic would have turned out the way it did without those conversations fueling me every step of the way!

that's it. see you next time, folks, and hopefully many more times after that.

Chapter 15: EPILOGUE

Summary:

One of the many benefits of hiding her face behind a veil for so many years is that most people don’t recognize Lamiroir in a crowd.

--
In which nothing happens to the prodigal son, for once, and god, isn't it a relief?

Notes:

hiya. epilogue here, right at midnight before i'm supposed to go on a road trip tomorrow...

i have so many thoughts and feelings about this fic that i couldn't possibly fit into this epilogue, but i hope you enjoy. thanks for coming along for the ride. <3

My heart knew the weight / Ten years worth of dust and neglect / We made our home with weariness and let it be

- The Crane Wives, “The Moon Will Sing”

 

One of the many benefits of hiding her face behind a veil for so many years is that most people don’t recognize Lamiroir in a crowd.

 

Moving through the halls of Trucy’s high school, she is not Lamiroir, the mysterious Borginian songstress; she is not Thalassa Gramarye of the illustrious Troupe Gramarye; she’s just another mother attending her child’s talent show. She’s just Thalassa. Gramarye, Enigmar, Justice—it doesn’t matter. Just a woman nobody would recognize.

 

Thalassa makes her way through the auditorium aisles with her hands clasped tightly in front of her until Phoenix Wright spots her from his seat a few rows back from the front and waves her over. He, for one, recognizes her easily—but he has been raising her children, so it’s only fair.

 

(Though it only makes a significant difference for Trucy at this point, Phoenix Wright is her children’s legal parent. Thalassa, formally speaking, is not. Thalassa hasn’t been legally anything other than dead for quite some time. Apollo is trying to help her navigate the complexities of rectifying that, but it makes him extremely upset, so… she tries not to involve him.)

 

They’re both early, so the auditorium is mostly empty still; Phoenix must have arrived more than an hour ago, when Trucy did. He didn’t even need to save her a seat.

 

“I’m glad you made it,” Phoenix says when she takes her seat, smoothing her skirt over her lap. “Trucy will be thrilled.”

 

“Did she think I wouldn’t?” Thalassa asks.

 

Phoenix winces. “Well, you never know with these things. Kid doesn’t get her hopes up.”

 

It’s a strange thing to say about a kid like Trucy, who’s only ever been brimming with optimism her whole life—but then again, what does Thalassa know about Trucy’s life, and then again, can Thalassa really blame her?

 

“Well,” she says, “I’m here. Is she nervous?”

 

“Truce? Nervous?” Phoenix snorts. “She lives for this, I think. I think she’s immune to stage fright. Performing is just… natural to her.”

 

Thalassa hums.

 

After a beat, Phoenix turns to her and asks, “What about you?”

 

“Hm? I’m not nervous.”

 

“No, no, I mean did it come naturally to you?”

 

Thalassa has to stop and think about it. She looks up at the high auditorium ceiling, at the stage lights, at the curtain. She closes her eyes and imagines the room full of people, humming with anticipation, growing hushed. Even now, it’s easier to think about performing when she was blind; her days with the Troupe feel longer than a decade gone now, like a life someone else lived, even though her memories of it return stronger every day. But it’s odd to consider it now, the way she fell so easily into her role as Lamiroir, as if being on stage were engrained in her, encoded into her DNA even when her memory failed.

 

“Natural is a strange word,” she eventually says. “If I was raised as a performer, does that make it natural? What is innate to me and what is just the life I’ve been given? I don’t know.”

 

Phoenix’s lip twitches, and if it were anyone else they might think him put off by her musings—but Thalassa, though she hasn’t known him long, can tell he’s worrying about Trucy.

 

“It can’t all be genetic, I guess,” he muses. “I mean, look at Apollo.”

 

Thalassa tilts her head. Her boy was never one for sleight of hand, but… “Really? His work in court fits the bill, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Not the way he does it.” Phoenix grins. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s forceful and articulate when he wants to be, so maybe that spark is in him somewhere, but it’s not a show. He’s no performer.”

 

It feels almost impossible to reconcile—it would be, if Thalassa were not his mother. Apollo was the sweetest, happiest, loudest baby on earth, and when he was a child, he was strong and brave and smart and yes, still loud, but he was also extremely sensitive and anxious and very, very easily overwhelmed. The same boy who had a panic attack every morning before school, who cried more often than his toddler sister, is the one who stood in front of all those people and proved to everyone that dear Machi didn’t commit a murder. But there’s no contradiction there, not for Thalassa; Apollo is Apollo, through and through.

