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Three years of stress, exams, and caffeine had, at the time, seemed so worth it; every time Apollo had considered dropping out of law school because of the immense pressure and lack of sleep, he needed only to picture how his life would be after graduation — working in some prestigious law firm, making a difference to his clients’ lives, finally doing some good in a world that had never done much good to him. He’d wear a suit, and drink expensive coffee instead of the crappy instant shit he’s always been used to, and slam his hands on wooden desks with the force of the ‘objection!’ that he’s been practicing in the shower for longer than he cares to admit.
That was five years ago.
Now, his law degree is nothing if not a decoration on the wall of his apartment, a hanging testament to how much debt he’s in and how, after all of that, he couldn’t get a job at a law firm after all —not for lack of trying. He’d applied and applied until his fingers were raw, and the only person to actually give him a call back was a man who was, only a week after Apollo’s interview, arrested for forging evidence, which naturally meant the dissolution of his law firm and a sad ‘goodbye’ to Apollo’s career prospects before he even had the chance to say ‘hello’.
Still, things could be worse. And by ‘could be worse’, naturally, Apollo means that at least he has a job, even if it’s a far cry from being a defense attorney. Being a security guard at the biggest mall in LA isn’t exactly his idea of exciting, nor is it something that he can justify spending three years in law school for, but a job is a job, and it pays enough to keep a roof over his head and food in his cat’s bowl. Even with the 5am starts and the blisters on his feet from patrolling the mall all day (really, he should invest in better shoes), he still has hope that one day he’ll be able to work in an office, and all of this will be worth it.
For now, though, he straightens his tie in the small bathroom mirror and gets ready to start his morning patrol. The mall won’t open for another two hours, so he has time to make his way through the entire building, a task that he knows most of the other security guards don’t bother with, but damn it, he’s Apollo Justice and he takes his job seriously. It’s all practice, anyway, because he can almost convince himself that combing the mall from top to bottom is just like searching for evidence at a crime scene, and the more thorough he is, the better he’ll be as a defense attorney one day.
Starting at the top, he checks the shutters of every shop, relieved to see that they’re all still locked tight. For the shops that aren’t privately owned, he lifts the shutters up in preparation for the mall employees to start their shift. He goes past the bookstore, past the shop that sells anything and everything to do with video games, past the little noodle stand (he leaves that one locked up tight—the owner is very particular about opening his stand himself, and the more that Apollo stays on his good side, the more likely he is to get a free meal at the end of the day).
On the bottom floor, however, he hears a noise. Nobody else is normally in the mall at this time in the morning, and while it’s certainly possible that one of the owners of a private shop could have turned up early to get ready for the day, Apollo has never met anyone who works here who is quite as meticulous as him. Taking his flashlight out of his belt, he holds it out in front of him and follows his well-trained ears to the source of the sound.
Someone is there. A thief? Whoever it is is crouched down behind a stand in the middle of the bottom floor of the mall, and Apollo takes the opportunity to corner them while they’re in hiding.
He flicks his flashlight on and, leaning over the counter, shines it directly into their eyes.
“Ach!” The man shouts in shock. He was bending down and sitting on his heels, and the sharp, bright light shining into his eyes evidently disoriented him to the point of losing his balance; he rocks backwards and falls onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” Apollo interrogates.
“My job…?” The man responds. “Can you stop shining that thing in my eyes, bitte? I already need glasses as it is.”
Cautiously, Apollo lowers the torch, and in doing so, it casts a much softer light on the man. He’s attractive by any standards, including Apollo’s, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to forgive him for any criminal activity that easily. His hair is blonde, and falls loosely out of the bun that it’s supposed to be tied up in, and his eyes, still blinking from the torchlight, are a very soft ocean blue.
His outfit, however, is what Apollo fixates on the most. At first, he just thinks that this man’s fashion sense is even worse than his own, but then he realises that nobody wears a bright purple apron embroidered with Gavin Hair Salon unless, you know, they actually work at a hair salon. Remembering, now, the note he’d read on the bulletin board in the staff break room about a new hair salon opening on the bottom floor, and piecing that information together with the fact that the stand he’s currently leaning over is filled with hair products… well, he doesn’t need three years of law school to put two and two together.
“My bad,” Apollo says. “I thought you were a thief.”
“Does my hair look so terrible that you’d assume I have to steal hairspray, of all things?”
“Hey, you said it, not me.”
“Well, I’m offended. But I’ll let it go because you’re cute. Besides, why would I need to steal something I already own?”
