Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things Trucy remembers from before she was a Wright:

Her first Daddy’s favorite thing to do was to play cards and get drunk. He’d win and then he’d drink and then he’d talk about how great he was, waxing poetic till he passed out somewhere. Sometimes, grudgingly, he’d do other things- magic tricks, when Magnifi made him, or feed Trucy, when he remembered. She wasn’t great at the magic yet, her hands too small and pockets too shallow for anything really stage worthy, and he wouldn’t play her in cards. He said it was because she was too young, but Uncle Valant had let it slip that he wouldn’t play her mother, either.

So really, if Trucy wanted to spend any time with him at all, it happened late at night, when he was flush with victory and a quarter of a bottle down. She’d sneak out of bed, put the cape on that she’d insisted be cut from the exact same cloth, and she’d sit at his feet on the floor and listen.

“Trucy,” he’d say, full of sage advice and hundred proof breath. “There are only two kinds of women in this world: damsels and whores.”

And Trucy knew, even then, that she was no damsel.

~~

Lamiror is a damsel. Thalassa Gramarye is a damsel. It’s less of a shock than it probably should be to find out they’re the same person. Trucy tumbles to it exactly ten minutes before they sit her and Polly down to explain it to them, Daddy twisting his hands up in his pockets like he does when he’s nervvy and trying not to show it. She sits obediently, with wide fake-surprised eyes through the whole presentation, like she hadn’t a clue. By the end of the explanation, he’s standing behind Trucy with his hands on her shoulders, like she’s a physical barrier between him and the anguished fury radiating off Polly’s armchair across the coffee table. Daddy always was kind of a coward. She doesn’t mind it, though. It’s a good survival skill.

Polly storms off, which is unfortunate- he leaves his suitcases fresh from Kuhra’in and his phone still plugged in and charging in the wall. Jeez, they really gave him the old one-two punch on this one, huh? Couldn’t wait a single second once it suited them to tell. It’s fine, though, Polly always is eventually. She texts Klavier in an hour or so and he tells her that yes, Polly gave him a call from the courthouse payphone, and yes, he’s okay, and yes, he just needs time. And Trucy knew all that, but it’s nice to have the confirmation. She doesn’t tell Daddy or Mommy because they haven’t earned it. She lets them fret a little, and fuss over her as the only child left to dote on. She’s used to that, too; being the favorite by default.

Trucy likes Thalassa. She likes how pretty she is, and how she calls Trucy pet names in Borginian that sound exotic, like little short melodies. She likes that her Mommy tells her Daddy what a great job he’s been doing, eyes bright, even if she finds the way her Daddy preens afterward a little silly and a lot put-on. She likes going out to dinner and having the waiter comment on what a lovely couple, what an adorable daughter, what a perfect little family they make. She can lean into it too, if Daddy wants to play that game. They can all have a fun round of Playing House and pretending Big Brother is just away at his Grown Up Job, instead of having an existential crisis at his maybe-boyfriend’s condo.

It’s all fun and games for the first week. The second week is fine too, really. But when Klavier Gavin pulls into the parking lot at the Wonder Bar for Trucy’s show for the third time and Polly sees Thalassa and Trucy and her Daddy waiting for the third time and they turn around the car without even opening the door for the third time, Trucy turns to her mother and very calmly and clearly says “I can’t talk to you anymore. You’re too expensive.”

Thalassa’s eyes go big and dark with tears immediately, so inexpressibly beautiful, but Trucy is firm. Daddy is there too, and he doesn’t say anything. Trucy doesn’t look at him. He’s not included; he’s just along for the ride.

“My dear heart. I’m so sorry,” Thalassa begins. “You must realize that as soon as I knew, I wanted to-”

“People want a lot of things,” Trucy says agreeably. “You wanted to wait, so you did! Now we don’t want to see you, and so we won’t.”

“Trucy,” her Daddy murmurs, shocked, and Trucy shifts just a fraction of an inch to the left, edging him out of the conversation as clearly as though she’d slammed a door in his face. He shuts up nicely. That’s the lovely thing about Daddy; he’s observant in his own way.

“This was nice, catching up. But I’m bored with it now, okay?” Trucy blinks at Thalassa

“I… understand if there’s no place for me in your life,” Thalassa says, her rich and lovely voice full of sorrow; her brows knit in a way that should be ugly but isn’t because Thalassa is ethereal with high cheekbones like a fairy queen or a thoroughbred racehorse and Trucy laughs.

“You’re making it sound so important,” Trucy says, shaking her head. “I don’t really care either way. I mean, I was hoping to cash in on some of those backlogged birthday presents, but if the price for knowing you is Polly, I want a refund.”

Trucy goes inside then, because it’s ten minutes to curtain and she’s got to set up one or two more tricks. She sees Daddy putting an arm around Thalassa’s shoulders, sees her go crumple down with gorgeous grief and rolls her eyes. Her Daddy is the cleverest man alive about everything but this.

Her show goes off without a hitch. She pays no mind to the sad looking couple in front, with two empty seats at their table. If they want to bring the mood down, they can just leave. Daddy can hitchhike, or call Mr. Edgeworth to drive him and his date home, and won’t that be an awkward conversation for them all. She’s half tempted to call for him.

But no, that would be avoidance, and Trucy doesn’t do that. She might gloss and shimmer over the ugly bits, but she lets them crash around her, like waves on a shore. No point in being stupid over it.

“Thanks for staying to see my show! I hope you really enjoyed it.” Trucy says brightly when she’s thanked all her fans but the last two, her biggest fans, who look crumpled up and nervous, like they don’t even want to be there. What a charming couple! She’s sure Thalassa’s never had to do anything but be lovely and weak but seeing Daddy going to pieces is kind of a disappointment. She didn’t help him become the undefeated champion of the underground LA poker scene for him to lose it over some sad, wispy thing in a pale flowy dress, even if it is her mother. Trucy’s seen enough men go to pieces for Thalassa Gramarye, thanks. Hard pass.

“Mi stellina, gioia tesoro,” Thalassa begins sorrowfully and Trucy turns up the charm.

“It wasn’t half bad, if I do say so myself! A perfect note to end things on.” Thalassa has sparkling tears that leave glittering trails down her cheeks; half the lighting and half a truly artful use of stage make up. Crying’s only pretty when your mascara’s waterproof, after all. Still, Trucy softens a little. She doesn’t really mean it; it’s showmanship. She’s sure her Mommy knows all about that. It’s time to end scene!

“Listen, it’s okay! We’re okay, we were lucky. And you’re still pretty lucky, too! I mean Polly and me got dropped off like yesterday’s soggy noodles and we still ended up pretty good kids. I’m going to be a world famous magician and Polly’s just plain old amazing in every way. You can read about us in the papers whenever you feel sorry about it. Oh, no more shows though- people might get the wrong idea.”

As she’s talking, she heads over to the car- Trucy’s car, Daddy still doesn’t drive and it’s nice for times like this, when Trucy wants to make sure she’s the one calling the shots. She’s a great little sidekick nine days out of ten, but this is ten. He can get in the car or he can stay with her mother; there’s not really much of a choice at all. Her Daddy gives Thalassa a tremendously sorry look, like he’d love to scoop her up and put her on a shelf someplace safe and ornamental, but he gets in the goddamn car like Trucy knew he would. She’s set it up that way, after all.

Trucy’s life has always been a series of choices. Weighing pros and cons is second nature- impulse by necessity now a set part of her personality matrix. It’s cute, for the most part- she’s adorable and forgivable mostly, so long as she hides the parts of her that are, well. A little bloodless? She likes to think she’s done a pretty good job so far, but the jig may be up. Ah well, you can only repeat the same trick so many times before somebody catches on. That’s rule number two of magic, right after keeping your secrets to yourself.

As she gets into the car, Thalassa catches her hand. Trucy’s hand is strong; she’s got a couple little scars and burn marks from tricks gone sideways, and her grip is amazing from all the sleight of hand. She’s the resident pickle jar opener of the Wright household, after all. Thalassa’s hand is delicate and thin, bones light, birdlike, and hollow. She presses a crumpled piece of paper into Trucy’s palm. It’s got her cell phone and email and all kinds of stuff on it. Real important stuff, probably.

Trucy throws it out the window on the highway.

So.

Bloodless.

Example: Trucy keeps a ranked list of her important people in her head, updating constantly in real time. It’s only practical. If, for instance, there had ever been the need to choose between Daddy and her first Daddy, she would pick this one. To live with, to support, to give the only life saving dose of a fast acting poison’s antidote in the nick of time- that kind of thing.

So what if Trucy’s list is a little less ‘people-I-love’ and a little more ‘sacrificial-lambs-in-order-of-expendibility.’ Some choices are a big deal. She’d made a choice to be a good stupid little girl and run an errand a few years back that ruined Phoenix Wright’s life. Then she’d doubled down - leeched onto him with oozey syrupy affection and sucked his blood dry when he was already half empty. It had worked out very well for her in the long run. Here she is, happy, healthy, and heir to the Gramarye legacy without having to actually be raised by any of them. Win-win.

Point is, she’s got a list. It’s roughly triangular in shape, she thinks- a scant dozen people tied to a train track that she’s willing to derail a cart or two full of orphans for.

Well, she’d considered herself an orphan for the longest time, anyway. An honorary orphan. She’d actually sort of liked the coming-back-from-amnesia plot twist, a nice season finale cliffhanger. Trucy is pretty flexible as far as this thing goes, and why not? It was easy enough to slot a New Mommy Achievement in there somewhere just below Athena and above the Chemistry teacher she’s sort of crushing on.

She’d liked Polly finding out they were related. She felt like it was only right, that if they were on the same page it justified just how far up he was on that list. Right around Daddy level, in fact, though if a lone gunman came shooting up the place and Trucy could only save one, it was gonna have to be Polly. Daddy is too soft; if he lives because Polly dies he’s likely to throw himself in front of a truck. Then she’d have lost them both. No, Polly’s like her. He’s used to losing. He’ll mope a bit and pull through, she’s sure. After three weeks of no Polly and Daddy being absurd, though, the ranks are shifting a bit. Polly’s definitely number one; where Daddy falls depends entirely on this conversation. Trucy’s been awfully fond of Mr. Edgeworth since he brought her that two pound box of imported chocolates for her birthday, after all. And Klavier’s still uber dreamy, even if he’s obsessed with her dorky brother.

In the car Daddy’s real quiet now- he’s even breathing quiet, like inhaling too much might set her off. And isn’t that just so super unfair? She loves him, he’s top of the list, or nearly.

“That was… different,” he says finally with an extra side of caution.

“Not really, Daddy,” Trucy says brightly.

“I’ve... never seen you like that.”

“Of course not,” Trucy grins. “I’m not like that in front of you.”

“What does that mean?” Trucy just hums. He’s clutching to the oh shit handle and she’s not even speeding, how rude. “Trucy?”

“You love me, don’t you Daddy?”

“More than anything, You know that,” Daddy insists.

Trucy nods. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“We talked about that, when I took you in-”

“That’s not it. Just because you had to take care of me… you didn’t have to love me too,” she explains patiently.

“You’re very lovable,” Daddy defends her. “Of course I would love you.”

“Daddy,” Trucy says, a touch exasperated. “That’s what I’m talking about. I needed you to love me and you wanted to love me. That’s great! I just… helped a little bit.”

She risks a glance and Daddy looks unsettled. Ah well.

“You think it was… some kind of childish machinations that made me love you?” Daddy asks, trying to get the facts straight. She loves when he does that. It shows he’s really listening.

“I was a baby,” Trucy rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t that serious. I just made sure I was the best Trucy Wright I could be. I’m cute and clever and just troublesome enough to be interesting. And I could mostly take care of myself, which helped.”

“You’re all those things,” Daddy says stubbornly. “Cute and clever and interesting and independent.” If he’s confused as to how this relates back to Thalassa, he’s not showing it. Very cool, Daddy. Keep that hand close.

“Oh, sure,” Trucy agrees. “But I’m also pretty ruthless, Daddy. I know you think I’m making a mistake and I’m gonna cry about it later, but I really won’t. If my Mommy gets hit by a bus tomorrow I won’t take back a single word of it.” Trucy tries smiling again but it’s a little lopsided. “I’m sorry. I’m Zak Gramarye’s daughter after all.”

“You’re my daughter,” Daddy says, smacking his hands against the dashboard, suddenly fierce and Trucy jerks in surprise, though she keeps her hands steady on the wheel. “I’m ruthless too. The things I did… you got it from me. I’m sorry, but you’re mine.”

A surprising wave of heat simmers in Trucy’s middle. At first she thinks she’s warmed by his claim over her. Then she takes a deep breath and distantly realizes that it’s anger.

“Would you have taken me in if I were a boy?” Trucy asks abruptly.

“What?” Daddy look lost. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Let’s just say. Hypothetically speaking, Polly, sixteen, he’s the one who gives you the diary page. He’s the one stuck after first Daddy took off. Do you take him in?”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say here, Truce.” Daddy’s face is scrunched up like his does know, actually, he just doesn’t like it. “You’re going to have to spell it out.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Trucy says sweetly. “Let’s talk about it.”

Trucy yanks the wheel sharply to the side and Daddy is scrambling, eyes wide as he’s slammed against the car door. She pulls into an empty parking lot and turns the car off. Daddy is pale and muttering curses under his breath but whatever her face looks like makes him stop mid-word.

“There are only two kinds of women in this world: damsels and whores.” Trucy tells him flatly and her Daddy looks gutted.

“Who the fuck told you that?” he demands.

“It doesn’t matter, Daddy, it’s true. And I’m not a damsel, I’m the other one.”

“Trucy!”

“I don’t mean like a sex thing, although probably Daddy did mean it like a sex thing-”

“Wait a minute, Zak told you that-”

“You wanted me to talk about it, so let me talk. Or we can go back to before if you want to and I won’t bring it up anymore. It’s been too long, we love each other and mean it too much to up and quit, but you can love somebody and really, really start to hate them too sometimes.” Trucy’s eyes are getting a little wet so she turns to look out her driver side window so he can’t see, like he doesn’t know she’s crying just from the way her shoulders are curved.

It’s quiet for a moment, then-

“I just can’t believe Zak Gramarye called his eight year old daughter a whore,” Daddy says with a dry not-humor. She glances over and he’s got his head in his hands. Thirty six isn’t old, not really, but he looks old right now.

“However he meant it, it doesn’t matter,” Trucy says, sniffling a bit but regaining her composure. “The way I saw it, there were women like my mother and there were women like me. You always say that you love me, that I’m your favorite kind of person, but Daddy… I’m not like her. I’m willing to get my hands dirty, and I fight and lie, and I’ll live even if it half kills me. I’m not a good little girl and I don’t faint at the sight of blood.”

“But you go crazy for these damsels, just like him. You let them cry and simper and railroad your life and you don’t even look happy about it. You’re not having fun, this isn’t the life you worked for. I don’t think you even like her; I don’t think you know one thing about her except her sad backstory and how pretty she looks when she’s upset. It’s like something you’ve been trained to do, like a dog with a bone it doesn’t even want. You let some stranger ruin your relationships with the people you were supposed to care about because she’s tragic and beautiful and helpless and she asked you to. You put her above all of us, and you had to know how it was going to go. It’s sick, Daddy. Seriously, you should have cared about what I think, but I’m yours, like you said: I have to put up with it. But you hurt Polly real bad and he’s my favorite.”

Daddy is quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on her face.

“Ok,” he says evenly. “Thalassa got the axe. What’s my punishment?”

“It’s not about punishment, Daddy.” Trucy starts the car back up. “You do that just fine all by yourself.” They’re quiet the rest of the short ride home, but when they get there, Daddy doesn’t get out and so Trucy doesn’t either. It’s a little chilly this time of year when the sun goes down, but they stay there anyway.

“I don’t like Thalassa,” Daddy admits. “I mean she’s fine, but. I’m not serious about it. It isn’t really anything.”

Trucy gives him her attention. It’s his turn; it’s only polite.

“I guess I never thought about it.” He rubs the side of his jaw with a wince. “I think a lot of that was just growing up that way. Maybe my mom was kind of a damsel, when you put it that way. Not that it’s any excuse,” he adds.

“Was she a good mom?” Trucy asks curiously. He’s never brought her up before.

“No,” Daddy says with a little laugh. “She really, really wasn’t.”

“Daddy, what do you want?” Trucy asks plainly.

“I don’t want you to be upset with me. I’d also like Apollo to not hate my guts. If you mean the other thing, I don’t want a damsel, no. Not really. I just get swept up in it. If I’m ever going to make it with somebody, I’d want a partner. I’d need someone who wouldn’t make me do shitty things to show they’re more important. I want someone at my level, or even better. I want someone who gets me and helps me even when I can’t be gallant. It’s nice, to be the white knight. It’s really nice, in the moment, but it’s not real.” He sighs. “I can’t believe how badly I’ve fucked this up.”