 

“Speaking of,” Thalassa says, “did he not come with you?”

 

“Who, Apollo?” Phoenix shakes his head. “He’s backstage with Trucy. He’s her trusty assistant tonight.”

 

Thalassa raises her eyebrows. Bravery be damned, Apollo has told her that he became terrified of the stage after her “death.” It’s not the sort of thing her evident survival was able to assuage. “Apollo? A magic show?”

 

“I know, right? He surprises me every day.” Phoenix smiles fondly, like a proud parent—which, Thalassa supposes, he is. “He’s doing good, though. Trucy convinced him, and as long as he’s mostly offstage, I think he’s willing to do anything for her.”

 

“...Thank you,” Thalassa says, suddenly overcome with a sense of gratitude and immense shame.

 

Phoenix frowns at her. “What for?”

 

“For taking care of my children. If you hadn’t been there for them after Shadi was gone, I… I worry—”

 

“It was nothing, really,” Phoenix insists. “They’re good kids.”

 

“They are,” Thalassa concurs. “That doesn’t mean it was easy. I know how hard simply navigating custody can be—I went through it with Apollo.”

 

He shrugs. “I mean, I’m a lawyer. It’s sort of par for the course.”

 

“Still.” Thalassa wipes discreetly at her eyes. “Thank you for keeping them together and keeping them safe.”

 

Phoenix’s expression softens. “Really, it’s nothing. But you’re welcome.” He casts his eyes back to the stage. “I love those two like crazy.”

 

“I know,” Thalassa says. “I do too.”

 

A few moments pass in silence. Other people are beginning to filter into the auditorium, now, taking their seats and mingling and whispering and making the whole room hum. Phoenix begins to fidget after a while, and Thalassa, doomed to notice such things, sighs.

 

“Is there something you want to say?”

 

Phoenix grimaces. “Well—I don’t know if I should. I think he’ll be a little upset with me, but… Well, I can’t keep it from you.” He looks askance at her. “You should know that your father used to hit Apollo.”

 

Thalassa’s heart sinks. “I… I know. He was a disciplinarian, you see, and… He did the same to me, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop it.”

 

Phoenix takes a deep breath. “No, I mean—God, he’ll be so mad if he finds out I told you—After you were gone, it got worse. As far as he’s told me, it wasn’t frequent, but your dad beat him, Thalassa. Because he thought you were still alive, and Magnifi knew it.”

 

Every vein in Thalassa’s body ices over. She hates to imagine it—her son, desperate to see her again, desperate for answers, being punished for it. Because of her. The reality of her father’s actions—covering up her accident, letting her husband and her children believe her dead, sending her away to Borginia—is something she still struggles to grapple with. Magnifi is dead, Shadi is dead, and there’s no finding answers now. She’ll never know why he did it, just like she’ll never know whose bullet changed the course of her life forever.

 

She should visit Valant one of these days, really. When she’s ready.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have sprung that one on you,” Phoenix admits when she’s quiet for too long. “I just thought you should know the real weight of what happened. I’m sorry.”

 

Thalassa shakes her head. “No, thank you for telling me. I… I had a feeling things worsened in my absence, the way neither of them will speak of it.”

 

“This is really important, Thalassa,” Phoenix says, turning to look at her as the auditorium lights begin to dim and a hush falls over the crowd. His eyes are serious, appraising, piercing yet with a depth that Thalassa fears a person could drown in. In a hushed tone, he continues, “If you’re going to be in their lives in the long term, you’ve gotta acknowledge it. All of it. And it has to be permanent. It’s been my priority that they both have a family that’s safe and stable and isn’t going to disappear again, and you have to promise me you understand that.”

 

“I understand,” Thalassa whispers, shame pooling like acid in her gut. “I promise.”

 

Phoenix’s eyes dart from side to side, scanning her face, as if searching for something. He must find whatever he’s looking for, because he nods and says, “Okay,” before turning his attention away from her and back to the stage.

Trucy never actually burned Magnifi’s notes, is the thing.

 

From what she told Thalassa, she didn’t want to risk losing anything important along with the bad—but she has yet to make use of Magnifi’s repertoire, either. She’ll sit on the rights to them forever, probably, and Magnifi’s legacy will die a messy and complicated one, as it should.