“So this hair salon is yours, huh?”
“Yeah. I have a degree in fashion merchandising and another in law, but instead of Elle Woods-ing my way into the Prosecutor’s Office, I ended up here. Such is life.”
“No way,” Apollo says, his interest well and truly piqued. “I have a law degree too.”
“Huh. I didn’t know it was so common for people with law degrees to work at the mall. I’m Klavier, by the way.”
“Apollo. And this is just a stopgap job, really. One day I’ll be the best defense attorney in LA.”
“Maybe I’ll face off against you in the courtroom, then? But for now, if you ever need that spiky hair restyling, you know where to come.”
“I like my hair just fine, thank you,” Apollo says.
“For the record,” Klavier smiles. “So do I.”
As Apollo continues his patrol rounds, he keeps thinking back to Klavier. He feels, for the first time in a long time, like he might not be the only person in an isolated world; there’s someone else who gets it, who has the same dreams and aspirations as him, and is stuck in a job that doesn’t allow him to truly shine. Maybe he will stop by the Gavin Hair Salon after all.
When 7am comes around, he unlocks the front doors of the mall and watches as shoppers begin to make their way inside; for the first hour, the customers are few and far between, but as midday approaches, groups of people begin to flock through, weaving through the stores and breathing life into a place that, just this morning, was a deserted shell. All the while, Apollo does his monotonous tasks, responding to false-alarms of shoplifting and the occasional complaint about people who don’t see retail workers as actual human beings, and therefore don’t treat them as such.
By the time he takes his lunch break, it’s well past 1pm, and he’s starving. He buys a bowl of noodles from Mr. Eldoon on the top floor, and starts the arduous process of finding somewhere to sit in the food court; the smaller tables are taken up by couples, and the larger by groups of up to fifteen people. Resigning himself to sitting on the floor, he tries to find a good spot out of the way of everyone, when he hears someone calling his name.
“Apollo, over here!”
He turns in the direction of the voice and sees Klavier, sitting alone at one of the smallest tables. Walking over, he sets his bowl of noodles down opposite Klavier, taking the seat offered to him.
“It’s hard to find somewhere to sit in this place, huh?” Klavier says.
“You bet. I was about to give up and just sit on the floor. What do you have?”
“I just got a coffee from Starbucks. There aren’t many vegan places around here.”
“You’re vegan?”
“I pretend to be,” Klavier laughs. “But even I am not immune to turkey dinosaurs. It’s been a long day, so this is needed.” He holds up his coffee.
“I felt that. But that’s a good thing, right? It’s better to be too busy than have no customers at all.”
“Ja, I suppose so. It’s mostly just people wanting simple stuff, though. I swear, if I have to hear ‘just an inch off the back!’ again I’ll go mental. I know Ema’s been dying to try out this new hair dye brand that she swears by, but so far, nobody has wanted their hair neon pink and styled in spikes around their head. Unless…?”
“Absolutely not,” Apollo says. “I like my hair as it is, like I said. Who’s Ema?”
“She’s my… employee? Well, it’s more like she’s my best friend, but she’s in the middle of her degree and she needed some cash to fund her way through college, so she asked if she could work with me.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“She’s good at her job. Still, she’s only working full-time while her college is on spring break.”
“How are you finding having a salon in the middle of the mall?”
“Quite fun, actually. I like people-watching, so this is the perfect place for it.”
“Well,” Apollo says. “A few of us mall employees are going for drinks after work, if you’re interested.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing formal, just some cheap Applebee’s cocktails. It’d be nice if you could come along.”
“I’d like that, too,” Klavier says. “Do you want to meet when the mall closes at 6pm?”
“Well, I usually stay until 7, just to make sure that the night guard knows what they’re doing. But I can meet you there, if you want? Or you can hang around for an hour. Your call.”
“I’ll hang around for a bit. I like seeing busy places when they’re deserted. It’s quite poetic.”
“I’ve never heard that one before. But sure. I should be getting back to work now, but I’ll see you when we close up, yeah?”
“Ja,” Klavier says.
Apollo is a complete stranger to the feeling in his chest. If he had to place it on some kind of scale, it would be right between the time he drank ten energy drinks in an attempt to finish an essay last-minute, and the time he almost fell out of the window of his tenth-floor college dorm. A midway point between anxiety and anticipation, otherwise known to the less-romantically-dense members of the world as butterflies.