“I wish you’d just tell Mr. Edgeworth,” Trucy sighs back, and Daddy makes a sound like she’s hit him with a baseball bat. Unwilling to argue any more, Trucy gets out of the car and goes upstairs.

Chapter Text

There are two universal truths about going into the system:

The first is every kid, no matter how they got there, harbors some kind of fantasy scenario about their situation. Every last one honest to god believes they were desperately wanted and it was all cruel fate and a terrible mistake. Each kid is Not Like The Other Kids; each is the protagonist in this little Orphan Annie story and not the ones left behind to scrub floors and drown.

The second rule is, you shut the hell up about the first one. Dreaming out loud never got anyone anything but a black eye. It’s a kindness, honestly- knock the stupid out of the kid early when it sticks better. Idealism is a pain in the ass. Apollo knows; he’d just shifted his over into law, but this kind of thing? He knows the score.

~~

When Apollo gets back from Khura’in, they sit him down and tell him.

~~

It ought to have been fine. It’s been a long time since Apollo had those kind of dreams. He’s twenty-five, he figured he could handle it.

(He did not handle it- well or at all)

Now, stumbling through the streets, he doesn’t know what he said or did for them to let him take off like this, but he’s made it to the courthouse without much besides the clothes on his back. He managed his shoes, at least. And it makes sense, really, it’s as good a home as any fucking where else in the world.

Apollo knows logically that he needs to go back. He doesn’t have a phone or anything. They’ve got all his clothes. Even if he wants to fuck right back off to Khura’in, he’s got to go get his passport. But Apollo doesn’t want to fuck off to Khura’in or back to Wright’s with his tail between his legs. He just wants to fuck off, period, full stop.

A line of empty payphones sit outside the courthouse, one of the last holdouts in the city, conspicuously placed for the truly desperate. Apollo is feeling pretty desperate at the moment himself.

Who memorizes phone numbers in this day and age? Nobody, really, except foster kids. It’s a hard habit to break still, so Apollo knows four. The first belongs to dead boy he misses and then a dead man he doesn’t and the third is Phoenix Wright who is as good as, at this point.

The last one, though.

Apollo had always told himself it was a work thing. He hadn’t even called it that often, maybe a dozen or less over the years, but he’d liked knowing it.

Apollo picks up the phone.

It doesn’t matter. That guy isn’t going to pick up a call from some random number, and even if he did there was no way he was going to accept a collect call from Apollo Justice.

Except that Klavier Gavin does, in fact, do these things. He also drives to get Apollo in a surprisingly subdued car. It’s only mildly purple, and it doesn’t even have a vanity plate.

“Kristoph used to call me from prison,” Klavier explains when Apollo asks. “I forgot.”

Forgot Kristoph was dead three years past, or nearly, he doesn’t say. They’re both thinking it.

“What did you talk about?” Apollo asks, changing the subject. He’s not sure if it’ll be better or worse, though.

“Disposal of assets. Last will and testament. Funerary arrangements.” Klavier counts with one hand, the other lazily at the top of the steering wheel. “Sibling bonding, ja?”

Apollo flinches.

When Apollo called, he didn’t know what he expected besides more disappointment. Maybe for Klavier to lend him bus fare, or to give him a ride to somewhere nearby, if he was feeling particularly helpful. To crash on the couch for a night was a pipe dream, one he wanted so badly he didn’t even have words to express it. Getting to dodge the operatic mess of his life for even a few hours sounded like unattainable luxury, like an all expense paid vacation to Dubai or a trial with a cooperative defendant.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Klavier asks.

“No,” Apollo says flatly. “But I will anyway. Lamiror’s my mom and Trucy’s my sister- or half sister, I guess. They told me. I called you. End of story.”

There’s quite a few gaps in there, but Klavier is smart; he can read between the lines. He just does so while cruising with his hand at the top of the wheel like a douchebag, drumming along to a near silent staccato as he thinks.

“Did you have a particular place in mind?” Klavier asks.

“No,” Apollo says honestly, and to his horror, a tear falls from his left eye. Fuck. Seriously? He scrubs it away and turns toward the window.

“Let’s get lunch,” Klavier decides. “I haven’t much at home, at the moment.”

“To go,” he adds after a minute, pretending he can’t see Apollo silently crying into his sleeve in the window’s reflection.

~~

Klavier’s home is like his office: ostentatiously extravagant and pathetically austere all in one. It’s a huge condo with wood paneled walls and crystalline-chrome light fixtures worth more than Apollo’s college education. The expansive living room has a midsized leather couch that looks too pricy for comfort and an enormous, expensive, and enormously expensive wall mounted TV. That’s it. The remote is on the carpet among a generous sprinkling of guitar picks. There’s fractionally drunk water bottles on every surface, and a few rolled into corners with odd crumpled up bits of paper that might be song lyrics, might be witness affidavits.

As they make their way through the rooms, Apollo sees stacks of cardboard boxes lining the hallways, overflowing with merch from the half finished Gavineers final tour. One has split, sending cascades of Daryan Crescend faces on a red fiery background across the floor like a path to hell; Klavier steps carelessly over this without comment. The kitchen is clean in the way that means no one uses it, and maybe has never used it. The trash can is full to bursting with empty take out containers.

Luckily, there’s a breakfast nook built into the side of the wall; otherwise there’s no table at all. When Apollo goes to wash up, in the bathroom he notices there’s no shower curtain and there’s no shower mat, just a single crumpled damp hand towel on the floor. He wipes his hands on his pant legs. When he gets back, Klavier is glaring into the bag at their order.

“Tch. They forgot the utensils.”

“We’ll just use yours,” Apollo shrugs, opening a drawer at random. It’s empty. The second is full of take out menus. The third is a silverware drawer, or masquerading as one poorly and only on weekends, anyway. Apollo stares at the single fork, single spoon, single butter knife, and realizes that Klavier Gavin is deeply, intensely, and chronically single too. No one in any kind of relationship for any duration would go back to life with only one fork.

“What are you smiling like that for?” Klavier asks suspiciously. “Just give me the verdammt spoon, mein gott.”

Apollo, feeling terribly pleased, does so.

“After we eat,” Apollo says, “let’s go to Target.”

~~

Klavier wears a hoodie, a hat, and sunglasses to Target and they still get clocked maybe three minutes in the door. It works out fine, actually. Apollo takes his time pushing the cart through the aisles and Klavier follows behind, slowly enough that the teen girl train can come too, picking up one or two extra every few rows. It’s his own fault, Apollo admits. Target is kind of a Klavier Gavin fan’s natural habitat. Apollo buys things for himself with the satisfaction of a man who owns nothing; the nicest feeling all week is dropping the double pack of Crest 3D Whitening into the cart; Khura’inian toothpaste all had weird flowery flavors and no fluoride to speak of. Klavier fields questions, signs autographs and takes selfies; the fans who have been serviced form a neat self regulating security detail to direct the new ones in a fair and timely manner.

Apollo starts to grab other things, too; a set of silverware for four; a paper towel holder; kitchen scissors; a decent bamboo cutting board and knife set and a proper wooden spoon. He picks up a bath mat and a shower curtain with a separate curtain liner; countertop cleaner with bleach, dish soap and new sponges. The cart is pretty full by now, though he pauses wistfully to look at the abita coffee table in heather wood and bronze. When he looks back down, the cart has been replaced with an empty one; near the end of the Klavier Gavin Experience line, a teenage girl with green and black striped hair waves at him cheerfully where she is watching the original.

Huh.

Well, okay.

Apollo gets the coffee table, and throw pillows in purple and red, and a couch blanket, and a set of pots and pans that comes with a free spatula, and a little decorative bowl for guitar picks. They get to the cash register and the girls fall into an assembly line, teenage girls putting items on the belt, teenage girls scanning the items, teenage girls putting them into bags, teenage girls efficiently repacking the carts.

“Wow,” Apollo says, dumbstruck. “It’s kind of cool being famous, huh?”

Klavier grins, dazzle-bright.

When the total rings up, Apollo reaches for his wallet and remembers where he’d left it: sitting on the coffee table at the Wright agency, too full of Khura’inese currency to sit on comfortably. Fuck. But then he looks up and Klavier is already signing the receipt.

“Hey,” he says weakly. “Objection.”

“Overruled.” Klavier says, winking at the girls until they all chant Overruled which is probably a bridge to a Gavineers song, or maybe some kind of cult rockstar thing they do before branding themselves with G’s on the bottom of their feet.

The girls tetris the items into Klavier’s car; one even takes the carts back to the corral.

“I’ll pay you back,” Apollo mutters, out of his depth.

“Nein. This is for my place, ja? Your items are just, how would you say… a transactional fee. You’re a very good personal shopper, you should consider it as a failsafe.” Klavier blows the girls a kiss and they swoon back enough for them to reach the car doors.

“Anything’s better than poker, I guess,” Apollo says darkly.

They drive back to Klavier’s; as they leave the parking lot, the girls run along side waving like the ending to Grease.

“You are so weird,” Apollo tells Klavier. Klavier doesn’t care.

~~

Apollo unpacks and Klavier hovers. It looks better, a little, after that. More lived in, maybe, though he still needs art that isn’t framed records and his own face. The lack of furniture is a little depressing, but it’s nicer overall.

“Doordash?” Klacier asks when it starts to get later.

“Grocery store,” Apollo insists.

Fortunately the Gavineers never really broke into the housewives market, so the trip is a quick in and out. Apollo makes beef stroganoff with egg noodle, maybe a half step up from hamburger helper at best, but Klavier still eats three helpings. After cleaning up, they get ready for bed. Apollo takes the couch, which squeaks expensively; Klavier’s condo has three bedrooms and a master suite, but he only bothered buying one bed. The other rooms are all empty, or full of random junk.

“Why did you even get a place this big?” Apollo asks him when he’s turning in.

“I guess I thought my life would be different by now,” Klavier says after a bit.

“Yeah,” Apollo agrees. He rolls over so he can hide his face in the back of the couch. He’s a successful international lawyer with a support system; he is also a penniless mooch crashing on a work aquaintence’s couch. “I get that,” he mutters, as Klavier hits the lights on his way out.

~~

“I guess I should go back,” Apollo says over breakfast. It’s just eggs and toast. He’d had to use the oven broiler setting so the toast isn’t toast all the way through. Disappointing. Apollo idly adds toaster to the back of the Target receipt stuck to the fridge door with a little piece of masking tape off the Daryan-in-hell photoshoot box. After a moment, he also adds magnetic fridge notepad.

“Trucy called,” Klavier says, jam at the corner of his mouth. Apollo throws him the roll of paper towels; Klavier tears one off and then throws it back so Apollo can put it back onto the holder. “She asked if you were here.”

Apollo winces. Klavier doesn’t say anything else; he just puts the dishes in the sink and gets ready to leave for work.

“It doesn’t have to be today, I guess,” Apollo mutters, looking at the floor.

“Right,” Klavier says, smile suspiciously bright.

~~

It’s sort of fun, a little bit like Playing House. When Klavier goes to work, Apollo puts on a set of Target loungewear that feels too new and nice for menial work, but needs must. He starts on the hall closet, where one winter coat shares space with one single empty wire hanger where Klavier hangs his usual blazer. The rest of the closet is full of t-shirts from the “Thirteen Years Hard Time For Love” release, a box of burnt out lightbulbs he assumes Klavier was going to recycle and forgot, and a crumpled black dress shirt with gold embellishment over the chest.

Apollo drags everything out, vaccuuming the inside of the closet and wiping down shelves and baseboards, then sorting merch. He writes storage containers on the fridge list and goes to toss the dress shirt onto Klavier’s bed.

“Do you have a trial tomorrow?” Apollo asks later over chicken cacciatore. He glares at it; it turned out tough.

“Nein, I am between cases. Why?”

“Leave early, then,” Apollo instructs. “We’re going to Ikea.”

Klavier looks at him for a minute. He processes, considers and rejects the obvious and ridiculous. Apollo is not using him for his money; he is buying things for Klavier. Apollo doesn’t feel obligated to improve Klavier’s quality of life, he’s bored and he feels like it. Klavier can afford it; he also trusts Apollo to pick things that Klavier will like.

“Are you sure?” is what he settles on.

“Klavier, you don’t have a bed frame,” Apollo says emphatically. “You have one pillow, and it doesn’t have a pillow case.”

Klavier does look a touch embarrassed at that. “Thank you for dinner,” he says instead. “It est kostlich.”

“It’s better in a crock pot,” Apollo says sulkily.

~~

At Ikea, Klavier buys everything that Apollo puts in the cart: side tables and new sheets, pillows and a bed frame, and as many organizers as Apollo can possibly fit in the car. They also get froyo.

At the house, there’s a rush delivery Amazon package on the front step. Apollo carries it inside and puts it on the kitchen counter. Apollo is an Ikea expert; he puts everything together quickly and competently; Klavier hands him the screws one at a time.

“What are you going to do with all this?” Apollo risks asking, after, nudging the pile of now-folded shirts. He doesn’t look at the Daryan Crescend river in the hall.

“Not burn them,” Klavier says, the way you would if you were thinking about burning them.

“Right,” Apollo agrees.

When Klavier goes to bed, he leaves that Amazon box on the coffee table for Apollo. Inside is a crock pot.

~~

On Friday, Klavier asks if Apollo wants to go see Trucy’s show.

“Yes,” Apollo says firmly.

Then, in the parking lot: “No.”

Klavier just nods and turns the car back around. Rinse and repeat, three times over.

“I’m so sorry,” Apollo says, mortified. He’s definitely overstaying his welcome. Klavier’s place looks great, but if he cared about that stuff he’d hire a housekeeper or get himself a girlfriend to pick up after him. Now every Friday night Klavier gets to look forward to being jerked around by Apollo’s family bullshit just because seeing the three people who supposedly love him standing in a parking lot smiling and laughing and looking vaguely family shape makes him want to puke.

Phoenix Wright has never once treated Apollo like anything but a mildly annoying employee or a nephew from a side of the family he doesn’t care for. He’s the uncle who makes jokes that are a little too mean and a little too real at holidays; the kind who sends five dollar bills to teenagers for their birthday inside unsigned dollar store cards. Seeing him pretend to give any kind of a shit now because he wants to fuck Apollo’s mom or whatever is complete bullshit. Phoenix Wright had his chance when he figured out who Apollo was four years ago, and lines were drawn. Trucy was his daughter, and Apollo was the dumb kid scrubbing toilets for minimum wage. People aren’t puppies; you don’t get to pick one and love it and leave the rest tied up in the yard. Apollo’s not doing this.

And his mom. She was fine as some tragic famous artsy figure, but as a real person Lamiror wouldn’t ruin her image by admitting she was blind or say, you know, I wasn’t on stage because of some residual magician loyalty over her Machi, the little orphan boy meal ticket she’d used as a teddy bear to replace her other lost kids. How could she possibly give a fuck about the ones she barely remembered?

Which isn’t fair, because obviously she can.

Apollo’s dad died, he’d gone missing and she’d just replacement goldfished them all. They were Gramaryes literally the most famous magicians in the world; they couldn’t have tried to find him? Not even a little? One little ad spot, squeezed in between the airplane vanishing and the gun show? But then that’s why she had Trucy in the first fucking place, wasn’t it? She loves Trucy and has her arm around Trucy and her other arm linked through Phoenix Wright’s, and Apollo kind of wants to hit them all with Klavier’s car.

Which is why they’re heading back to Klavier’s apartment, a twenty eight minute drive each way, for no reason again. They pull into the driveway.

“I’m really sorry,” Apollo repeats. “Really, truly sorry. I won’t ask you to take me there anymore. I’m being stupid and I’m wasting your time.”

“Let’s get Tropical Smoothie,” Klavier says, pulling the car back out into the street.

Chapter Text

Half an hour after Phoenix Wright hangs up the phone with Lamiror for the last time, he ends up on Edgeworth’s front porch.

“Hi,” he says weakly.

Edgeworth gives him a long, thorough dressing down through eye contact alone. “You may as well come inside,” he says finally, stepping back and leaving the doorway clear. “Mind the shoes.”

Phoenix kicks off his shoes just inside the door, lining them up neatly on the shoe rack without further prompting. He figures he’s at enough of a disadvantage as-is.

“So,” Phoenix tries weakly, trailing after Edgeworth into the kitchen. Edgeworth bustles about, putting the kettle on and arranging some things from a bakery box on a decorative plate. He pulls out the heavy ornate wooden presentation tray for guests.

“Uh. You don’t have to go to any special trouble or anything,” Phoenix adds, confused.

“Etiquette dictates the host provide refreshment.” Edgeworth answers tensely, not looking up. The cutlery drawer rattles disapprovingly.

“Since when? I’ve been here, like, dozens of times. You never did all this.” Phoenix examines the scene, puzzled.

“That was when we were attempting a somewhat less formal arrangement,” Edgeworth says flatly. “Rules of decorum did not apply.”

