Chapter Text
In hindsight, taking up a side job as a baker to pay for law school fees is probably one of Apollo’s stupidest ideas.
Especially if said idea involves a magician, the magician’s father, a psychologist, and an artist. In that order. Without a stutter.
At least the pay-off includes buff arms.
Sighing, he hoists up a sack of flour, swinging it over his shoulder as he carries it inside.
“Morning, Mr. Wright,” he greets, lugging the sack in with a grunt. He sets it down, and steps back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
“Good morning, Apollo,” Phoenix barely looks up from his phone. Apollo takes the moment to silently wonder if Mr. Wright really does anything in the bakery, and if overworking a twenty year old man constitutes as child labour.
“So,” Apollo heaves, “what do I do now?”
Phoenix waves a hand. Raises an eyebrow. Shrugs. “I dunno, whatever you bakers do. Bake?”
Apollo mentally decides he’s going to sue.
Walking into the kitchen, he yanks an apron off its hanger, tying it on as he waves to Trucy, his assistant and his boss’ daughter, who somehow actually knows what she’s doing.
“Morning, Polly!” she beams, crushing him in a flour-dusted hug.
“Ow- Truce- my back,” he manages to wheeze out, and Trucy dutifully lets go of him.
(Law school really does things to your spine, kids!)
“So, we’re baking our regulars today,” she claps, pointing to a bowl covered with a cloth. “The dough’s pretty much risen now, so we’ve just gotta shape it and toss it in the oven, okay?”
"Got it," Apollo shoots Trucy finger guns, picking up a tray and beginning to twist the dough.
Fine, maybe it isn’t so bad being a part-time baker.
Phoenix gingerly pulls open the back door to the bakery. It’s usually reserved for special deliveries, but, well, his husband counts as special.
Speaking of which.
He makes his way through the long route, heading to the coffeehouse's delivery entrance. Miles steps out of the door, giving Phoenix's Wright Anything Bakery (you take it, we bake it, patent pending) uniform a once-over and cracking a tiny smile.
“Partner,” Phoenix nods curtly.
“Partner.”
Phoenix breaks out into a laugh, embracing Miles. “We’re literally, like, thirty-something. We shouldn’t be playing cowboy.”
“At six a.m,” Miles adds. “In the delivery parking lot.”
“You’re not helping my case!” Phoenix protests, frowning and giving Miles a quick kiss. Miles laughs softly, pulling Phoenix closer into a hug.
Their moment is, of course, interrupted by a caffeine-related accident, because the world is cruel and cold.
Simon stumbles out of the back door, his hair disheveled and drenched with coffee and creamer. Miles and Phoenix rather unsubtly jump away from each other, as if the other’s covered in lava.
“Blackquill,” Miles awkwardly attempts to sound stern. “Did the espresso machine break again?”
“In my defense, Sad Monk was the last one to use it!”
“Me?” Nahyuta gasps, storming out right behind Simon, decked out in a matching LawBucks apron and cap, and positively seething. “I wasn’t even around it when it exploded! You know Gavin uses the stirrers to push his cuticles back!”
“And? What about it?” Klavier demands, sashaying out in purple stiletto heels and what Phoenix would deem inappropriate workplace attire, if he really gave that much of a shit. “I haven’t done that today yet!” He holds up his hands, clearly horrified. “Ach, just look at my poor nails!”
“Klavier, you know your manicures cost more than Taka’s premium bird feed,” Simon rolls his eyes.
“How is that even relevant?! I bet your bird fucked up our coffee machine. Why don’t you ask it, ja?”
“Klavier,” Miles chides, massaging his temples, “language.”
“Sorry, Herr Edgeworth.”
“Anyways. The three of you,” Miles points at each of them in turn, “go fix it. And try to fight less.”
The three of them solemnly nod, and walk back in.
Turning to Phoenix, Miles sighs. “I’d better check on them before the coffeehouse goes to shambles. My apologies, Wright.”
“Take care, honey,” Phoenix gives Miles a last kiss, watching his face redden.
Making his way back to the bakery, Phoenix sighs to himself, just a little lovingly.
Ka-tonk.
“Ow.”
Klavier winces, rubbing the back of his head. Pouting, he shoots Ema a glare, who grins back at him from the bar stools.
“You suck,” she munches on a Snackoo, throwing another one at him. The biscuit bounces rather lamely off the side of his head, falling to the floor.
“You don’t even work here. Why do you bully me so, Frau Skye?”
“Again, the answer to every question is you suck.”
“Ach, you’re so mean," Klavier props his head up on his hands. Ema smirks, shooting him the middle finger. “Have you ever considered flipping people off as a recreational activity?”
“Eh, bullying you is enough.”
Klavier leans over on the counter, the purple sequins on his tank top sparkling under his apron in the coffeehouse’s bright light. (Yes, he’s wearing an apron over a tank top. Workplace sanitary first, Herr Edgeworth’s strictness, yada yada.)
“I’m bored,” he whines, flopping over dramatically as his braid falls onto the tabletop.
Ema rolls her eyes.
“Fine, I’ve got something,” she offers. “Get me a pack of Snackoos from the bakery opposite. Buy yourself something as well. Help me out. Kiss a man. Find the meaning of life. I don’t know.”
Klavier turns around, grabbing his wallet and untying his apron. "Ja, I guess that'll work," he shrugs. "Danke, Frau Skye."
Well.
This’ll be interesting.
“Apollo,” Athena calls out from the counter, “there’s a customer who wants a croissant!”
“Aren’t you supposed to handle those?” Apollo yells back, dusting his hands on his apron. “You’re literally the cashier, Athena.”
“Yeah, well,” Athena steps into the kitchen, “I meant I needed a croissant from here, but since you insist…” she grins, pushing him towards the door.
“I said nothing!” Apollo protests, stopping to grab a paper bag, and a chocolate croissant. He places it in carefully, sealing the bag. “Besides, I look like a mess…”
“C’mon, it doesn’t matter! It’s not like you’re gonna date them or anything! Unless…” her grin turns shark-like.
“Athena, no.”
“Athena, yes.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“You don’t. Your argument is thus invalid. Also,” Athena squats slightly, “you’re shorter than me.”
“By an inch!"
“Plus four inches of hair.”
“Fuck you,” Apollo snickers.
Athena blows him a mock kiss, shoving him out.
Apollo grumbles to himself, but of course, as soon as he walks over to the counter, he wishes Athena were right.
Because shit, the customer’s really good-looking.
Athena - one, Apollo - zero.
Great.