 

After all, Trucy is not a Gramarye anymore. She’s not even an Enigmar. She’s Trucy Wright, and she gets up there on stage and wows the crowd like it’s as easy as breathing, all on her own merit. She’s still dressed in the same signature blue that Thalassa always wore, though, and if Thalassa allows herself to be selfish—just for a moment—it feels like absolution for herself, too, even if she doesn’t deserve it.

 

Thalassa watches her enthrall the crowd, each move a practiced flourish, a carefully woven web of misdirection and sleight of hand and tricks of the light—some of which Thalassa recognizes easily, and some of which goes right over even her head. Sometimes, if she squints at the dark recesses at the side of the stage, she can see Apollo, either preparing to toss Trucy something or otherwise help, or just watching. Even in shadow, he has the biggest smile on his face every time Thalassa looks at him, and it fills every nerve ending in her body with unbridled, electric joy .

After the show, Thalassa and Phoenix stand out in the lobby in a sort of awkward but mostly companionable silence. Phoenix occasionally taps at his phone and frowns in that way he only seems to when the kids are involved.

 

“Is everything okay?” she asks him after several minutes of this, and he sighs, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

 

“Yeah, all good. Apollo’s nervous stomach is acting up.”

 

Thalassa furrows her brow. She didn’t even know that was a thing with him. “Oh, no—”

 

Phoenix waves her off. “He’s alright, at least it waited until after the show. They’ll be out here soon.”

 

Sure enough, it’s only a couple more minutes before Trucy and Apollo turn down the hallway, giggling and jostling each other. Trucy is still in her full stage outfit, trailing glitter across the floor. Apollo, in all black save for red suspenders, is looking only a little green in the face, but smiling.

 

Phoenix beams .

 

“There’s my big star!” he coos as Trucy barrels into his chest. He catches her weight and spins her around, laughing and smiling.

 

“Daddy, stop!” Trucy cackles. Phoenix puts her down, smoothing out her hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

 

“You were great up there, sweetpea,” he says. “Blew everybody else out of the water!”

 

Apollo scoffs, “Jeez, Nick, it’s a high school talent show. Dial it back a notch.”

 

“I had to find you a mint so you wouldn’t puke from nerves, Polly,” Trucy deadpans. “ You dial it back.”

 

Apollo turns bright red. “I can’t help it!”

 

Phoenix sighs, ruffling Trucy’s hair. “Alright, alright, take it easy. Don’t worry, Apollo, I’m proud of you, too.”

 

Apollo starts sputtering and squawking at that, and Phoenix dives in to give him a big hug. In the meantime, Trucy finally notices Thalassa, and lights up like a star.

 

“Mommy, you made it!” she cheers, throwing her scrawny arms around Thalassa’s middle. Thalassa pets her hair, smiling; it’s been complicated between them, but having Trucy, her beautiful, talented, wonderful daughter, in her arms is worth every fraught silence and difficult conversation.

 

“You were wonderful, my dear,” Thalassa says softly. “Your father would have been proud.”

 

Trucy stiffens—so briefly that Thalassa almost doesn’t notice—before laughing in a way that sounds obviously, painfully forced for someone who was effortlessly performing an hour ago.

 

“Ha,” she says, “I guess he would…”

 

Thalassa shuts her eyes against the wave of grief. Shadi is not her daughter’s father, not anymore. “Your father… is proud of you,” she amends meaningfully. “And I am too.”

 

“Thanks, Mom.” Trucy softens in her grasp before she pulls away and is whisked around by her father again, giggling and squealing all the while. Thalassa blinks and Apollo is in front of her, watching her face warily with his big brown eyes and thoughtful expression.

 

“Hi Mom,” he says, tipping forward to give her a light hug. Thalassa’s heart warms at the affection; just like when he was a boy, she’s been letting him set his boundaries with physical contact with her, though he’s taken to giving her hugs much faster than he did at age nine.

 

“Hi, baby,” she whispers into his hair. She pats his back gently before he pulls away, though he does stay by her side, swaying a little on his feet. “Do you feel better?”

 

Apollo flushes. He averts his gaze, determined to look anywhere but at her face. “I’m fine. It’s—It’s just an anxiety thing, with theaters, and all.”

 

“I know,” Thalassa assures him. “I’m glad you were able to do this with her.”

 

Apollo tilts his head. Cute , she thinks. Jove used to do the same thing.

 

“You liked it?” he asks.