Phoenix flushes red, embarrassed and contrite. “Listen,” he begins-

“No,” Edgeworth says, looking at him directly. There’s a butter knife in his hand smeared with strawberry jam. It’s oddly intimidating. “No, you listen. Do you think I don’t know why you’re here? I am sorry that things did not go well with Thalassa Gramarye. I truly am. It would have been a very pat ending and Trucy would have been thrilled. I am sure you gave it your all and you are feeling friendless and vulnerable, but you cannot treat me like a sure thing just because I am one. It isn’t kind, and we are too old for this.”

In the stunned silence, the kettle whistles; Edgeworth measures out tea into a ceramic tea pot with practiced ease before adding the hot water. He sets the loaded tray down on the table a touch harder than necessary; despite the jarring, it still looks immaculate. Scones with jam and clotted cream, tea with sides of sugar and milk because it’s the only way Phoenix will drink it.

“I love you,” Phoenix says.

“Get out of my house,” Edgeworth snaps.

“What? I- no?” Phoenix is taken aback. “Wait, why?”

“You do not get to say that less than an hour after breaking off with your current paramour.” Edgeworth glares and Phoenix tries not to look guilty. How the hell did he know the time frame? Phoenix loves the guy, but that’s just uncanny. “However, as I have already served cream tea, you may stay to finish it. Do not say that again or I will remove you by force.”

He serves them a scone each and pours Phoenix the perfect amount of tea, cream and two sugars; Phoenix sips it meekly.

“Are you quite done now?” Edgeworth asks after a few minutes where Phoenix attempts nibbling awkwardly at the snack. It’s delicious, which is somehow more depressing. Phoenix looks down at his half eaten pastry, bewildered. “Have you said what you came to say?” Edgeworth clarifies.

“I guess,” Phoenix sulks, pushing the scone away in favor of the tea. “This isn’t going at all the way I planned.”

“Get used to disappointment,” Edgeworth says, unbothered. “Then it is my turn to have my say. Do exert a modicum of self restraint for once, Phoenix. I shouldn’t like to have to repeat myself.”

Phoenix puts the delicate tea cup down hastily; he has a feeling he might involuntarily break it otherwise. Unease settles in the center of his stomach, heavy and syrup sweet.

“After the Engarde case, we had a discussion. We came to a conclusion about feelings and their mutual exclusivity. It was long distance, but we were trying. When there was a sudden dearth of communication on your end, I simply took that in stride. We were both busy men. When Butz called me, of course I came immediately. I had no idea what the situation was, as you had not informed me. You kissed me for the first time in Hazakura Garden. I returned to Europe and did not hear from you for weeks. During a routine call to Miss Fey to inquire about her well-being, I was informed that you had been visiting your ex in prison weekly; calling nearly daily. That you had, in fact, seen her picture in the paper months ago and been determined to reconnect- coincidentally around when you first ceased correspondence. I believe the term is called, ah, ghosting. Do not interrupt me, Wright, so help me god,” Edgeworth warns sharply.

Phoenix winces and closes his mouth.

“Imagine my surprise when the woman who was in jail for aiding, abetting and desecration of a corpse was a short lived infatuation that could not survive your disbarment. We reconnected over the Jurist system as colleagues and friends; when you and Trucy came to Belgium, you said Iris was a mistake. You said you had always loved me, that you were just afraid since I was gone and she needed someone. You said you wanted to try again, so long as I was willing to wait until Kristoph was put away. I was… overjoyed.”

For the first time since Phoenix arrived, Edgeworth falters. The curtain of righteous indignation surrounding him flickers open an inch; his eyes, looking into Phoenix’s, are haunted.

“I believed you, you see.” His voice is subdued now, every word a deliberate heartbreak. “It was everything I ever wanted. It was impossible to resist. I would have waited the rest of my life for another chance; what was seven years?” Edgeworth pushes aside his own untouched plate. “I came back for you. I took a permanent position in a place I thought I had outgrown, for you. The night before my flight, Trucy let slip that she had hopes for a new Mommy. It was all quite innocent and coy, but… somehow, I knew.”

Edgeworth shakes his head. “But I was a fool. I allowed you to maintain the facade of romantic interest. You said you wanted to take things slow. You said that this was as much as you could handle. I was patient with whatever little attentions you could spare, nothing but colleagues and sometimes friends with some… unspoken understanding. I waited, Wright. For you to be mine or for you to be honest. I didn’t care anymore which.”

“After Khura’in, Lamiror made her grand debut in LA and, as I had surmised, I was no longer necessary. I found out from a newspaper clipping someone sent me on Lamiror being spotted out and about downtown. You couldn’t see your face, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

Phoenix chances a look up; Edgeworth is staring at his own hands, flat against the table top. He’s pressing them down as hard as he can, Phoenix realizes, to keep them from trembling.

“I am not a placeholder for your romantic aspirations. Is it that you genuinely don’t understand what you’ve done to me or that this is a deliberate ploy to p-punish,” Edgeworth stops talking, mouth going tight. He turns his back a moment.

This is the time when Phoenix could press his case. Edgeworth is vulnerable; he could break his way in.

…he’s done enough, though.

“I hurt you very badly early on,” Edgeworth continues, when he’s composed enough to face Phoenix. “I regret it. I have apologized and will continue to do so. But I promise you, Wright, I have paid for it. I am tired of paying for it.”

Was that it? Is that what he’s doing? The words, terrible though they are, don’t exactly ring false.

“So,” Edgeworth says, looking at Phoenix across the table, three feet and three thousand miles away. “Allow me to do what you could not manage over the last ten years. Phoenix Wright, I am breaking up with you- if you can even call our pseudo romantic entanglement something worthy of that action. It’s over. I am thirty six, and if I am going to be happy and fulfilled in love, I fully understand now that it will not be with you. I doubt very much at this point that I shall find such a thing at all, truth be told. Regardless, any attempt would require a level of honest affection and respect that you do not harbor for me now, if you ever did.”

Phoenix is biting his tongue so hard he can taste blood. His eyes are wet and that’s not fair to Edgeworth; he’s trying to hold them back as best he can, taking short shallow breaths. He’s probably doing a shit job; Edgeworth clears his throat and picks up his tea cup; his glasses fog over and it’s so endearing that Phoenix does actually give a hiccupy little sob right then, though he shoves it back down immediately.

“That being said,” Edgeworth says valiantly, pulling his plate back in front of him and beginning to crumble the edges of his scone without even pretending to eat it, “it is quite impossible to abandon all communication. We are too entwined professionally and our social circles overlap. I am unwilling to cut ties with Miss Fey or Trucy. And… I have missed you.”

Phoenix closes his eyes, miserable.

“I will permit you to resume an appropriate friendship with me, should you agree to the terms. I have two conditions. You may, ah, add your own if you so like.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says, voice thick. “I’m fine.” The only condition he can think of is to ask Edgeworth to please stop piling dirt on the grave Phoenix dug himself.

“The first is that you cease pretending to have feelings for me,” Edgeworth says firmly. “To me or anyone else. I suggest starting with yourself.”

“Harsh,” Phoenix mutters. “And the second?”

Edgeworth’s gaze shifts into something more certain and self contained. Whatever little piece of vulnerability he allowed to seep through his magenta colored candy shell is mewled back up and gone. Phoenix has lost permission to see anything more than Edgeworth decides he can spare.

“The next time you fall for some damsel in distress,” he says coolly, “do not cut me out of your life. I promise not to make a scene.”

~~

It’s three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon; the sun is shining and bright, the breeze is gentle and welcoming, and it is absolutely miserable conditions to feel sorry for himself. Phoenix wonders morosely if it’s too much to ask that another mob doctor in a speeding car run him down. When apparently it is, he settles for making a phone call on the walk of shame home from Edgeworth’s.

“Think you can slip the leash tonight?” Phoenix asks as soon as Maya picks up the phone. “I need to drink until I can’t feel my feelings or my face.”

“What’s the sitch?” Maya asks casually.

“Edgeworth dumped me.”

“Ouch,” Maya says, somewhat glib. “Well, that was a long time coming, actually.”

“Could you maybe not say true-yet-devastating things to me today?” Phoenix whines. “At least not till the second round?”

“If you wanted sympathy, you could have called Iris,” Maya says severely. “Pretty sure she’s still wasting away by the phone in Hazakura, if you want to try your luck.”

“Come on, I’ll pay,” Phoenix wheedles, ignoring the jab.

“Nah, I’ll pay. We had our first big political client today, so the elders upped my pocket money.”

“Anything unsavory?” Phoenix asks, concern overtaking his self-pity briefly.

“Nothing like that. He just missed his childhood pet. I’m gonna need about three burgers just to get rid of the taste of catnip mouse. Meet you at the usual place at seven? I’ve got some stuff to do in town first.”

“It’s a plan,” Phoenix agrees. After he hangs up, he looks at the phone a moment longer, thinking. He usually picks Maya up at the station. A picture is starting to form in his mind. He’s not sure how he feels about it yet.

Phoenix gets home and treats himself to a good old sitting-in-the-shower beer. It does wonders for feeling sorry for himself, and he scrubs out the bottom of the tub with the brush half heartedly while he’s down there. After he’s clean and dressed for a night out, he walks into the living room to see Trucy lounging on the couch with ice cream, watching a documentary on Houdini and the supernatural.

“You look nice, Daddy. Got a hot date?” she asks sweetly.

He glares. “I broke things off with your mom, and Edgeworth broke things off with me, so no. Not a date. I’m going to get shitfaced with Maya.”

Trucy does not even try to look surprised. “Ok, Daddy! Call an uber and make good life choices, okay?”

Phoenix would like to feel resentful but he can’t quite muster the energy. She’d been all for the idea in the beginning, all new Mommy this and real family that. He should have figured she was just talking out of her ass the whole time. Like father like daughter. Anyway, it’s not fair to blame a teenage girl for the fact that he’d fucked up so badly while everyone else looked on like his personal life was some kind of high speed train derailment.

He loves the shit out of her, ruthlessness and all.

“Too late for that, I think,” Phoenix says ruefully, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head on the way out the door.

“Never say never!” Trucy waves her ice cream spoon worryingly. “You taught me that, Turnabout Terror! Don’t do anything that’s gonna make it even harder for Mr. Edgeworth to forgive you.”

Phoenix stops to give her a hard look. “I haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell,” he says, but the way he does when he’s not actually sure, just mostly sure. Trucy’s the expert here- she knows Edgeworth’s tells, after all. Phoenix clearly doesn’t know anything.

“Mr. Edgeworth is just… not good at not loving you. Even if you’re bad for him he can’t just up and stop like that. You’ve got a golden window of opportunity! You just need to figure out what he needs to take you seriously again.”

“And…” Phoenix perches on the couch arm, trying (and failing) to look only passingly curious. It’s rare for Trucy to volunteer this kind of info without being asked. It’s his reward, he realizes dimly. For breaking up with Thalassa without a fuss.

“And, uh. What might that be?”

“Not too much,” Trucy assures him. “You have to mean it this time and you have to prove you mean it. Real hard evidence stuff. That’s it! But that’s kind of hard for you, so I’d say you have exactly a snowball’s chance in hell. Do your best.”

“Wait,” Phoenix says. “Am I not good at meaning what I say or am I not good at having real evidence?”

“Yes,” Trucy says, turning back to the TV. “Have a nice time, tell Auntie Maya I said hi.”

~~

Maya is late and the theory Phoenix has been formulating crystallizes into fact.

“I’m not mad,” Phoenix says two drinks and a burger in. She looks at him from the corner of her eye. “I don’t have any right to be anyway.”

“How did you know?” Maya asks curiously.

He snorts. “You were late, even though you were already planning to come into town- when I called, I could hear you were at the station. You said you had errands to run in town, but you have minions for that now, Master of Khurain so I figured it had to be a personal visit. Plus you bought your own burgers. You have literally never done that once, in all the years we have burger-ed together. You’re feeling guilty.”

“He’s my friend too,” she says pointedly. “I know he pulled the plug, but it’s really hard for him too-”

Phoenix holds up his hands, palms up in surrender. “I’m sorry I put you in a position where you felt like you had to choose. That wasn’t fair. You’re a good friend, to both of us.”

“I’m trying,” she says, picking back up her burger and finishing it in two more savage bites. “I know I’m not always around and the distance is hard, but…”

“You’re not trying, you just are one. And… I know you told him about Iris and I’m guessing you sent him the Lamiror article. And that’s fine seriously, he deserved to know I was jerking him around.”

“Why’d you do it, Nick?” Maya asks.

Phoenix looks away. “Ask me in two more shots,” he says.

Then, forty minutes and two tequilas later:

“Why’d you do it, Nick?” Maya repeats, more slowly. She’s a little slurry. “Anyone with eyes in their head can see you’re crazy about him. He walks in the room and you just-” Maya gestures with her hands, something like poof. “It’s like you forget the rest of us are even there most of the time.”

“Maya…”

“No, I don’t mean that in a shitty way. It’s sweet. You just gravitate wherever he is, you want to be in whatever conversation he’s having. It’s so obvious. It’s why he put up with your bullshit, whatever you’re doing with these girls, you love him. I don’t know, is it a sex thing?”

“It is not a sex thing,” Phoenix says sullenly, raising his empty glass so the bartender will see and bring another round. “Iris was literally in prison and I never got anywhere like that with Thalassa.”

“Well, whatever. It’s bizarre is what it is. You’re lucky you always go for the sweet, stupid, tragic ones. Someone like Desiree DeLite probably would have stabbed you.”

“You are literally never going to let that go. I take one case because a hot girl in a leather suit asks me, and it’s gonna haunt me forever,” Phoenix groans.

“Of course not,” Maya says, matter of fact. “It hurt my feelings. I had the biggest crush on you.”

Phoenix sits up straight to look at her. The bartender drops off two more shots; they clink glasses and knock them back.

“…I didn’t know,” he says slowly.

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to tell you.” Maya rolls her eyes.

“Wait, why not?” he asks, hurt.

“Well, at first I had this big plan. Like I’d come and see you when I mastered spirit channeling and my boobs came in and we could go on lawyer adventures and it would be romantic.” Maya explains. “But I didn’t because by the time I started coming around again, you were a nutcase over Edgeworth and I was still flatter than poster board. And you know what? I’m glad because you would have said yes, Nick. You totally would have dated me after Engarde or even Hazakura, you would have felt sorry and I would have been pathetic and we’d have gotten married one day and been totally miserable. And I don’t think you even would have known why.”

Phoenix doesn’t know what to say.

“Quit that,” Maya says, leaning over to pinch his side so hard he nearly falls off the stool. The bartender glares. Oops. He waves a little sheepishly.

“Quit looking at me like that. I got over it, seriously, like ages ago. That whole hobo aesthetic was not a good look for you, and turns out you’re a shit boyfriend. Thanks but no thanks. You’re my best friend and I care about you so, so much. I know you care about me too, but you’re always my champion when I’m in trouble and kind of MIA when I just want to catch up, you know? Don’t shut me out when the curtain drops, Nick. I’m not really one of your damsels, I’m just a friend who needs a hand sometimes.”

Phoenix groans, burying his face in his hands. “Why do people keep saying that to me?!”

“Have they?” Maya asks, surprised. “I guess if the shoe fits…”

“No more shoes,” Phoenix begs. “Shots. Okay?”

“Okay,” Maya agrees, and this is why he loves her.

~~

“We wouldn’t have been miserable,” Phoenix tells her, pouring her into an uber a few hours later. She’s drunk, but her eyes looking up at him are steady and attentive. “But also you deserve better than a guy like me. I wouldn’t have been all in, and that wouldn’t have been fair to either of us. I’m glad we’re like this instead.”

She surges up to kiss his cheek through the open window. “Poor Edgeworth,” she says affectionately. “He’s going to end up stuck with you, huh?”

“You’re damn right he will,” Phonix says shortly, closing the car door and waving the driver on.

Chapter Text

The week after Trucy dumps her mom, she opens the door and walks into the Wright residence, careful to step over and around her Daddy, who is lying flat, face up on the floor.

“Mr. Edgeworth still isn’t taking your calls?” Trucy asks, already knowing the answer.

“The love of my life doesn’t like me anymore,” Daddy says piteously.

“Of course not, Daddy. You’re mean to him,” Trucy says, making her way to the kitchen and ignoring his groan of distress. It’ll be good for him to take a little time to reflect. Besides, the floor’s not so bad- she just vacuumed three days ago, and Dr. Hotti had said that kind of thing would be good for his back from time to time.

“What are you doing?” He asks without getting up, when he hears her going through the cabinets.

“Making cookies,” Trucy says cheerfully.

“…why?” He asks, suspiciously. Which, fair- Trucy only bakes under duress.

“It’s not polite to visit empty handed,” Trucy replies, turning the oven to preheat. “I don’t think luggage counts, since it belongs to Polly anyway.”

Daddy does sit up at that. “You’re going to see Apollo?”

“Yep!” Trucy calls out as she works the wet ingredients together. She measures the vanilla extract out with her heart, which is for the best- she’s not sure her Daddy has ever in his life owned a set of measuring spoons.

“…does he know that?”