When it gets to quarter past six, he sees Klavier approaching with a huge smile on his face. “I hope you don’t mind me tagging along as you close up? I’m quite interested in how a security guard does his job, after all.”
“As long as you’re not scoping out all my tricks so you can rob the place, sure.”
“I thought we established this morning that I have no intentions of committing theft at this mall? Or at any mall, for that matter.”
“Sure, Klavier, sure. I’ve got my eyes on you,” Apollo jokes. “And you have no idea how perceptive I can be.”
“Duly noted,” Klavier smiles in response. “Although I will say, having your eyes on me is not the worst fate I could imagine.”
They go through Apollo’s final patrol together, and then leave walking side by side. Applebee’s is only a little walk from the mall, so Apollo leaves his bike in the parking garage, intending to come back and get it later.
As they enter, the rest of the mall employees are already well into their meal and cocktails. Apollo orders two mojitos, one for himself, and one for Klavier, and they take their seats. He watches Klavier sip his drink slowly, methodically, and god, he looks… very pretty. Even after only one drink, he’s a little tipsy, and he’s laughing at some hair-dye story that a woman with brown hair and pink glasses is enthusiastically telling; Apollo assumes that this is Ema.
“A toast,” Apollo says, spontaneously. “To the newest employees of the mall. Long live the Gavin Hair Salon!”
He raises his glass and notices that Klavier blushes. Oh, damn. Maybe he’s in a little deeper than he thought.
Seven cheap cocktails later, and Apollo’s rational brain has completely turned off. His inhibitions are all but out the window, and he’s flushed with alcohol and happiness as he stumbles his way through sentences, trying desperately to hold some form of coherent conversation with Klavier, but failing miserably. All he wants to say is ‘I love the way your hair frames your face, you’re so beautiful,’ but even his drunk mind knows that that isn’t the avenue he wants to go down at this exact moment; so, instead, he laughs at everyone’s jokes and toasts to every little thing imaginable, and when he’s resting his heavy head on Klavier’s shoulder, well… it’s just the alcohol talking, right?
“C’mon, Forehead,” Klavier says. “I think it’s time we got you home.”
“F-Fore...head…?” Apollo slurs.
“Yeah. Yours is freakishly big, haven't you noticed?”
“Mhm, but you know what they say ‘bout men with… big foreheads…”
Klavier chuckles. “Hometime, mister. I’ll call you a taxi.”
“I have my bike at… at… the mall…”
“And you really think you’re in a state to ride it?”
“‘S not the only thing I could ride.”
“The only thing you need to be riding right now, schatzi, is a one-way train to bed.”
He doesn’t protest when Klavier puts him in the back of a taxi. And, when it pulls up outside his apartment, the driver tells him that Klavier has already paid for the fare, so all he has to do is stumble his way into the elevator, down the hallway, and fall into bed.
When his alarm goes off at 4:30am, Apollo feels like he’s died and been buried. His head is pounding, and his mouth is so dry that even the two glasses of water he gulps down don’t do anything to change how terrible he feels; and, to top it all off, his bike is still in the parking garage of the mall, so he has to walk to work, which means he arrives 15 minutes later than he normally would—he’s still 45 minutes early for his scheduled shift, but damn it, he takes his job seriously.
In the staff break room, he sees a large flyer on the bulletin board, letting everyone know that there’s going to be a celebrity appearance at the mall at midday today. Some actor called Matt Engarde, although Apollo has never heard of him. He’s from some popular TV show, apparently, and he’s going to be doing a Q&A session for his fans.
Shaking off his hangover, Apollo makes a mental note to double down on his security.
As he starts to make his rounds in the dim quiet of the mall, he notices that there are familiar sounds coming from Klavier’s stand; this time, though, he doesn’t assume the worst, and he casually walks over.
“Heya,” he says.
“Ah, Herr Forehead,” Klavier replies. “I’m surprised you’re here this early. Is your head okay?”
Apollo rubs his temples. “I don’t know if you’re making a joke about the size of my forehead, or if you’re genuinely concerned about my hangover.”
“Both. I’m glad you got home safe, though.”
“Yeah, well, it’s thanks to you. Here,” he takes out his wallet. “Let me pay you back for the taxi.”
“Nein,” Klavier says. “My treat. You were very generous last night, buying multiple rounds for everyone.”
Apollo cringes, dreading the inevitable moment later when he’s going to have to check his bank account and see just how much he spent trying to impress his coworkers.
“Well, thank you,” he says. “I hope I wasn’t too much of an embarrassment.”