 

“Of course I did. And it was made better by the fact that you were by her side.”

 

Apollo’s lip quirks up in a smile. “Convincing the school to let her have an outside helper was the easy part. She twisted my arm for weeks.”

 

“You’re a good big brother, Apollo,” Thalassa says softly. “I wish I had more chances to tell you how proud I am of you. How much I love you.”

 

A little frown worms its way onto Apollo’s face. Thalassa jolts.

 

“What, baby?”

 

“Nothing,” Apollo says. “Just… You always make it sound like you’re about to leave.”

 

“Oh,” Thalassa says, shameful. “I’m not.”

 

“I know, I just…” Apollo shakes his hands out; Phoenix perks up and looks over at the movement, frowning. “Sorry.”

 

“That’s alright,” Thalassa assures him. “ I’m sorry.”

 

Silence falls between them. It’s often like this—a push and pull. Apollo needs her, he misses her, he loves her, and they both agree that leaving him for all those years wasn’t her choice. But that scar is still there, and Apollo closes himself off whenever it’s prodded, all quiet and surly and uncertain.

 

They’re both trying. That’s what matters.

 

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” Phoenix says lightly, still watching Apollo out of the corner of his eye. “You wanna get dessert, Truce?”

 

Trucy spins around on her heels, cape swirling and sparkling. “Yes!” she cheers. “Can we go to that diner around the block? The one with the old fashioned ice cream soda fountain?”

 

Phoenix chuckles. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Apollo?”

 

Apollo pouts at him, still looking a little green, but whatever Phoenix reads in his expression seems to put him at ease, because he laughs some more.

 

“Sorry, bud. If you still feel sick when we get there I’ll buy you a ginger ale.”

 

Trucy barks a laugh at the indignant look on Apollo’s face, but Phoenix pays neither of them any mind.

 

“You wanna tag along, Thalassa?” he asks pointedly, and Thalassa recognizes it for the olive branch that it is. Whatever you said to make Apollo upset , it says, we’re all good now.

 

Each of her muscles goes slack with sheer relief as she says, “I would love to.”

 

She follows the three of them out through the front doors of the school into the cool California night, the fresh air hitting her face like a gentle caress. She watches Trucy and Apollo bicker with each other as they meander down the sidewalk after Phoenix, who’s looking back at them out of the corner of his eye with a sly, private smile that Thalassa probably isn’t meant to notice. Trucy has already gotten her brother back out of his shell again, laughing and elbowing her as she practically runs circles around him. Trucy is so animated that Thalassa briefly wonders if getting her a sugary treat is really such a good idea, and then internally praises herself for such a motherly thought. Granted, it’s a thought stemming from experience raising a preschooler, not a teenager, but it’s a thought nonetheless.

 

Phoenix seems to hold no such concerns, and really, she’s his responsibility anyway.

 

Thalassa—not Lamiroir, not Gramarye, just Thalassa—watches the skyline, glittering like beacons rising up from downtown LA. She hasn’t been much of anything for quite some time, but she used to be something. Several somethings, over several lifetimes crammed into the space of one, and she’s barely middle-aged. This city used to be home, until it wasn’t, until it was again, until she forgot all she’d ever known, and now she’s here, attending her daughter’s magic show and taking her kids for ice cream. An endless push and pull, a tug of war, past lives she misses and yet finds too painful to reach for.

 

Watching those bright lights in the distance, Thalassa thinks about Shadi, and about effort, and about trying , even when it’s messy and it doesn’t feel like it matters. And then she thinks, as she so often does, of Jove. Of her first love, more than twenty years gone now, and wonders what he’d say to her now.

 

But that’s just another one of those things she’ll never know the answers to, no matter how hard she tries.

 

She’s had enough loss for several lifetimes, now. So Thalassa breathes deep the night air, pushes it and all of that twisted grief out of her lungs, and keeps walking. One step at a time, toward the future, her children’s easy laughter carrying her on. And in the back of her mind, she imagines her grief and her shame and her anger as a writhing, squishy sort of thing, and squeezes it tight in her fist until all the pain is gone.

Notes:

i've yapped enough, so thank you again for making it this far. allow me to leave you with one last quote:

After all the spelling mistakes / After all the groping in the dark / Can this page of strange gibberish / Get a final punctuation mark?
- They Might Be Giants, "Let's Get This Over With"

:)

btw, if you want to yap with me about this fic or about ace attorney in general, my discord is techno3401. see you all soon, i hope :)