“Nope!” Trucy hums, turning to sift through the dry ingredients next before combining. When she looks up, her Daddy is leaning against the doorway, looking at her the way he does when he’s got to tell her something she isn’t going to like- that he’s risking getting murdered in a foreign country or her real father was just beaten to death with a glass bottle.

“I don’t know how that’s going to go down, Truce,” he says gently, with those serious, worried eyes. “I… don’t know if he’s going to want to see you.”

“Oh, he won’t,” Trucy says confidently, moving over to grease the cookie sheet and distribute the dough evenly. “But that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?” Daddy asks, brow furrowing. “And how do you do that? They shouldn’t be perfect circles when they’re spoon drops.”

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” Trucy grins. That sort of is the trick, though- she’s trained herself to absolute steadiness and control doing sleight of hand; turns out perfectly aesthetic baking is a nice little side effect. “And the point is that Polly needs to know that I want to see him and that I’m going to keep trying.”

It’s totally fine if he shuts the door in her face! So… totally fine.

“I don’t like the idea of sending you off to that alone,” her Daddy says, and she leans down to pop the cookies in the oven.

“Good thing you won’t be,” she says, then. “We’re leaving in an hour, okay? I want the last batch to still be warm.”

“Trucy, Apollo’s definitely not going to want to see me.”

“Oh, I know that,” Trucy says, setting the timer. “You’re my emotional support Daddy! And you’ll be staying in the car till he does.”

“What if he never wants to see me?” her Daddy asks, not fighting it, which is not unexpected- but it’s still nice to see! He must still be feeling bad about the whole fake plastic family thing. Or maybe he just knows he better watch it when most of the people he cares about want to throw him into a lake.

Trucy shrugs. “Then you learn to love the driveway.”

~~

“Hello, Klavier!” Trucy sings out, slipping into the house through the tiny gap between his arm and the door frame. She knew practicing those trunk escapes would be handy for something. She’s in the living room with Polly’s suitcase before he even has the chance to invite her in- or not invite her in. No point in taking chances! It’s a nice room, a couple of big expensive pieces with much cheaper items sprinkled in. Makes it look like it’s a nice place people live instead of something out of a photoshoot. The red and purple pillows and neatly folded blanket are proof that Polly’s around here somewhere; Klavier is just not a couch-blanket kind of person.

“Frauline,” Klavier says cautiously. He glances out front at the driveway, and his eyes widen fractionally. He’s seen Daddy in the car, then. He looks back at Trucy and Trucy just smiles.

“Just you today?” He asks, not for her benefit. And that’s great- it means Klavier is willing to play ball. Well, she thought he might. That whole performance camaraderie thing. Plus Polly might be his favorite too, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t owe her a hell of a debt. She’s cashing in and he knows it.

“All by my lonesome!” she says brightly, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie. Somebody could magatama her right here and now, and she’d be free and clear. After all, Daddy’s outside- and he’ll be staying there for a good long while, too. Maybe forever, if he doesn’t clean up his act. Klavier must decide to agree with her, because he closes the door firmly. “I’ve brought Polly’s suitcase.”

“Thank you,” Klavier says, in that incredibly gentle, maddening voice he uses when he’s about to tell someone no to something they want very badly. It’s usually something she sees him use on Polly during evidence exchanges, and the condescension of it grates her brother red faced and raw. Trucy is used to being talked to like that, though, so she just flops down on the couch and stretches obnoxiously, telegraphing her intent to stay a while. He’s going to have to throw her out, and Klavier’s not the type. Things probably would have been a lot easier on him if he was, though.

“Today is not the best. He isn’t angry with you, he is just… not ready.”

Trucy blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Of course he’s angry with me,” she says coolly. “I’m a liar and a sneak.”

Klavier seems taken aback. Whoops! Trucy probably hasn’t been too Trucy-like around him, either. The cute little sister type is a lot more popular, demographically speaking.

“I was under the impression that you also were new to the information, ja? Did Wright tell you before?”

Trucy shakes her head. “Don’t be silly, Klavier. Daddy never tells anybody anything important, not even himself. My Pop-pop did.”

A long stretch of silence, then:

“...why are you telling me this, Frauline Trucy?”

“Oh, I’m not,” Trucy explains. “I’m telling Polly, you just happen to be in the same room. I know he can hear me and he should get to know the stuff he wants to know and not have to talk to me to get it.”

Klavier digests this, leaning back against the wall. Daddy does that too, but it’s ten billion times cooler looking when Klavier does it. He’s so hot, it’s unfair. Trucy’s a little sorry he doesn’t have a younger brother- although looking at the older one, maybe that’s for the best.

“Should I be your proxy for this?” Klavier asks. “It’s unorthodox. I’m an uninvolved third party.”

Trucy whistles the chorus to My Boyfriend is The Prosecution’s Witness and Klavier half smiles, eyes sliding away.

He clears his throat. “Magnifi, then.”

“He had cancer,” Trucy says. “You remember from the trial?”

“I am unlikely to forget even the smallest detail of that trial,” Klavier says dryly.

“You and me both,” Trucy says, voice dripping saccharine, and he does have the grace to flinch a little at that. Rude, to forget who he’s talking to, here. He’s lucky he’s so cute.

“Let’s see, a bag of meds took about thirty minutes to diffuse, and then about an hour after, someone had to look after him, just in case there were complications. When he was in the hospital, one of the nurses would do it, but a year is a long time. He was home for a lot of it on hospice care,” she explains.

“And Zak and Valant weren’t particularly fond of their mentor,” Klavier says, straightening. “It is difficult to blackmail a person into affection.”

Not impossible, though! Kristoph Gavin was super good at that. Half the reason Daddy caught him up in the first place was because in a lot of ways, he really liked the guy, so they hung out more than they probably had to. Kristoph was funny and generous and steady. You can get away with a lot, just sticking around for long enough.

Sure, Trucy never liked him, but Trucy knows people. They’d eyed each other across the room at the Borscht Bowl, her smiling and him wondering, for seven years. She really hadn’t seen the face of the person who gave her the fake diary page, but she didn’t need to. Kristoph had that same sort of plaintive smugness, like he knew something you didn’t and would give anything to make you have to ask; a need to be needed. Breaking stuff that tries to get free is real kid-at-the-playground stuff; like telling Pearls they’re not best friends anymore cause she didn’t want to play any more of Trucy’s stupid card games. Sometimes she wonders how she’d got him nailed at eight years old and there was Klavier, a full grown man, still totally clueless.

Trucy doesn’t say any of that, though, that would be mean. She’s trying to get on his good side; she needs every ally she can swing, and Polly seems to like him for more than just his face.

“Right, so that was me.” Trucy nods.

“They left an eight year old with a dying man to monitor his health condition?” Klavier frowns and takes a seat in the neutral colored armchair against the wall. It looks new; Ikea.

“Seven,” Trucy corrects. “And he was kind of a pain. I get them not wanting to deal with it. Not always! Sometimes he was in a good mood and it was sort of nice. That’s where I learned side slips and color changes- all the flashy card stuff. He called it parlor magic, useful for dinner parties and stuff.”

“And when he was in a bad mood?” Klavier prompts.

“I learned different stuff,” Trucy shrugs. “He’d forget what he wasn’t supposed to talk about.”

“Okay,” Polly says from the doorway to the back bedrooms, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s been there a couple of minutes; Trucy has been pretending not to notice. “What did he say about me?”

Trucy, given permission to look, does so. He’s tense all over, but his expression is resigned. You’re so annoying, it says. I better just give in. All according to plan, really. She’s a little sister, it’s okay if he hates her a little bit. She’s just glad to see him at all, his hair sort of soft and ungelled and wearing a borrowed dress shirt way too big for him. She loves his stupid face off.

“Not a lot, just that I had a brother out there somewhere.” She says loftily. His eyes narrow. “Do you want word for word?” She asks quickly, before he storms off. “Let’s see, I think it was…” Trucy springs to her feet, loosening Mr. Hat, whose hair and beard are painted white for this particular performance.

“You’ve got a lot of talent, my girl,” she says, in the gruff, drawn out growl of her dead grandfather, the puppet’s jaws clacking in time to her words. “Too bad you’ll never headline, being what you are! Still, better than some no name hack musician’s spawn. Don’t know what the Gramaryes would end up under your bastard of a half brother. He’s dead in some backwater hellhole of a country, or as good as, lucky for us. Be a sweet and get your Pop-pop a soda.”

She tucks Mr. Hat away again with a whirr of machinery and stands in the center of the room, arms outstretched. Ta-dah!

Polly covers his face with his hand and sags against the doorframe. “You always do this,” he mutters angrily. “You always act like the worst things in the world are some kind of a stupid punchline.”

“You asked,” Trucy says, feeling sulky and flopping back onto the couch.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He makes an aggravated grunt and stomps across the room, practically throwing himself onto the other end of the couch. They both glare out at separate corners of the walls.

Somewhere, a timer buzzes.

“Damn,” Polly says, starting to get up.

“I have it. Just take it out of the oven, ja?”

“Yeah,” Polly says, sinking back down into the cushion. “Thanks. Oh! What about-”

“Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth has messaged to say that something has come up and not to expect him this evening.” Klavier says smoothly. At her raised eyebrow, he smirks. “Just because he’s not taking Wright’s calls doesn’t mean he’s ignoring them, verstehe? Every time he throws out another message, the prosecutor’s office temperature drops by five degrees. We thought dinner might be a nice distraction. Probably he got distracted by something else.”

He does not look at Trucy during that last bit, and she realizes that the something probably caught him walking up the driveway. What a turnabout! Couldn’t have planned it better herself. Hopefully Daddy isn’t blowing it. But then again…

“What do you want, Trucy? Why are you here?” Polly rubs his temple, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees as Klavier steps out of the room.

“I want to see you,” she says promptly. “I missed you.”

“You were doing just fine without me,” he says irritably.

“I told Mommy to hit the road.”

“....what?” He straightens.

“I told her to go to hell,” Trucy says, enunciating each word.

“Just like that?”

“No. It was a little longer. Um… it was probably meaner, though,” Trucy admits without guilt.

“Why would you do that?” Polly looks confused. Trucy stares at him. “Oh no. No, no, you are not putting this on me, I am not making you cut her off-”

“Don’t be stupid, Polly, I don’t like her either.” Trucy rolls her eyes.

“You don’t,” Polly says slowly. He’s touching his bracelet. “Wait. You really don’t?”

“I just don’t care, Polly, that’s the truth. It sounded like fun, so I did that a while. Then it wasn’t fun anymore, so I stopped. That’s it, that’s all there is; it isn’t deep.” Trucy sighs.

“Sorry for ruining your fun, I guess,” Polly says, but without heat. “I don’t even know what to say to you, you know.”

Trucy gets to her feet and makes a sweeping gesture. “Whatever you want to. Give me a Q&A drill! Anything you want to know, Polly! I promise I’ll tell you. No more secrets.”

“That doesn’t work,” Polly scowls. “You rigged the deck. I don’t even know what I don’t know- I’m totally unprepared to even have questions to get answers to. You’re the only one with the bigger picture, you and your asshole dad. I’m just gonna get jerked around again like you always do. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ah,” Trucy says, smile still plastered on her face. “Okay… maybe later! I can head out for now.”

“No,” Polly snaps. “You can’t do that either because as soon as you do, I’ll quit being so mad and then I’ll feel guilty. Then the next time you try this shit I’ll have to be nice about it. You’re going to get what you want in the end anyway, you might as well stay for dinner. I made enough for three.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, either,” Trucy says, suddenly fierce. Her frustration burbles out before she can tamp it back down. “I don’t know what you already know or what’s stupid or what’s just a guess. I’ve been told to keep my mouth shut my whole life, Polly. I want you to know everything.”

“Fine,” Polly says, as Klavier walks back into the room. “Tell me the worst thing you know. Right now. Tell me the thing you think is going to piss me off the most. Then it’ll be all downhill from there. You can just tell me one a week till you run out or I can’t stand to look at you anymore.”

Klavier hovers awkwardly, not quite close enough to the door to slink back out unobtrusively, not quite committed to being in the room.

“Better stay,” Trucy tells him, sinking into the armchair this time. “Polly likes to have the support and if he has to tell you later, he’ll leave out all the details and make you guess the good stuff.” Polly makes a disgruntled sort of noise and Klavier walks over slowly, sitting next to Polly on the couch and leaving a few deliberate inches between them. That’s sweet.

“I’ll tell you something I don’t think anybody knows anymore except me,” Trucy says. “They’re dead or they forgot. And you’ll hate it a lot.”

“Excellent, fantastic. I love Fridays,” Polly exhales hard through his nose. “Hit me.”

“Can I see your bracelet?”

“Trucy…”

“Please? I’m not changing the subject, honest.” She brings her hands together in a pleading gesture. Polly rolls his eyes, then reaches down to undo the clasp and toss it at her. She slips it on. It sits a little higher on her, since her arm is slimmer. “Lie to me?”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Polly says flatly. “I’m not mad at you. Everything is going to be just fine.”

The metal seems to shiver against her arm, writhing and alive. Wow, that is super weird. She tries not to think about the words so much as she takes it off and hands it back.

“Did you ever wonder why I never got one?” She asks. “She had two kids and two bracelets.”

Polly looks thoughtful. “No,” he admits after a bit. “I didn’t really put much thought into it. I guess that is weird. Maybe she was waiting till you were older?”

Trucy shakes her head. “Probably they would have kept it for me if she was really dead. That might have been a hint, actually, thinking now. No, there was another reason that she kept the other one. That’s the first clue.”

“You said you’d tell me,” Polly glares.

“If I tell you, you won’t believe me. Let me give you the facts first, okay?” Trucy pleads. “I promise I’ll tell you if you need me to, but I don’t think you will. You’re gonna be mad enough at the end and I really want to eat your lasagna. I can smell it from here.” It’s not a lie; she bets Polly made garlic bread and everything.

Polly’s mouth twitches at the corner like he’s considering a smile, though he smothers it right afterward. “Okay,” he says. “The bracelet is the first clue. What’s the second?”

“The Gramaryes were more than just some magic troop, Polly. Before Pop-pop died and the estate fell apart, they were worth millions. They had money and resources to do basically anything they wanted, and that included getting information.”

“Got it,” Polly nods. “They were all powerful and all knowing.” Beside him, Klavier closes his eyes, looking frustrated. He gets it! Polly’s not there just yet. He needs one more clue…

“The last one is what Pop-pop told me. Do you remember?”

“When he was insulting you?” Polly asks, brows knit in irritated confusion. She nods, encouragingly. “You’ll never headline,” he repeats from memory.

“I felt sorry for my first Daddy,” Trucy says a bit dreamily. “He bet his whole life on that poker game against Pop-pop and lost. Pop-pop needed a boy. Zak Enigmar didn’t want to do magic or marry into the family. He got used to the idea, a little, but he never liked it. I think he was holding out on having the world’s best poker player for a kid instead. But then he had me.” Trucy shrugs.

“Why couldn’t you be the world’s best poker player?” Polly asks warily.

“Because I’m a girl,” Trucy says patiently. “And there’s only two types of women, Polly. Neither of them get to play poker.”

Polly frowns, not liking the sound of that somehow but too caught up in the puzzle to press right now. He crosses his left arm over his right and slumps against the couch, bringing up one finger up to his forehead like he always does when he’s thinking something over.

“Only I got a bracelet,” he says slowly. “The Gramaryes had money and access to information. Only a boy could inherit.” He stiffens, then jumps to his feet.

“No fucking way!” he yells, at full Chords of Steel volume. Klavier winces, but Trucy’s used to it.

“I was two when she went away,” she says calmly. “You were nine when you got left in the States. Do the math, Polly.” Polly paces the room and looks ready to kick a hole in the wall. “Did you really think they didn’t look for you? Did you really think she didn’t want you? You were all she wanted. She was coming to get you.”

“Stop talking,” Polly orders. “I’m already at my limit. Jesus Christ. Save it for next week, or I’m going to have an aneurysm.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Klavier says, offhandedly.

“Great,” Trucy says brightly. “I brought cookies.”

~~

“How did it go?” Daddy asks when she gets back into the car. He looks wistful and distant and sad, and there’s a faint trace of smoke and an empty bottle of wine tucked into the side door, so she already knows how it went with Mr. Edgeworth.

Trucy turns the key in the ignition and drives, the first sob shaking her shoulders by the first stop sign. She cries like it’s killing her, and it is, maybe. She shouldn’t be driving like this probably, but her Daddy doesn’t make her stop so she inches the car back home in hysterics. It was bad, it was bad it was oh so terribly bad, but it’s over except there next week she’ll be back, ready to claw her way further into Polly’s good graces with her teeth and nails and she’s going to have to tell him about the Ace. She’s going to have to tell him how her Daddy was going to go to jail for murder and how Mr. Gus at the Borscht Bowl always liked her so he let her sneak into the crime scene the night Daddy was arrested, to look for a pretend missing earring, and how she looked over the place and the hands on the table and knew exactly what happened and what she needed to do.