“No more than I am when I’ve had—how many cocktails was it? Seven? Eight?”
“God, I don’t even know.”
Klavier laughs. “If having seven cocktails means that you turn into work with your hair like that, maybe you should drink more often.”
It’s only now that Apollo realises he didn’t gel his hair today, so it must be hanging long and loose around his cheekbones. Still, though, it’s the first time anyone has ever complimented his natural appearance. Klavier Gavin must be just a little bit mental.
“I’m not going to argue with your professional hair stylist's opinion,” Apollo says. “But you are, however, wrong.”
“Hmm,” Klavier pretends to think for a moment. “Nope. Can’t say that I am. Professionally speaking, of course.”
“Shut up,” Apollo blushes. “I’m going to finish my morning rounds.”
“See you later, Forehead!” Klavier shouts behind him as Apollo walks away.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t have that many extra tasks in preparation for Matt Engarde’s little Q&A. He just has to double check the security cameras, especially the ones surrounding the area that’s already been cleared out to erect a portable stage, and make sure that all of the advertisement flyers are still up around the shops. Once he’s done that, he can relax and patrol as usual until midday.
As crowds start to gather around the stage, Apollo prepares for the entrance of Matt Engarde. First, however, he meets with his manager, a tall man with a scar that separates his face almost directly into two neat halves. Apollo’s only half listening as Engarde’s manager explains that the Q&A will last for an hour; he’s a little distracted, his eyes flickering over to Klavier’s hair stand, where he’s hunched over in concentration as he washes somebody’s hair.
Oh, if only that were —
Stop it, Justice. Focus. You are a very serious, very professional security guard, and you do not have a crush.
“Right, yeah,” Apollo says, hoping he can mask the fact that he hasn’t been listening at all.
“Great,” Engarde’s manager says. “So, we’ll be starting in ten minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll, uh, just go and get everything I need from the security station,” Apollo says, which is code for ‘I’m going to go to the staff-only bathroom and practice my Chords of Steel, in case the opportunity arises in which I need to shout.’
With everyone else occupied at the Engarde Q&A, Apollo has the staff bathroom all to himself, which is a blessing, considering how loud his Chords of Steel exercises are. He shouts his name over and over, affirming to himself that he’s fine, until he almost believes it, hangover and pathetic crush and all.
So what if he takes longer than ten minutes to get himself ready? It’s not like a Q&A with some B-list action star is going to cause much need for security, right?
Wrong.
As he leaves the staff bathroom, the mall is unusually quiet, and the lack of people milling about the shops causes Apollo’s heart to stutter and almost stop. He breaks into a run, making his way down to the bottom floor, heading towards the stage, and when he arrives—
Well, fuck.
The only people left by the stage are a few shoppers, Matt Engarde himself, and… Klavier. They’re scattered across the stage area, handcuffed to the poles that hold up the large banners advertising Matt Engarde’s Q&A.
Apollo runs over to Klavier first.
Surprisingly, Klavier smiles up at him. “Hallo, Forehead. Bit of a situation we’re in, huh?”
Apollo fumbles with the handcuffs, but without the key, he’s got no way of letting Klavier free. Frustrated, and more than a little scared, he bangs his hand against the pole that Klavier is handcuffed to, forcing himself to be cool, Justice, don’t cry.
“Apollo,” Klavier says. “Don’t stress.”
“Don’t stress? Don’t stress?! I’ve walked into a hostage situation and all you can say is—”
“Really. I’m fine, everyone else is fine, so go and do what you do best.”
“Which is…?”
“Be the best damn security guard in all of LA.”
Apollo stands up. If he’s going to prove his worth, he’s going to have to fall back on old knowledge—not just his knowledge of security, but his expertise in law, even if he hasn’t had much of a real-life chance to put his skills into practice until now. He walks over to Matt Engarde, who’s handcuffed to a post on the opposite side of the stage.
“Mr. Engarde,” he addresses him. “I’m Apollo Justice, and I’m in charge of security here.”
“That just fills me with confidence,” Engarde bites back.
“I apologise for the situation you’re in, but I can assure you that I’ll get you out safely. Now, may I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure, but I don’t know how much help I’ll be. My manager—he just went crazy, waving a gun around and telling us all to get down! Most people managed to run out of the doors but, well, as you can see, we’re the unlucky ones he got to first. I don’t know what he wants. I’ve offered him money, but he won’t even talk to me!”
“And your manager, would you say you know him well?”
“Not really. He only started a few weeks ago. My old manager, Mrs. Andrews, took a break for mental health reasons so I got landed with this guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Fuck if I know,” Engarde says. “I just call him Manager. I can’t remember the names of everyone I work with.”
“Really helpful,” Apollo mutters. He walks away to take statements from the other hostages, but he freezes in fear when he feels something cold and metallic pressed against his back.
“Apollo!” Klavier shouts. “Behind you!”
“Apollo, is it?” Apollo recognises the voice as that of Matt Engarde’s manager.
“Yes, that’s me. May I turn around, or will you shoot me? It’s not like I’ve not already seen your face.”
“You have permission.”
Apollo slowly turns around to find himself face-to-face with the hostage-taker, Engarde’s manager. “Thank you,” he says. “I suppose you’re not opposed to a civilised dialogue?”
“I am, actually. I have one goal, and you’re going to help me achieve it.”
“Which is?”
“You will deliver a message to the press waiting outside. A random demand, if you will.”
“Alright,” Apollo says. “What do you want?”
“Money. One million dollars, to be exact.”
“And you want me to communicate this to the press?”
“Naturally.”
“Can you promise that you won’t harm any of the hostages?”
“If you obey, I can assure you that they won’t come to any harm.”
Apollo hesitates. He doesn’t trust this man. “May I have a moment to reassure the hostages of this?”
Engarde’s manager thinks for a moment. “Alright. You have five minutes.”
Apollo rushes over to Klavier first. He doesn’t know how Klavier does it, but he looks like he’s daydreaming, like being handcuffed to a post in the middle of LA’s biggest mall doesn’t faze him at all.
“Hey,” Apollo says.
“Ah, you’re back. How’s my knight in shining armour doing?”
“Not great, to be honest. This is a… fucked up situation, to say the least. How are you holding up?”
“My arms have gone numb, but other than that, I’m fine. What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know. Engarde’s manager wants me to be his liaison for ransom demands, but the whole situation is giving me a bad feeling in my gut. Something’s off, I can just… feel it.”
“You can figure it out, Apollo,” Klavier says. “I know you can.”
It’s like Apollo suddenly has far better vision than the 20/20 he already has. Everything in the room is muted, except for a few things that are almost glowing, like he’s in a video game and he’s getting hints about what he needs to do.
One: Matt Engarde has an old-fashioned phone hanging out of his pocket.
Two: Klavier’s hair is… really beautiful today. (Not relevant, Justice.)
Three: Matt Engarde’s handcuffs are made of a different metal to everyone else’s.
Four: Matt Engarde’s manager is holding a walkie-talkie.
Hold it! That’s no mobile phone in Engarde’s pocket. It’s another walkie-talkie, and if his logic is right (and it’s very rarely wrong) then that means… what, exactly? That Matt Engarde hates technology and refuses to use a mobile phone? From the look of the Apple Watch on his wrist, Apollo dismisses that theory. Which leaves only one possibility, really.
Matt Engarde is part of this. And not an innocent part, either.
There are many ways that Apollo can go about this, but he thinks that the best course of action is to pit Engarde and his manager against each other. Cautiously, he approaches Engarde.
“You know that guy wants five million for your ransom, right?” Apollo says.
“What?” Engarde says. Apollo notes genuine surprise in his voice, which is a good start.
“Yeah. You got any way of coming up with that kind of money?”
“I mean, my fans could probably pool it together. But five million? Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Positive. It’s a lot, right?”
“Sure is,” Engarde says. “Five million…”
Apollo walks back over to Engarde’s manager.
“I know,” he says.
“Know what?” Engarde’s manager replies, pointing his gun directly at Apollo’s chest.
“That Engarde is involved in this. I just had a very… interesting conversation with him.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” Apollo says, putting on his best poker face. “He wants to get out of this situation as cleanly as possible. Which means that he’s going to betray you. He didn’t say so directly, of course, I’m assuming he’s far too smart for that. But I can guarantee you, he’s going to throw you under the bus.”
Engarde’s manager pushes the barrel of the gun right against Apollo’s heart. From behind him, Apollo hears Klavier gasp.
“I’m just telling you what I know. I’ll go and deliver your ransom demand now,” Apollo says. And, committing to his bluff, he starts to walk away, in the direction of the mall entrance.
“Wait!” Engarde’s manager shouts back. “Not just yet.”
Before Apollo can do anything, Engarde’s manager fires the gun into the air. Some of the hostages start crying, but Apollo can only look at Klavier, and the fear written across his face; he’s obviously trying to appear calm and cool.