And then, afterward, Daddy had said I love you to bits, babygirl, but don’t ever do that again and he’d been nursing a shiner where Polly decked him for her mistake. And he just took it. He let Polly hate him for that because it was better than Polly hating her, because she’s his sister and Phoenix Wright is just some asshole.

Why? she had asked then, all innocence to cover up how mad she was. Did you have someone else lined up to take me?

And she had known, from his tells, that he had. He was gonna make Mr. Edgeworth take her in and love her instead, and he was going to go to jail if he had to. Because he might be better than her first Daddy in every way, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to cut and run too.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she sobs, furious. “Polly doesn’t either. I don’t care what I have to do.”

“I’m so sorry, oh god, I’m so sorry,” Daddy murmurs again and again in absolute horror, hands outstretched but falling short, afraid to touch her.

Trucy draws a ragged breath and leans back against the headrest. She counts to three, like she does backstage before walking into the spotlight.

“Don’t do that,” Daddy says softly. “Don’t turn it off like that.”

What the hell does he know about it? They’re all liars, every one of them.

When Trucy opens her eyes, she’s calm. He does touch her then, pulling her into his arms fiercely and hugging her tight. She placidly lets him, even though the emergency brake is digging into her side. She thinks he needs it.

It’s alright. She’s fine, she can do this. Trucy will keep going back and saying terrible things to the best person she knows, and she’ll watch him take them in, one at a time. Polly will have to stop and think about each one, and what it says about her that she did that, knew that, all along. And then he’ll choose to love her anyway. That’s just the kind of person Polly is. Every time it’ll have to be a conscious, deliberate choice, because love isn’t automatic, it’s earned. She’s been left at the side of the road too often; twisted herself into little boxes that she opens one at a time, carefully, to whoever in the audience might like that part best. Trucy can’t be loved for herself; she doesn’t even know who she is. She’s got to live with the fact that love is always going to be a fight. Trucy wonders how anybody can stand it.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Daddy promises, and she doesn’t even care if it’s true.

Chapter Text

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Phoenix says from where he’s leaning against the hood of Trucy’s car in the driveway as Edgeworth raises his hand, poised to knock on the door to Klavier’s condo. Edgeworth jumps about three feet in the air, whirling around- one hand clutching the bottle of wine in his white knuckled fist like a talisman, the other on his chest, over his racing heart.

Cute.

Phoenix exhales the smoke from his cigarette, letting it curl out into the night, looking up overhead at the smattering of stars. “Trucy’s just gone in,” he adds. “They’re libel to be emoting all over the place. Better to send a text and say something’s come up.”

“What the devil are you doing here?” Edgeworth demands. “Besides attempting murder via shock induced heart failure.”

“No court would convict me,” Phoenix says lightly. “And I’m, uh. Grounded. I think.”

“Most fathers would not permit their children to put them on restriction,” Edgeworth says. He hasn’t moved yet, either towards or away from Phoenix, and Phoenix has to hide the curve of his smile behind his hand as he takes another drag. Hooked.

“Yeah, well. Most fathers probably aren’t total shit at the job. If Trucy wants me to sit out here while she’s in there, I’m fine with it.”

“I see.” Edgeworth sighs. He pulls out his phone and sends off a quick message, but then he lingers instead of heading back down the street where his car is parked. “And are you permitted visitors during your restriction period?”

“That depends,” Phoenix says, raising an eyebrow like he isn’t two seconds from throwing himself on the ground and begging. “You gonna share?”

Edgeworth glances down at the bottle in his hand and laughs a little ruefully. “It’s a cork. If you can manage to open it out here, you can have the whole bottle.”

Phoenix puts out the cigarette carefully, tucking the end into his portable ashtray, clicking it closed and putting it away. Then he walks over and opens the driver side door, gesturing grandly. Edgeworth slides into the seat. Phoenix goes around to sit in the passenger side; when he closes the door, Edgeworth offers Phoenix the wine. Edgeworth watches with mild interest as Phoenix takes out his lighter, heating the neck of the bottle with a steady hand until a soft pop dislodges the cork. Phoenix works it free, then takes a swig. It leaves a cottony sort of coating on his tongue that he doesn’t love- probably means it’s expensive. He takes a second drink then hands it over to Edgeworth.

“Impressive,” Edgeworth murmurs. Then, squaring himself, he raises the bottle and takes a deep pull. He’s clearly not used to drinking straight from a bottle; a little trickle of red drips at the corner of his mouth and Phoenix wants to lick it. Instead, he looks away as though disinterested.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Edgeworth says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. So sloppy, for him. He must be feeling bad if he’s sinking to Phoenix’s level. Phoenix can use that.

“I don’t,” Phoenix says. “Or, I guess, I smoke like most people drink. I don’t think I’ve ever finished a pack.” The pack he’s got is more than half gone now already, though. What can he say? It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks. They pass the bottle back and forth another round.

“How have you been?” Edgeworth asks.

“Oh, you know. I’ve been worse! But, uh. Not great. You?” Phoenix glances at him, but Edgeworth is just turning the bottle around in his hands.

“Yes,” Edgeworth sighs. “That sums it up, I suppose.”

Phoenix watches those long fingers tug at the edge of the label until a corner peels away. Edgeworth always does fidget like that when he’s feeling uncertain about a social situation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take your calls,” Edgeworth says abruptly.

“I’m sorry I called so much,” Phoenix replies easily. “It must have put you on edge.”

“A little,” Edgeworth admits. “I assumed you were attempting a last ditch effort to plead your case.”

“Oh, no. Not after the third time anyway,” Phoenix says, only half joking. “I guess I got a little desperate. I know you said you wanted to still be friends, but I started worrying you just said that to get me out of your house.”

“I am always going to want you in my life,” Edgeworth says softly. And what does Phoenix even say to that?

“Do you know what I wanted to tell you?” Phoenix asks after a few more drinks. Edgeworth gives him full attention. He’s looking a little pink cheeked. He’s a terrible lightweight, and always so pliant and easily led when he’s had a few. He misses Phoenix; he loves Phoenix. Trucy’s right; he’s not going to just up and quit because Phoenix is kind of a dick. He can do this. He can turn this about, he can absolutely win.

“You were right,” Phoenix tells him. “I was punishing you.”

Edgeworth lets out a long, low sigh. He leans his head back against the drivers seat, eyes closed. “Yes,” he says. “I suspected as much. I had thought it would be less painful to be confirmed… not moreso.”

“Sorry,” Phoenix says earnestly. “I just thought I should tell you. You should know, if we’re going to… be friends.”

“Alright,” Edgeworth murmurs.

“I know I said I got over it, but I guess I never did. Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death. It was shitty and dramatic, yeah- but I’ll tell you what I think. I think I would have been furious anyway. I think if you came to me and said you were leaving, I would have been just as big a prick about it. It’s just that you did it in such a fucked up way, I felt… justified, you know? I could be awful to you about it because you hurt me.”

“What is the solution, then?” Edgeworth asks wearily. “Will you continue to resent me so long as we are acquainted in any capacity? I don’t want that.”

“No,” Phoenix says firmly. “I think I was testing you. I think I wanted to see how much you’d take before you up and left again.”

“Congratulations,” Edgeworth says bitterly, taking another swig and then shoving the bottle at Phoenix roughly. “You found the threshold.”

“That’s the thing,” Phoenix says, drinking a little himself. Maybe the wine is hitting harder than he’d like to admit- he spills a little and it drips down his throat to his shirt collar. Edgeworth stares, forgetting he’s not supposed to. Phoenix lets himself grin a little. “I totally lost. You didn’t. You didn’t up and take off, you didn’t pretend I was dead or as good as. You didn’t leave, Miles. You just left me.”

“I didn’t want to,” Edgeworth says, voice thick. Is he going to cry? That makes Phoenix feel bad, but it does mean he might have the chance to comfort him. That might be romantic, in the right light.

“It’s alright,” Phoenix assures him. “I was pushing you out the door- or maybe I was heading out myself. Doesn’t matter. Point is, I hate that you seem to think you just don’t get to be happy and fulfilled in love because I’m a piece of shit. You’re thirty six. That’s so young. I know you don’t think so, we’ve managed to live a lot of life in that time, but… it is. You can do anything. You can be happy, you know? I want you to be happy.”

With me, Phoenix doesn’t say. Not yet. A little more…

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Edgeworth murmurs. “I’ve loved you so long I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to think of anyone else.”

Bingo.

Phoenix leans back in his seat, tilting his face up so the moonlight hits him just so and gives Edgeworth a warm smile. “C’mon. There’s nothing you think about? Nothing you’d like? In a perfect world.” His voice is teasing; Edgeworth will say something embarrassing and sweet and that’ll be it. Phoenix had always thought of their mutual feelings as a soap bubble, floating and impermanent. If he’d have known making out in a car was on the table, maybe he’d have been motivated to get his shit together a little quicker. There’s no mistaking the signs, now. Phoenix wonders how he missed it before.

Edgeworth looks away, flustered. “I’d like to think I could meet someone kind,” he says.

Kind.

Kind.

The word drops into the air like a hundred pound weight on his chest.

“That’s not very specific,” Phoenix says, mouth suddenly dry.

“Funny, isn’t it? I’ve tried to be less abstract, but there it is. I suppose it makes me the worst kind of cliche. It’s such a terribly common answer for a boy who lost his father too young.” Edgeworth drinks, and looks out the window, and smiles his tremulous little smile and Phoenix feels the blood drain from his face.

Because! Because.

Because Phoenix used to be kind. Once upon a time, it was his defining trait. No matter how uncharitable and judgmental and downright shitty his thoughts might turn, his actions were kind. He wanted to help, just wanted to help, even when he didn’t like the person all that much, one way or another. And at some point he just… forgot.

It’s not like Phoenix can’t be kind. He can! Absolutely. It’s just an effort now. He has to make the conscious choice to be kind, every time. It is a deliberate action; it’s not who he is anymore. Once he would go out of his way to help a stranger in the street; now he’s sitting in the car with the man Phoenix loves more than almost anything, coolly calculating how to trick him into doing something that’ll make him unhappy. He wants to force this person he treasures into staying in love with someone who doesn’t deserve it.

He… doesn’t deserve Miles anymore.

And one day, sometime soon, someone is going to see that. Someone is going to do something so thoughtlessly kind for Miles that whatever small part of him is hung up on the person Phoenix used to be is going to crumble away. And Phoenix is going to lose him.

Phoenix blinks rapidly, hiding his face behind the bottle as he takes a small sip, pretending it’s a bigger one. It hurts like a physical pang, because…

Because he could lean across right now and kiss him. They could make all kinds of promises, and have one Really Good Night, and then afterward, Miles will hate himself. He feels worthless and unlovable because Phoenix treated him that way, and playing on how soft and sad he looks right now is just more proof that being with Phoenix is bad for him.

Phoenix does want Miles to be happy and fulfilled and in love, and he’s right. He’s not going to find that with Phoenix. Phoenix isn’t that person anymore.

“It’s gonna happen, Miles,” Phoenix says, meaning every word. “You’re gonna find that. You deserve someone kind.”

Miles smiles, a dazzling dagger to the heart.

~~

Trucy cries the whole drive home.

~~

What now? What does he do? It’s not like waking up one day and deciding to not be a piece of shit ever made anyone less of a piece of shit. How does he stop making bad choices when they’re always the first choice? How does Phoenix stop thinking the worst of everyone when it’s all he’s ever come to expect?

Weirdly enough, Miles helps.

They talk more, now that Miles is convinced that Phoenix is going to behave, and Phoenix is able to behave because he’s come to terms with it. In a weird, self-effacing way, letting Miles go makes him more Phoenix’s than he ever was before. Phoenix has changed the landscape of Miles’ entire life, allowing Miles to make his own choices, and so to find his own happiness, is as much an indulgence as a self-punishment. Phoenix doesn’t know what he’s going to do when Miles moves on to someone else. Cry. Suffer. Live with it.

“I’m so fucking bad at this,” Phoenix sniffles into the phone after yet another visit to Apollo’s, after he’s locked himself into the bathroom to call Miles while Trucy retreats to her own space, still sobbing but wanting to be alone.

“Of course you are,” Miles says, bemused. “You’re unused to the role.”

“What’s that mean?” Phoenix asks, blowing his nose noisily.

“Can’t you cover the phone when you do that?” Miles sighs, but it’s fond. “Historically, you’ve been the magnanimous victim of various injury. You’ve never had to make amends for something too significant for mere apology.”

“You’re good at it,” Phoenix admits grudgingly. “It’s why I called you.”

“Yes, well.” Miles sounds a little pleased at that. “I’ve had more to make up for than most.”

“How do you just… not be an asshole? Like before, when you thought that everyone was just a criminal walking around, deserving of death. How did that stop?”

“It took a year,” Miles reminds him gently. “And I cut off everyone who ever cared for me. I would not suggest my particular method.”

It surprises a laugh out of Phoenix. “Wow, I really was a dick when you were going through it. I’m sorry, you know? I’m really glad I have you as a friend.”

“You meant that,” Miles says, a little amazed.

“Uh… yeah? I don’t go around lying to you,” Phoenix says, confused.

“Nevermind,” Miles says. “I think the fact that you’re even thinking this kind of thing is extremely encouraging. You’re genuinely considering the results of your actions or inaction, as it were. Sincerity is a very attractive quality.”

“Yeah, well. All the good intentions in the world aren’t gonna matter if I can’t keep from doing it again.” Phoenix says darkly.

“You can’t do that,” Miles warns. “You can’t go into every interaction expecting to hurt the other person. Being hurt is part of the human condition; it’s impossible to have a meaningful connection without risking as much. What is important is to recognize when you are being hurtful, and to take responsibility, and to try to minimize the damage. I know that you do not feel as though you are capable of that level of self reflection, but I assure you that you are. You have been, and you will be again.”

“Give me a piece of advice,” Phoenix begs. “Just one. Pretend you’re talking to yourself, back then. What would you say?”

Miles considers for a moment. “Don’t shut people out,” he says firmly.

~~

“Hey,” Phoenix says when Maya picks up the phone.

“Hey yourself,” she says brightly. “What’s shaking? Need a friendly ear? Help on a case? A little channel-a-roonie?”

“I thought I’d come up and visit next weekend, if you’re not too busy.”

“Is everything okay?” Maya asks, dropping the levity. “You can come now if there’s something going on, you know. Any time.”

Phoenix smiles into the receiver. “Thanks,” he says warmly. To be honest, part of him wasn’t sure, and that’s not fair. Just because he’s been a jerk, it doesn’t undo the parts of him that cares about her, and Maya’s nothing if she isn’t loyal. “But, uh… I just kind of wanted to hang out. Trucy’s got a weekend gig in San Fran, and she doesn’t want me tagging along. And the office is in a lull, so…”

“You just want to hang out,” Maya repeats dubiously. Phoenix winces. There’s silence while she turns this over. “Hey,” she says again. “How are you? Seriously.”

“I don’t know. Bad? But also better, maybe. Not sure yet, I’m working through some stuff.”

“Is that why you want to come up?” Maya asks, sympathetically.

“No,” Phoenix says. “I mean, maybe we’ll talk about it, maybe we won’t, but… I just wanted to see you. I like being around you. You’re one of my favorite people, you know that? Maybe I don’t say that enough. Anyway, you’re always coming down here to play or work or when somebody’s in crisis. I figure heading up that way every now and then is nice.”

“They’re gonna make you clean the gutters,” Maya warns. “We’ve got a serious shortage of young able bodied men we don’t have to hire out, and they won’t let me on the roof anymore.”

“Oof. Alright, I guess. Whatever I have to do to keep you from breaking your Mystical little neck,” Phoenix agrees. “Want me to bring anything?”

“Just you,” Maya says.

“....no burgers?”

“... and burgers,” she amends.

~~

Phoenix goes, and gets fussed over for being such a nice looking, helpful young man which is not something he hears a whole lot of in his late thirties, so he enjoys it while he can. He’s running around doing manly chores for a bit, and while he’s pretty sure a matriarchal place like this doesn’t put much stock into male physical supremacy, he doesn’t mind getting bossed around a little bit if it helps the place out. He owes Kurain a lot; they gave him Maya and Mia, after all.

“This has been really nice, Nick. Really, really nice. We ought to do it more often,” Maya says, stretched out on the roof with its newly pristine gutters next to Phoenix, so they can look up at the sky after dinner. She’s not supposed to be up here; they’d had to sneak her up through a back window.

“It was nice, wasn’t it?” Phoenix asks, pleased. His back is throbbing, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance that Maya will have to physically come drag him out of the bed tomorrow morning, but he’s full of burgers and beer and he’s done something useful and he’s just feeling good and out of his head.

“Yeah,” Maya agrees. “So why don’t you tell me what’s bugging you? Might as well, while you’re here.”

“I don’t want you to think I only call you when I need something,’ Phoenix sighs.

Maya snorts inelegantly. “Nick, you have literally never done that.”

“I called you after Edgeworth dumped me,” he reminds her.

“Sure, and you tried to buy me burgers and completely talked around the issue all night. I might have been sloshed, but don’t think I didn’t catch that. You wanted company, but you didn’t actually want support. You’re weirdly independent, for such a social guy.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says, turning this over. “You think so? I guess I always thought I was kind of needy.”

“Maybe you’re overcompensating? Like you feel the impulse to need things and so you just drive it off with a broom so you won’t be annoying. You could stand to be more annoying, Nick, is what I’m saying.”

“I think I should talk to Iris,” Phoenix says, voicing what he’s been thinking for a while.

“Ohhh…kay.” Maya draws the word out. Phoenix covers his face. “No, I’m not judging. Not yet, anyway- walk me through it. It’s been a long time.”

“You made that crack about her still sitting by the phone or whatever, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Not about her, as like… a person. Just, all the not-great stuff I do to people. So I want to talk to her, but also, like… do I? And would it even be helpful? Would I just be apologizing to make myself feel better? That’s shitty, too.”

Maya sits up, grabbing his hand and pulls it away from his face. “Jesus. What happened to you? Did you have a near death experience or something?”

“I’m being heartfelt, here,” Phoenix pouts.

“I know, that’s why it’s weird. Alright, we’ll go tomorrow. I was already going to ditch my dumb adult stuff to goof off with you, just now we’ll spend eight of those hours hanging out on the bus.”

Phoenix sits up. “You want to come with me?”

“You need the moral support. And anyway, she’s my cousin, technically. Maybe she can use the moral support too.” Maya gives him a light punch in the arm.

~~

Maya does, in fact, have to drag him out of bed, but the resulting thud to the ground jars his spine back in place enough that he can hobble over to the baths. That’s one thing the place has got that the city doesn’t; fantastic hot springs, cold springs, and medicinal pools. By the time they catch the 118 to Hazakura, he can actually touch his toes again. They head off on what Maya has somehow convinced the elders is totally a spiritual pilgrimage, you guys and not just her playing hooky. Practically the whole village turns up to see them off; there’s some kind of a speech and Pearls lays flower crowns on both their heads with great ceremony while the bus driver waits with a flat, unimpressed expression.

“You know we’re just going to see your sister, right?” Phoenix asks, to be sure. “We’ll be back later tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. I just like making these,” Pearls beams. “Send her my love!”

They’re given an enormous bento filled with onigiri, fried chicken, and cold side dishes of different vegetables to tide them over during the ride, and someone throws sacred rice over them as they board. They take the back long bench on the mostly-empty bus, waving out the window till Kurain disappears from sight. Then they busy themselves setting up a picnic feast. Phoenix dives in with enthusiasm; city vegetables are twice as pricy and go bad three times as fast. Not to mention he’s always been a half hearted cook at best.

“Dunno why you always want burgers when you eat like this at home,” he says around a mouthful of spicy chili oil bamboo.

“Because I eat like this at home, you goof. People always want what they can’t get without some trouble,” Maya says sagely around a piece of shrimp tempura. “It’s human nature.”

“You always get philosophical over food,” Phoenix shakes his head.

“Well it’s not like you let me psychoanalyze anything else,” Maya rolls her eyes.

“Do you want to?” Phoenix asks.

“Hm?”

“We’ve got, what, three hours? left. We’re not going anywhere. I can’t get you drunk or dodge your questions.” Phoenix gestures broadly with his chopsticks.

“What’s the catch?” Maya asks suspiciously as she finishes clearing the trash away.

“No catch. I figure it’s good practice, and if I owe anybody honesty it’s you.”

“Alright. Why Iris? Back then, I mean.” Maya crosses her arms over her chest. “You didn’t have any plans to make that a long term thing, did you?”

“No,” Phoenix admits. “I was fascinated with her, you know? I spent years convincing myself I was insane for thinking she even liked me, and then it was true the whole time? I thought I was the absolute worst judge of people, but Iris was exactly who I thought I was dating. It was like I found out I was gaslighting myself. Like, what a relief.”

“But you didn’t want to date her,” Maya checks.

“No,” Phoenix sighs. “I wanted to punish her.”

Maya blinks at him. Phoenix looks out the window.

“She was gonna kill me, Maya.” He says quietly. “She said she wouldn’t have let Dahlia do it, but if I hadn’t met Doug Swallow, I would have taken those pills and I would have died. And you can say, hey, she didn’t know, but she knew Dahlia wanted to, and she just let me walk around like an idiot, ready to be murdered at the earliest convenience. And even if she found some way to keep Dahlia from killing me directly, when I got arrested for Doug Swallow’s murder, she let it happen. She let Dahlia testify. She was gonna let them execute me for killing someone, knowing the whole time Dahlia did it. And she loved me. There’s no way I was ever going to look past something like that.”

“Nick…” Maya sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. Ugh. What a thing to say out loud, you know? I never thought about it like cheating because I didn’t love her anymore. I just loved being right, and having control. For once in my life, I was calling the shots. He was overseas and she was behind glass, what did it matter what I did? Miles and Iris, they had to listen to me.”

“What was the plan?”

“I don’t know. Miles found out and then I got disbarred. Everything kind of fell apart at once. I never head into anything with a plan, not even imploding.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the rolling countryside. It’s pretty. “I’m not really a good person. I don’t think I ever was.”

“Shut up,” Maya snaps. He’s startled into looking at her, blinking the tears out of his eyes. “You shut your stupid face up.”

“H-Huh?”

“You saved my life, Nick. And I’m not even talking about defending me from murder charges twice-”

“Three times,” Phoenix corrects absently.

“Whatever! I mean that when Mia died, I lost everything. I had to be the Master of Kurain because Mia wanted to be a lawyer. I did it for her. Wanting to channel, living a life of pious seclusion… I hated it. I wanted to do normal girl things, but I didn’t even know what that looked like. You didn’t just help me in court, you were my support, my family, my everything for the longest time. In some ways you’re always going to be that for me, Nick. You taught me how to be normal, my own personal, weird, wonderful normal. Saying that you’re awful, it’s a cop out- and an insult to everyone who still cares about you, even when you do some really fuck shit. You’ve got the capacity for so much good still. You’re one of the best people I know, even now. You’ve got to see that too, or you’re never going to get better.” Maya scrubs impatiently at her eyes with her sleeve and Phoenix takes her hand. She lets him tug her in and throw an arm around her shoulders.

“I love you a lot,” Phoenix says into her hair.

“I love you too,” she says grumpily. “Jerk.”

~~

“Ready?” Maya asks outside Hazakura temple a couple hours later. A small nap has hit the reset button, and they’re both looking no worse for wear after a four hour trip. Considering some of the things they’ve been through, an impromptu day trip via public transportation is absolutely nothing, anyway.

“Not even a little,” Phoenix says, grinning. Maya pinches his cheek and he swats her away, good naturedly.

“I can’t believe I’m going to witness you getting closure for something first hand. I feel like we should have a cake or something ready. Red beans and rice. Fireworks.”

“Please do not set off congrats on actually breaking up with your ex for once fireworks, please.” Phoenix requests.

“Did you tell Edgeworth you were doing this?” Maya asks casually.

“Huh? No, why would I?” Phoenix asks, confused.

“No reason,” Maya says with a grin. “C’mon.” And the two of them head inside.

Chapter Text

Apollo goes to take out the trash while Klavier and Trucy look over paint swatches for the guest rooms Apollo has managed to more or less clear of debris about two months after he’s invited himself to Klaviers and just… not left. It’s going okay, so long as he doesn’t think about it too hard. He glances across the driveway as he drops the bag into the can and makes eye contact with Phoenix Wright.

“Uh,” Apollo says, too confused to be angry.

“Don’t mind me,” Phoenix says, blocking his face with one hand where he sits in Trucy’s passenger seat with the window down. “I’m actually not here to harass you.”

“Okay,” Apollo says, pretending that any of this makes sense. “Then why are you here?”

Phoenix shrugs, dropping his hand. “I’m Trucy’s emotional support.”

“So… what, you just come along and sit in the car? The whole time? And she tells you all about it on the drive back?” Ah, there’s the anger. A little late, but you know. He never knows what he’s feeling around this guy for the first couple of minutes anyway.

“Mostly she just cries,” Phoenix says helpfully. “Not because of you,” he adds hastily when he sees Apollo’s stricken expression. “She just feels bad about a lot of things lately. I, uh, get that. And I really don’t mind being out here if it makes her feel better. Gives me a chance to sit in the corner and think about what I’ve done.”

“Be serious,” Apollo snaps.

“I am,” Phoenix says without smiling. “There was also the off chance that you’d want to see me. I didn’t know you didn’t know I was even out here. That makes it, uh. Weirder.”

“No, I didn’t know! Trucy stayed for five hours the first time. What if you needed to pee?” Phoenix glances at the rhododendrons along the front gate. “Nevermind, don’t answer that,” Apollo sighs. “Unlock the car door.”

Phoenix does; Apollo gets in.

Sitting in a car is always such a strange, self contained space. It’s like a tiny world, where the temperature is just a little different, the sounds just a little more amplified. He’d wanted to punch Phoenix in the face (again), but turns out he probably shouldn’t have done it the first time. He’ll wait and see if Phoenix earns one himself, this go round.

The stuff Trucy’s told him, the past couple weeks... Couldn’t make this shit up if he tried. Telenovela level, complete absurdity. He might as well hear Phoenix out; can’t be worse than your mom was coming to save you from foster care and make you the Prince of Magic before she got shot in the face and forgot to. Or any of the other stuff.

“I can’t believe she made you dump your girlfriend and now you’re grounded,” Apollo says finally in disbelief.

Phoenix sighs. “That kid loves the hell out of you. I think you might be the only person in the world who never really let her down. And I had no business dating Thalassa. I think that might have been the stupidest thing I have done in a long list of stupid things I’ve done.”

“Yeah, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth seems pretty done,” Apollo agrees, ignoring the sudden unhappy squeeze on his wrist. “He didn’t say anything, before you try and weasel it out of me,” he adds. “He just doesn’t talk about you anymore. Klavier said he used to bring you up all the time.”

“That sucks,” Phoenix says with feeling. “Ugh. But also I wasn’t talking about Miles, I’ve been screwing that up for a good long time before all this. I meant with you.”

“Me,” Apollo echoes doubtfully.

*Do you know,” Phoenix says thoughtfully to the side view mirror, “I think you’re the person I have the most complicated feelings about in the world?”

Apollo stares.

“It’s weird,” Phoenix agrees, fiddling with some small crinkly thing as he talks. “Usually I feel good about someone, so I like them, or I feel not great about someone so I don’t. I’m a pretty simple guy.”

“I’m confused,” Apollo says flatly.

“I care about you, Apollo. I’m proud of you and impressed by you. I think you might be the most genuine guy I have ever met; you are exactly what’s on the tin, for better or for worse. I also like you as a person. You’re smart and easy to talk to, and you know more about the law than I do. I’m pretty sure you’re a better lawyer than me.”

Apollo touches his bracelet, completely bewildered when it doesn’t react.

“But I feel like hell around you,” Phoenix confesses. “I don’t think anyone has ever made me feel this bad who wasn’t doing it on purpose. You saw me at my absolute worst, and you are, in a lot of ways, everything I should have been and failed at. I don’t always know how to handle it.”

“So you’re shitty to me,” Apollo says slowly.

“So I’m shitty to you,” Phoenix agrees.

“Could you maybe… stop?” Apollo runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “God, you think I don’t want to like you? You’re a really hard person not to like. I want you to like me too, and to be nice to me, especially if Trucy’s… you know? I get that it’s not that simple, but-”

“It is that simple,” Phoenix interrupts. “I’m shitty to you and it has to stop. It’s not your fault, you don’t deserve it, and it’s done. Whatever steps are in the middle here- therapy, probably, self affirmation journaling, vision boards, whatever, that’s on me. It’s not your responsibility and it’s not your problem. I want to tell you that if you do end up letting me back in your life at some point, professionally or personally or peripherally, it will.”

“And I’m sorry. I am genuinely sorry, not because of Trucy or anybody else, cause believe me, I am sorry about that stuff separately. I want to apologize to you, Apollo. You’re important to me and I hurt you. I should never have let anyone put me in a position to keep secrets from you, and I regret it.”

Apollo stares straight ahead out the windshield; next to him, Phoenix does the same. They’re similar in this, neither of them super great at being open about themselves. They’re both, also, maybe crying a little.

“I don’t know what to say,” Apollo says finally. “That’s… a lot better than I was expecting.”

“I mean it’s an apology. You don’t have to do or say anything, it just exists.” The crinkling noise catches Apollo’s attention again.

“What is that?” he asks, looking down at Phoenix’s hands. He holds up a pack of cigarettes, mostly empty. “I didn’t think you smoked,” he says, surprised.

“I don’t,” Phoenix says. “Or I didn’t. I used to smoke at the Borscht Bowl, it was the only time you could step out for a break.” He hands the pack over and Apollo examines it like it’s a clue, like he’ll find evidence that Phoenix is innocent, or decent, or someone Apollo wants to know still. It is, in the end, just a pack of cigarettes, down to the very last one. He puts it down in the center console.

“I told myself it was alright, so long as I never finished a pack,” Phoenix explains. “It meant it wasn’t a problem.”

“But you get right up to the edge, huh?” Apollo asks, throat tight. “You only leave the absolute minimum to keep from finishing it altogether.”

“I guess so,” Phoenix says sadly. “I don’t want to smoke this and I haven’t been able to throw it away, either. I’ve just been carrying it around with me for weeks. I don’t know.” He looks at Apollo, the way Apollo absolutely hates, the way he first did after the MASON trial, all big earnest eyes and an affectionate smile. It’s the kind of look that says Apollo means something, that Phoenix gives a fuck. It’s not fair.

“I would have helped you,” Apollo says, and his voice breaks a little. “You know that? I would have helped you after Kristoph got arrested, if you told me everything right then. You didn’t have to trick me into it, drag me in one case or one clue at a time. I looked up to you; I would have helped you clear your name, I would have kept my mouth shut. If I knew Trucy was my sister, I would have called more. I would have come back to visit, I would have tried harder. Why don’t either of you ever let me?”

Phoenix bows his head and listens. The only thing that gives away how tense and unhappy he is the way he runs his thumb across his fingernails in his lap, like he wants to tear something to pieces. Of course Apollo notices; Apollo notices everything that doesn’t matter too late to make a difference, after the murder is over and the damage is done.

“You’re gonna hate hearing it,” Phoenix says in a low, choked up voice. “But it’s because you’re a good kid- a good person. Half the stuff I did for MASON was underhanded; it would never fly in a real court, but I shoved it through because I wanted to clear my name. I hated that you looked up to me, and at the same time I needed it. Getting Vera off for her father’s murder was always just a side effect. I wasn’t planning for Drew Mischam to die, I just used it, the same way I used people even before I got disbarred, just to an extreme. I didn’t want to have to explain all that to someone good like you.”

“I can’t speak for Trucy, but if I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t want to blackmail you into loving her more. If you called once a month and Skyped for Christmas, that was as much love as you wanted to give her for being her. If you knew and you did more, it would be fake. And if you knew and did the same or less, it would have broken her.”

“Oh, okay, I’m so great,” Apollo says angrily, dashing the tears away impatiently. “Way too good for your stupid little family, that just fixes everything. I feel so much better now.”

“I’m sorry,” Phoenix says. “It was selfish.”

“You’re terrible,” Apollo says shortly. “Ugh. Sometimes I wish Kristoph hit you with that bottle instead.”

“Me too,” Phoenix smiles.

Apollo frowns, touching his bracelet. “I was joking,” he says. It was a mean joke, maybe.

“Me too,” Phoenix lies, smile morphing into a grin. And Phoenix knows he knows he’s lying. And that is… entirely enough for one day, thanks.

“Give me that,” Apollo says, swiping the cigarettes back from Phoenix who has started playing with the package again. “Don’t smoke anymore, it’s a waste of money.”

“Okay,” Phoenix agrees placidly.

“I’m going inside now.” Apollo announces, opening the car door. “Are you coming back next week?”

“If Trucy wants me to and you’re okay with it,” Phoenix says.

“Both?” Apollo checks.

“Both,” Phoenix confirms.

“Okay,” Apollo says, closing the door and going in.

“Hello again,” Trucy says when she sees him, her eyes dark and wary.

“Hello yourself,” he says irritably. “It’s late, you should head out.”

“Okay.” She gets her things together, then pauses at the door. She watches him throw away the pack of cigarettes. “See you next week?” she asks, and he can see the light tremor in her lips, though she thinks she’s hiding it well.

“Sure,” Apollo sighs. She knows what he means.

~~

The next week, Apollo makes banh mi with sweet shrimp. After dinner he wraps up an extra sandwich and grabs a bottle of water, then gives them to Klavier.

“Your turn,” he says, sending him out into the driveway.

Klavier is gone for nearly an hour. Trucy and Apollo play Mario Kart.