He takes the opportunity to slip his hand into the pocket of the kidnapper’s long trench coat, sighing a little in relief when his fingers close over a key. In the midst of the confusion, he pulls the key out and runs over to Klavier.
“Stop,” Klavier says. “Get everyone else out first. I can bluff my way out of this; they can’t.”
Apollo looks deep into his eyes, and he’s not lying. He trusts Klavier.
He unlocks the other hostages’ handcuffs, and they run to the entrance. Engarde’s manager is focused wildly on his conversation with Engarde, and they’re locked in conflict with one another, giving Apollo ample opportunity to run back to Klavier, key in hand.
“Not so fast!” Engarde’s manager shouts. Apollo freezes. “Neither of us are getting out of this alive.”
“Please,” Apollo says. “I’ll stay, but let the hostages go.”
“You’ve already let most of them go. I need something to bargain with. Pretty boy stays here,” he gestures to Klavier with his gun.
A rush of noise floods the mall. The doors, left open by the hostages’ exit, are now flooded with reporters, their cameras and microphones trained on the scene in front of them.
Apollo has to change tactics.
“Wait!” He shouts. “I know what’s going on here.”
He feels intimately that the world is watching him through these cameras. He’s unsure where he's going with this bluff, but he’s too committed to stop.
“Matt Engarde staged his own kidnapping,” he says. “I don’t know why. Publicity, money, whatever. But this is staged.”
“What?” Engarde says. “No I didn’t!”
“Look,” Apollo gestures to the walkie-talkie in his pocket. “He’s obviously liaising with the kidnapper.”
With the attention of the world on Matt Engarde, Apollo takes the brief opportunity he has, in Engarde’s confusion, to unlock Klavier’s handcuffs and help him up to his feet. Klavier leans on Apollo’s shoulder—his legs are obviously numb—and they’re about to make a break for the exit.
“Not so fast.”
Apollo turns around and Matt Engarde is standing there, holding the gun.
“How do I know you’re not involved?” Engarde continues. “You accuse me, a hostage, of orchestrating my own kidnapping? You’re supposed to be the security guard! If anyone’s involved, it’s you.”
“It obviously isn’t me!”
“Then maybe it’s your little friend there?” Engarde gestures to Klavier.
“He’s got nothing to do with this!”
“He’s got everything to do with this!” Engarde says, scrambling for some excuse that will exonerate him in the eyes of the world. “I’m just protecting myself!”
And he shoots.
Apollo doesn’t even realise that he’s doing it, but he’s sure that it isn’t just a plain old security guard instinct kicking in when he jumps in front of Klavier to protect him from the bullet.
The rest of the situation is a blur. He hears somebody shout ‘Police! Coming through!’, but he can’t turn his head to figure out where the voice is coming from. All he can really register is a throbbing pain in his ear, and a shrieking metallic sound that’s worse than any tinnitus he’s ever had.
But, it’s not all bad. He can just about feel Klavier’s hands holding his face, and if he focuses enough, he can hear him saying something like ‘hold on’, and ‘you’ll be okay’.
In sheer exhaustion, he closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, he’s outside, propped up into a sitting position with Klavier’s arm around him. He blinks in the sunshine, and turns his head as best he can, trying to ignore the pain on the left side of his head.
“Apollo,” Klavier says. “ “Gott sei Dank. You’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That bullet grazed your ear pretty badly. Took off a chunk of your gorgeous hair, too.”
“Stop flirting, Klav.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“I’m kidding. Please don’t stop flirting,” Apollo smiles.
“I’m getting mixed signals here, Forehead.”
“Then I guess I should say it plainly. Keep flirting, because I really, really like you.”
“Ach, I’m glad it’s mutual. They want to take you to hospital.”
“Ugh, why? I’m fine.”
“You could lose the hearing in your left ear.”
“And? I think I have more important things to do than worry about fifty percent of my hearing. Namely, asking you on a date.”
“Are you always this forward when you’re injured?”
“Not usually. You’re a special case.”
“I’m honoured,” Klavier laughs.
“So, I suppose I’m going to have to wait until the paramedics have checked me over to ask you on a date?”
“Ja. I want to make sure you’re okay before I commit to another round of Applebee’s cocktails with you.”
“Then I suppose I can wait for the all clear to ask you out.”
“And I suppose I can wait for the all clear to say yes.”
Apollo smiles. Sometimes, being a security guard is worth it.