“Time to go,” Apollo announces, tapping his watch when Klavier comes back in.

“Aw, it’s so early,” Trucy pouts.

“It’s rude,” Apollo says, not meeting her eyes. “Don’t wear out your welcome, I don’t even live here.” He doesn’t want Phoenix in the house. He doesn’t want to tell him not to come. It’s complicated, like everything to do with the Wrights. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Alright,” Trucy says, mollified by the invitation.

“What did you talk about, anyway?” Apollo asks Klavier curiously when they’re cleaning up afterward.

“Piano,” Klavier says, drying the dishes that Apollo washes by hand. He’s got a state of the art dishwasher but Apollo won’t use it; he never trusts them to get dishes clean enough. Instead, they use it as a drying rack for pots and pans

“Do you play?” Apollo asks, surprised.

“No,” Klavier says.

~~

“I made too much pie,” Apollo says the next week, just opening the door and calling in the car’s general direction. “If you want to come in for like, five-ten minutes tops.”

“I like pie,” Phoenix says hopefully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Apollo grumbles, leaving the door cracked. They awkwardly eat pie in the living room on plates balanced across their knees; Apollo hasn’t gotten around to picking out a dining room table yet and the nook really only seats three, and that’s if Trucy is squishing into his side.

It takes eleven minutes.

~~

“I didn’t feel like cooking,” Apollo announces when Trucy knocks on the door. “We’re gonna walk to that taco place down the street.”

“All of us?” Trucy asks. Behind her, in the car, Phoenix tries to look uninterested. He really sucks at it. Back when he wore the beanie it was one of the few tells Apollo always could recognize; it meant it whatever they were talking about was actually secretly important. In this case, being invited or the tacos, he’s not sure.

“Everyone who wants to come,” Apollo says testily. His shoulders are up around his ears the whole walk, Klavier talking to Trucy about syncing music to pyrotechnics for her show while Phoenix walks three paces behind the group. At least nobody is asking if he’s sure. If they do, he’ll probably lose it.

Apollo aggressively pays the bill with the little cash he’s got on him after and stares at them all, daring them to say something about it.

“Thanks,” Phoenix says meekly.

~~

“Just come in,” Apollo says finally one week, tiredly. “Just… come on.”

Phoenix gingerly gets out of the car and slinks up the drive like a beaten dog.

~~

“Klavier wants to invite Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth to dinner again this time,” Apollo tells Trucy over the phone.

“Okay,” Trucy says agreeably. “How do you want this to go, Polly?”

Apollo sighs. “Do you think they’ll get blood on the carpet?”

“No,” Trucy says honestly. “They’re talking and stuff, I just don’t think they’ve seen each other face to face since Daddy got chucked over. Oh! besides that one night, but that was an ambush. So it’ll be weird, but not like… Ema with the luminol weird.”

“Alright.” Apollo agrees. “Any requests?”

“Don’t tell Daddy,” Trucy says immediately. “He does his best work when he doesn’t have time to prep. And anyway, he deserves a little shock every now and then.”

Apollo grins at the phone. “Don’t have to tell me twice. I am gonna tell the Chief Prosecutor, though, so we’ll see if he even shows.”

“I doubt you’ll have much of an issue there,” Trucy says with a knowing little lilt to her voice. “And if you meant for dinner, I want lasagna.”

~~

“Oh,” Phoenix says in the doorway, freezing up and then playing it off very, very poorly. “Ah. I mean. Hey.” He clears his throat and Trucy nudges him, reminding him to take off his coat, which Apollo hangs up in the closet that is now clean and free of merch and holds a perfectly reasonable number of cherrywood hangers for guests. The merch is entirely gone, save for the few tasteful pieces Klavier kept for personal display, framed neatly on the walls. Apollo had coordinated with the 4G Club (Get the Gavineers Going aGain) who had happily taken everything Apollo threw at them in a U-haul truck one Sunday back, for either charity or some kind of cult sacrifice. He hopes for the best, for them and for all six hundred copies of Daryan Crescend limited edition prints in Racketeering Ruby.

“Hello,” Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth says to Phoenix stiffly, like he hadn’t agreed that it was absolutely fine, no problem at all, certainly, the guest list is, of course, none of his concern when Klavier mentioned the other people coming to dinner. He could not look more lovelorn if he were actually the repressed Byronic hero he cosplayed in his younger days. It is Entirely Too Much. Apollo made two lasagnas; one traditional with meat sauce and one with cream and chicken, not to mention enough garlic bread to murder a vampire hoarde. They better not be too weird about each other to eat.

“Sorry,” Phoenix says in a low voice as they file into the dining room with its brand new nordviken extendable table in a dark finish. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I hope this is okay.”

“I knew,” Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth says, a little smugly.

“Oh,” Phoenix says, pleased. “And you don’t mind?”

“No,” Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth coughs into his hand. “We are, ah, friends, after all.”

They eat almost all the lasagna; there is just enough for Apollo and Klavier to finish the rest for lunch on Sunday.

~~

The phone rings on a Saturday just as Apollo is getting ready for bed.

“Hello?” He asks cautiously.

“Hey, Apollo.” Phoenix sighs. “I hope this is alright. I don’t really know if we’re at phone calls yet.”

“I think we’re at phone calls,” Apollo decides when his irritation stays at the same orange threat level without too much spiking red.

“Nice,” Phoenix says, cheered. “Well, listen. I don’t want to put any pressure on you or anything, and I’m not going to feel one way or another about what you say, but how would you like to take on a case?”

“Like… hypothetically or right now?”

“Either,” Phoenix says. “But, uh… I have one right now, if you’re interested.”

Apollo is quiet, sitting on the edge of the couch-bed.

“I don’t know what the goal is,” Phoenix continues. “I don’t know if you’re planning to strike off on your own here, or head back to Khura’in or what you want to do, and whatever it is, I have your back. I’ve been putting money in your account and treating this like… I don’t know, temporary leave or something. They don’t really have an HR code for my boss is an ass and I need to not see his face for a while. If you want me to stop paying or calling, just say the word. I just thought this was your kind of case, and so I figured I’d ask.”

“What do you mean?” Apollo asks, avoiding the other stuff for now. He… really should check his bank account. Has he really just been sitting around on Klavier’s dime and what cash he’s gotten exchanged at the currency kiosk this whole time? Apparently.

“It’s a locked room mystery,” Phoenix explains. “Dead kitchen manager who was shut in the back office to count the nightly deposit. The only key was locked inside the safe. They’re already arresting this new timid little waitress who definitely didn’t do it. It’s kind of like that Nine Tails Vale thing you and Athena did. If you don’t want it, Athena and I will take it no problem. You just did a good job at that one, and I thought you’d be a good fit, if you want it.”

“I came back to work with you,” Apollo admits reluctantly. “I like the kinds of cases you take on, and what the place stands for. I do actually approve of you as a lawyer, most of the time. Plus I always planned to work my way up to partner in an existing firm, I don’t really like the administration stuff on my own.”

“You’d want to be partner? With me?” Phoenix sounds genuinely shocked.

“No, Phoenix Wright, Turnabout Terror and Ace Attorney,” Apollo says as sarcastically as he can, already digging around for a pair of real pants. “Why would anyone want to be a partner at Wright and Co, a firm so famous they literally put you in undergrad textbooks now.”

“Wright and Justice,” Phoenix says musingly. “I like the sound of that.”

Apollo fumbles with his shoes. “H-Huh?”

“Let’s talk about it later,” Phoenix says. “For now, you’re on the case?”

“Really? I mean… yeah. I am. I’m on the way, text me the address. You’re sure you don’t want to take it?”

“Nah,” Phoenix says lightly. “Gotta feed Miles or he’s gonna go feral. The head chef got taken in as a key witness before his spinach dip came out.”

“You’re with Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth?” Apollo asks, surprised. The address comes through; it’s walking distance, thank god. He really doesn’t want to wake Klavier up for this and he doesn’t know where they keep bus stops in ritzy rich people neighborhoods. Maybe they’re illegal here.

“Yeah, Miles and I are with Larry, he’s in town for a book signing. Athena’s gonna meet you on scene, alright?”

“Sure,” Apollo agrees faintly, hanging up the phone and heading out.

~~

The waitress is cute, with long curls and big eyes and she cries a lot and bats her eyes at any guy who looks vaguely in charge. It’s extremely suspicious when Phoenix just waves at Apollo on the way out, leading his friends down the street to a slightly divier bar, one that hopefully nobody’s died in this week and still has their kitchen open. He doesn’t seem interested, in the convoluted case or the pretty girl in need of comfort, or the chance to swan about, big man on campus, while his subordinates scramble to shove together a case with spit and superglue.

Larry, on the other hand, looks teary eyed himself and ready to follow the good looking crying girl straight to the detention center; Phoenix steers him forward by the shoulders without a backwards look. Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth trails behind, expression thoughtful and a little hangry.

“Do you think he’s doing it on purpose?” Apollo asks Athena in a low voice. “Like is he faking it?”

“No,” she says, sounding just as shocked. “No discord in his voice, like at all. I think he genuinely would rather go play with his friends. It feels weird getting trusted by default. I missed you, by the way.”

“I missed you too,” he says, surprised. “Sorry for dumping all the workload on you.”

She shakes her head. “You sound a lot better,” she grins. “That’s more important. Anyway, we haven’t taken all that many new cases lately, mostly just consultations. It’s good to rest and regroup every now and then!” She strikes a pose.

The two of them check out the crime scene and catch up. Athena’s good to talk to; she doesn’t judge. Plus she has about a million pictures of Mikeko she’s been hoarding ever since she took him in during Apollo’s stint in Khura’in.

“You know he’s welcome with me for as long as you need,” she says reassuringly. “He just misses you, I can hear it in his meows.”

“About that,” Apollo says nervously. “This might be kind of a big ask, but… do you still have that spare room open?”

~~

Klavier is up and sitting on the couch, shirtless and in pajama pants, nursing a cup of instant coffee when Apollo lets himself in, as dawn is breaking.

“Hey,” Apollo says.

Klavier nods.

“Sorry I didn’t leave a note or anything,” Apollo says. “I thought I’d be back before you got up. I had a case.”

“I thought so,” Klavier says with a soft, sleepy smile. He looks the way he always looks: bronzed and unreal, like a photoshop of a person copy pasted into the same liminal space through some cosmic accident. Apollo figures it’s time he quit dancing around it.

Apollo kicks his shoes off and walks across the room. He sits beside Klavier, close enough that their legs are touching. He puts a hand on Klavier’s arm, leans up, and kisses him.

Klavier placidly kisses back.

Apollo breaks the kiss. He looks at Klavier, a long, searching look. That expression tells him nothing; it’s a faint little smile, no more pleased than when Apollo first stepped in through the door. He’s not expecting anything, Apollo realizes. He doesn’t want anything. Apollo leans in again, just to check. Klavier responds dutifully.

“Is this okay?” He asks when he pulls back.

“Whatever you like,” Klavier says, both hands still cradling his mug. He hasn’t even moved.

From the start it’s been like this. Apollo’s doing whatever he wants and Klavier is just drifting along to it. It doesn’t matter who is here or what they’re doing; Klavier is just lonely and sad and bad at being his own person. Without Kristoph, without Daryan, he just meanders, bobbing between roles and responsibilities; content in his own discontentedness. Being here didn’t change that. Buying a couple of throw pillows and feeding him vegetables didn’t make him any happier or more functional; Apollo had slapped a new coat of paint on a shed with a missing side wall. If he stays or when he goes, Klavier is going to be just like this. He doesn’t care and Apollo stands up abruptly.

“I’m moving into Athena’s and I’m going back to work,” he says, voice trembling a little with suppressed anger and hurt. “I can’t thank you enough for everything. It really meant a lot to me.”

“I’m happy to help,” Klavier says, unbothered and sedate. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“Alright then,” Apollo says, nodding jerkily. He heads into the kitchen to make breakfast one last time before he packs his things to leave. He wonders what the hell he’d been expecting in the first place.

Chapter Text

From the moment she opens her eyes, Trucy knows this is going to be a wonderful day. She’s up before her alarm goes off, and she shuffles downstairs to make omelets, because the ones her Daddy makes are always still white-gooey inside, and that’s objectively, scientifically awful. She puts diced green peppers and onions and mushrooms in the skillet to cook out some water before adding the eggs; she melts cheese in the middle and on top when she’s done.

“Hey, it’s not my birthday,” Daddy jokes, coming down the stairs still adjusting his tie. She makes toast and he sets the table, humming a little tunelessly to himself. Her First Daddy was probably better looking if you took a survey- he’d had that sharp, scary look a lot of women like, and he was tall with broad shoulders, but Trucy thinks this Daddy is the best looking in the world, especially when he’s got his new suit on and the pep in his step. It’s because he’s given up; acceptance falls on him like a charm spell on its own, making his smile softer and more internal. The nice thing about Phoenix Wright is that he’s a born loser; he’s gracious at it. That’s also what makes it fun to see him win as often as he does.

They eat and he does the dishes, as per the ancient cooking-cleaning pact, and Trucy lingers over her orange juice.

“Big plans today?” Daddy asks, making conversation. “Before we all get dinner later, I mean. I’ll give you your present then; I’ve got to pick it up on the way.”

“Just some errands,” Trucy smiles brightly. “Tell Athena and Polly I said good luck in court today!”

After he leaves, Trucy goes upstairs. She finds the new outfit, the one she bought last week for a day like today. It isn’t scandalous; it’s a modest black dress trimmed in robins egg blue, the kind of dress a girl of eighteen might wear her first time trying to look grown-up. She pins her hair to one side with a large gold clip shaped like a butterfly and puts on pink lipgloss and kitten heels. Her little handbag is beaded and out of fashion; a thrift store find.

Then, she goes to the casino.

Trucy decides, first and foremost, that she is going to lose one hundred dollars. She pulls that out of her secret savings on the way out the door, in the little compartment under Mr. Hat, and leaves the other bills where they are tied up in the machinery. She leaves Mr. Hat, too.

As she steps inside, she lets her wide eyes roam around the room, taking in the plush faux velvet furniture, the tapestries on the wall that obscure all windows and all sense of time and place. She really is fascinated; it looks like something out of a movie. Well, so were those times when Daddy played- but a different genre, maybe.

She gets carded a couple of times, but she’s the real deal- a big eyed cutie here to try her luck for the first time, able to buy her five blue chips and ten red ones with five crumpled twenties legally, for all of twelve hours already.

She spends a while wandering from area to area; she loses five dollars playing a Gramarye themed slot machine, where the faded white rabbit would leap out of Magnifi’s hat if anyone struck the jackpot. There’s two men in shadow, back to back with guns drawn in the corner illustration, and a woman just behind them with her face rubbed away over time. Trucy wonders if someone did that on purpose.

She watches a few rounds of BlackJack, and even manages to win her five dollars back playing for dollar bets on the virtual table. The cocktail waitress working that part of the floor brings her a soda with a pink plastic curly straw in it. She looks tired and there’s bandaids on the back of her heels where her cheap shoes rub. She whispers a quiet warning to Trucy about the odds, about the men, and about cutting her losses before she gets stuck. The waitress looks stuck.

“Alright, I’ll leave when I stop having fun,” Trucy promises.

Then, Trucy sits at the poker table.

It’s pretty wobbly, the first couple hands. She loses a little; wins a few. She gets the hang of the rhythm of the game and it’s not hard to show her open curiosity. It’s not like she’s ever been on this side of the table before. The doe eyed stare around herself; the way she flushes with happy victory or pouts with every loss- it isn’t faked. Bluffing isn’t about faking, it’s about being genuine at the right times. She can be happy at a bad hand; it means she’ll have to play harder. She can be disappointed at a good one, which takes no skill whatever. Show your face, not your heart!

There’s an old lady chain smoking in the corner seat who keeps her extra chips in a fanny pack around her waist; a young buck trying to impress his bored girlfriend; and an ugly mean faced man with too many rings and a cigar.

Then, Trucy begins to play.

Her wins stack. When she racks up a thousand dollars, she puts a five hundred dollar chip aside. “My Daddy always told me to save a little for a rainy day,” she says shyly.

The man with the rings makes a muttered comment about Daddies and Little Girls and Trucy had already set him aside as the mark after he snapped his fingers at the waitress and gave his orders to her cleavage, but this is just the icing on the birthday cake.

The old woman, seeing something in the set of Trucy’s shoulders, quits the table.

Trucy wins for a while, because her hands are good or because their hands are poor, or because there’s enough ambiguity in the middle there. Her mild delight or sadness can be excused when it doesn’t quite match the cards later because she’s a girl, and she doesn’t know how to play poker.

“I’ve only played online,” she confesses. “And never for real money.” She’s up two grand. The man with the rings is annoyed; the idiot boyfriend is turning out his pockets to buy more chips. They play.

It’s getting late; Trucy has plans. She better wrap this up. She glances down at her hand. She has a seven and a two; the worst set up for Texas Hold ‘Em style poker on the books. She lets her eyes flicker a little, then looks away, putting the cards down in the hole so no one else can see them. The others do the same.

Then it’s time to bet. If it is a good hand, or has the potential to be any good, she ought to put money down. If it’s bad, like her hand, she ought to fold. Save that money for another round. For a rainy day!

She bets.

Rings raises.

Boyfriend hesitantly matches, pulling from the sad pile at his elbow. His suit is cheap, and the girl he’s with smells expensive. He won’t make it another game, but that’s okay. Trucy doesn’t plan to either.

Trucy matches the bet too, and the pre-flop round is done. The dealer flips over three cards. These cards, along with what they already have and what card is dealt next, will make up each of their plays. The player with the best final combination still in the game will take the prize.

It’s the seven of spades, three of hearts, three of diamonds. Not actually a bad deal, considering. She’s got a guaranteed pair with the sevens and that’s one on the table. Both her Daddies have won games with less than a two pair.

Rings raises, high and Trucy actually does have to consciously keep her face neutral because what an absolute rank amateur. She doesn’t even have to see the way he wiggles the white sapphire pinky ring to know that he’s holding a pair in hand higher than three or seven. She’s no Polly, but if she had to guess, she’d say it was… tens. He hasn’t got the bluster for a royal pair. Still, that does beat her handily at the moment.

Trucy raises too. Rings matches the bet. Boyfriend pats his pockets before nervously adding to the pile. He’s got nothing special in his hand, but he’s too far in now. Boys never do know how to quit when they’re ahead.

The dealer flips the last card: two of clubs.

Well, isn’t that unfortunate. Trucy’s stuck at a two pair, Boyfriend’s been holding out for a high card, and Rings is sitting pretty on a two pair of a higher suite. She’ll lose this one.

He raises hard.

“All in,” Trucy says, pushing a few thousand dollars worth of chips across the table. Boyfriend throws down his cards. A moment later, he’s chasing his date as she stomps off toward the parking lot. Ouch.

Rings… hesitates. “What I wouldn’t give to see what you’re hiding under there,” he says crudely, and Trucy knows he means it a couple different ways, but she decides to take the easiest.

“Oh, my cards?” Trucy asks, surprised. “Um… how about a chip? If you give me a chip, I’ll show you one.”

Rings laughs and tosses her a ten dollar chip. She puts it aside.

“Just a two,” Trucy says, flipping the face down hole card with a careless shrug. “Nothing fancy!”

Rings raises an eyebrow as if to make another crack, then he stops to look again, more closely.

“You didn’t look down, when you did that,” he says suspiciously. “When you said that.”

“I didn’t need to,” she says sweetly.

Because Trucy has a seven and two, but he doesn’t know that.

“If you didn’t look, it’s cause it didn’t matter. You got two of the same card,” Rings says slowly. “A two and a two… with a pair of threes and another deuce on the table. You got a full house, girlie.” Rings shakes his head in amazement. “And you almost cleaned me right out! I’m losing a lot this hand, but that saved my bacon. Best ten bucks I ever spent.” Rings throws down his cards with satisfaction. “I fold.”

“Thanks,” Trucy says sweetly. Then she flips over her useless hand and watches him break down as she whistles to herself, scraping ten thousand dollars into her small, cheap purse. She flicks the five hundred dollar chip to the dealer as a tip and heads to cash out.

She’s got one more stop before leaving, and she finds what she’s looking for inside the ladies room. The waitress from before is applying bandaids to her bloodied heels before tucking them back into cheap, painful shoes.

She’s been thinking about this kind of thing a lot lately. Somehow it’s alright to think of herself and her Mommy the way her First Daddy had told it. Even her Daddy now sort of seemed to think it too, a little. Two kind of girls in the world- but what about the others? Athena and Pearls, Vera and Jinxie. Every person she ever met on either side of the bench, innocent or guilty who happened to be a woman, they couldn’t all divvy up so neat like that, could they? And if that’s the case, then maybe Trucy can be more than what they said. Maybe she can be the best poker player in the world and the only thing holding her back is that she doesn’t want to.

“Hey, I didn’t get a chance to leave you a tip for the drink earlier.” Trucy slips the waitress a slim envelope with a check for ten grand inside. “This is all I’ve got left, though- sorry it’s not much.”

The waitress thanks her, putting the envelope in her apron without looking at it. “Didn’t lose it all, did you?” she asks.

“Just a hundred bucks,” Trucy says with a shrug.

~~

Trucy sits in the rented room of the rec center with two cupcakes on a plate. She knows she has a real cake coming; she’d heard Daddy and Apollo muttering about strawberry-chocolate icing in the office and just pretended she hadn’t a clue, the way she pretended she didn’t know about the opal earrings or the new levitation rings for her show. Still, a girl only turns eighteen once, you know? She deserves an extra cupcake, and so does the person she’s meeting.

“Trucy,” Valant Gramarye says, stock-still in the doorway. He’s still wearing the yellow coat and top hat she remembers, but they’re pretty battered by now. Valiant Birthday Magick Extravaganzas! probably don’t pull in enough to really keep him more than barely afloat. Jobs are hard to come by when you did two years for tampering with a crime scene. Trucy already knows he spends half his time at his agency helping with the books; in about eight months or so, they’ll probably move him to administration full time. Technically, Valant performing any kind of illusion, concealment or stage magic c-or-k violates the ironclad non-competition agreement Pop-pop made him and First Daddy sign when they joined the troop, but Trucy’s not going to bring that up. That would be cruel. Let him have eight more months of children’s birthday parties, for old time’s sake.

“Hello Uncle Valant,” Trucy says gently.

“Did you… Did you book me?” Valant asks, drooping. His eye twitches, like he wants to close it- he’s afraid and wants to look away, like he used to be around Pop-pop.

“It’s my birthday,” Trucy tells him.

“Happy birthday,” Valant says hollowly.

“Please sit,” Trucy requests. Slowly, Valant obeys, sinking into the chair across from her. She slides him one of the cupcakes and a carton of plain milk.

“Banana,” she says. “Your favorite! Did you know that I couldn’t eat a banana moonpie or a laffy taffy for years without thinking about you? I didn’t mind it so much, Daddy being gone. It was Daddy. But I cried so hard over banana foods that my new Daddy stopped letting me eat them. He thought I might be allergic.”

“Trucy…”

“Eat your cupcake,” she says, not unkindly. “It’s my birthday. This is what I want; I want you to eat this cupcake and I want you to talk to me. I booked you for an hour, so. You have to. I’ll leave you a bad Yelp review if you won’t.”

Valant picks up the cupcake.

“You don’t have to look so scared of me,” Trucy says. “I’m not here to yell at you or anything. Let’s get off on the right foot this time. Uncle Valant, I forgive you.”

“What I did was inexcusable,” Valant says sorrowfully, and Trucy is reminded of Thalassa, starkly, and she hopes to god she doesn’t sound like this talking to Polly. Jeez, no wonder he thinks she’s the worst.

“I separated a girl from her father at such a tender age, framed my dearest friend for a despicable crime-”

“I don’t care much about Daddy,” Trucy interrupts. “I meant when you shot my mother.”

Valant stares. Trucy opens her milk and sticks the pink straw from the casino into it, a hundred dollar plastic souvenir. There’s a little flamingo on it; she likes it a lot.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his brow sloppily.

Trucy looks at him with pity. “That’s why Pop-pop was so mean to you. It’s why he said you weren’t talented enough to inherit. Everybody thought you were just too clumsy trying out the new trick, but I think you meant to, a little bit. You threw off the routine and she got shot in the head. You kept me from having a Mommy, even a Gramarye one. That was pretty mean of you, Uncle Valant, but I’ve thought it over and I forgive you.”

“You think my-m-my jealousy over her, my possessiveness over having her choose your father over me drove me to violence? That I could hurt the one I love?” Valant looks affronted, getting to his feet dramatically with a swirl of cape. “I am not so base a man as you believe, my girl!”

“I’m not your girl,” Trucy says, with steel in her voice. “And you weren’t in love with Thalassa Gramarye. You were in love with my Daddy.”

Valant sits abruptly, as though dropped from a short height into the chair; it actually rocks a little from the force.

“It must have been hard, seeing somebody better than you come in and take it all away. Pop-pop had to trap my Daddy; you had to beg for a spot on the team. But then it was like a story, right? Rivals turned friends and maybe more! An unspoken connection.” Trucy sighs dreamily, sipping her milk. Valant glumly pokes at his dessert. “But then my Mommy came back all sad about her dead husband and missing baby and looking tragic and snap! You lost him. Well, damsels are like that.”

“Trucy, please.” Valant begs.

“I’m telling you,” Trucy says, patience slipping a little. “I know everything. Everything. I’m not the Enigmar girl or the Gramarye girl- I’m a Wright. I’m better than any of you on your very best day. And I did want to tell you that I forgive you, but that’s not the important thing. I asked you here to say thank you.”

“Why on earth would you ever thank me, Trucy?” Valant asks, swiping off his hat and crumpling it in his hands. “What have I ever done besides hurt you?”

“You wouldn’t take me in,” Trucy says and he blanches pale. “When Phoenix Wright called you after the trial and said that Zak Gramarye disappeared, you said you wouldn’t take me. You said you didn’t care where I ended up. It made me real sad for a real long time, even knowing what I knew. I always liked you, Uncle Valant. You used to make me peanut butter banana sandwiches whenever anyone else forgot I was alive. I still have that plastic spaghetti you bought me when First Daddy forgot my birthday that one year.”

“But you know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I know what it looks like now, getting taken in by someone who hates your parents. I see what it does to you. It’s ugly and it makes you willing to put up with the absolute worst things in the world, just to earn a little love. I’m glad you didn’t do that to me, even with the best intentions. Abandoning me like that gave me a Daddy who actually loves me, and it let me meet Polly, and everyone, and I’m so glad you didn’t take me in. I’m glad you shot my mother and framed my father if that was the only way for me to have this life. I mean that.”

In the ensuing, tense silence, both of them quietly bite into their cupcakes. It’s nice, and dense, and sweet. The frosting is creamy-fruity. Still, it’s not as good as what Polly makes, box mix but better somehow; real Gramarye magic.

“Do you hate him?” Valant asks in a low voice. “Your father.”

Trucy thinks.

“No,” she says. “I don’t hate anybody. They all make too much horrible sense.”

“You’re kinder than I,” Valant sighs, drinking his milk. “I think I hated everyone, those seven years. I couldn’t understand what Zak was thinking.”

“You don’t know why he didn’t just show the diary page,” Trucy says knowingly. “That part always threw Daddy off, too. Er- my new Daddy.”

“The one that counts,” Valant agrees, and that makes her affectionate enough to tell him a little kernel of the truth. A bad habit for a magician, but what can she say? Polly’s rubbing off on her.

“He didn’t show the diary page because inheriting from Pop-pop was the most important thing in the world to him,” Trucy explains. “It was more important than being a free man or raising me or anything.”

“If he had shown the page, it would have called his motive into question,” Valant says. “ He would have stood to inherit, but there was a likely chance I would have been found guilty in his stead. Part of me wondered if our… old connection might have made him hesitate.”

“Sorry, Uncle Valant,” Trucy says sincerely. “My First Daddy never gave a fuck about anybody but himself.” Valant recoils from the profanity. “I think he wrote that confession to keep you from looking too hard at the evidence later, when it was all over. He didn’t show the diary page at the trial because he couldn’t. He probably thought it wouldn’t matter if he hid it, since it wouldn’t really help the case either. He was just being selfish.”

“I don’t understand,” Valant says.

“He couldn’t show the paper,” Trucy says patiently. Valant is not a Wright, not a lawyer, not a Gramarye or even a particularly good magician. He’s just an old man with a felony conviction, trying to scrape by. He’s never been as quick as her to get all the facts together. “If he showed the paper in court just then, he’d never inherit, not even just long enough to give them to me. That’s not what the paper said then.”

“Think back, Uncle Valant. What was it that my Pop-pop said to you before he died? That he wasn’t giving the rights to you? That Daddy would be in charge now? Did he ever say Zak Gramarye is inheriting the rights, in those exact words like that? He didn’t, did he?”

“Who?” Valant demands, eyes wild. ”How?!”

Trucy pulls out the envelope. She unfolds the paper carefully and admires it. “They match up,” she says, tracing her index finger along the jagged line of the page before handing it over. It doesn’t matter what he does with it anymore.

“Because this is the diary page,” Valant says slowly. “But this isn’t what it said originally.”

“The Mishams aren’t the only forgers in the world,” Trucy smiles. “Seven years is plenty of time to find a really good one. He found somebody who could use the real page but get rid of the old writing and make it say whatever he wanted. I guess giving the rights to someone with his blood was better than nothing.”

“What was on the paper? I must know!”

“Just an address and the name of a sixteen year old kid in foster care,” Trucy says. “I imagine Pop-pop got it out of Mommy’s diary, once you all sent her away.”

Because Magnifi Gramarye had been dying, and he had been terrible, and so, like dying terrible people do, he tried one last thing to keep his soul out of hell. Even if he’d pulled it off, Trucy doubts it would have helped his case any, though.

If Polly could be taken in as a grown up by somebody like Kristoph Gavin, who knows what he’d have ended up like as a teenager under Zak Gramarye? Lucky it hadn’t come to that. No, her Daddy had taken one look at the paper cutting him off completely and he had made his decision. He’d trade now for someday and maybe for never. When it was clear he wasn’t ducking this murder charge, he’d gambled and won… because even a whore was better than someone else’s bastard, so long as she was his.

“Your brother,” Valant says, hand spasming shut. The paper crinkles. He smooths it back out regretfully after, studying each line carefully. “Of course,” he murmurs, after a time. “Of course. You can’t tell at all,” he says with regret.

When her new Daddy turned to her in handcuffs and said don’t worry, okay, I’ve got this, this lawyer kid’s got talent like you do, Trucy knew. She saw Polly in the lobby and she handed him that fake Ace and thought viciously to herself that she was willing to trade: a brother she didn’t know for a substitute father she’d grown fond of, out of necessity. Sacrificial lambs, in order of greatest to least. Lose your badge. Get thrown in jail. Whatever it took. Give him back to me.

Too much of her father was in her, then, though she couldn’t say which one. Was it the one who hid his heart under a hat, gathering clues like a dragon’s horde? Was it the one on the run, unable to trust his own blood long enough to love her? She doesn’t know. By the time she’d realized that she loved Polly all on his own, it was too late. She couldn’t tell him I lied because I thought you’d steal my spotlight. She couldn’t say I hated you for being what everyone wanted. She couldn’t say if you hate me now, I’ll die. I don’t mean I’ll stop breathing, I just mean whatever part of me is decent is going to dry up and blow away like dandelion fluff.

But she had. Over weeks and talks and tears, she had. Nothing she tells Valant now matters, because Polly knows it all. And he still, somehow, loves her enough to bake her a birthday cake.

“All part of the illusion,” Trucy agrees. Her watch beeps; their time is up.

~~

Eldoons is overrun; there’s oodles of noodles and not enough seats and so everyone kind of musical chairs around where she’s sitting so they all have a chance to visit. Mr Edgeworth has more of those chocolates for her; when he gets up and passes her Daddy coming over, he has to look away to hide his face so his affection doesn’t spill out over the edges in a gloppy mess. Daddy doesn’t catch it.

“Things are okay?” Trucy asks, looking obviously between them like she doesn’t know.

Her Daddy shakes his head. “Let’s talk about happy things, tonight,” he says, giving her the package with the earrings, opals shaped like tiny iridescent rabbits, leaping out of sapphire top hats. How cute; maybe she’ll give him a hand later, as thanks. Then again, maybe not. Better isn’t fixed, after all.

“Whatever you say, Daddy. Thank you, these are lovely!”

There’s a series of people in seats and presents and pork ramen with extra eggs to soak up the salt. Then there’s Polly, smiling at her and meaning it, and setting down a cake and a card.

“Where’s Klavier?” Trucy asks, brows creasing a little in confusion.

Polly shrugs. “Does it matter?” He asks, evasively.

“No,” Trucy says honestly.

He lays a heavy hand on top of her head for a moment, though he’s careful not to muss up her hair clip. Her answer pleased him. “Card first,” he instructs. As she breaks the seal, he starts asking around for a lighter. Her Daddy hands his over and Polly arranges two candles that say 1 and 8 on top.

Inside the envelope is a generic card, in yellow and blue. It says happy birthday to my sea star on the front with a smiling purple starfish. It is very stupid and very Polly. Smiling, Trucy flips it open.

It’s blank inside, but Polly’s written something in his scribbly hand: Apollo Justice transfers all Gramarye performance rights to Trucy Wright in perpetuity. It is signed and notarized.

“You made the birthday girl cry, Apollo,” her Daddy says, smiling.

“Happy birthday,” Polly says affectionately, cutting her a large piece of cake with sugared strawberries on top. Trucy beams at him through her tears. On the table, her phone buzzes. She glances down at the name on the screen without them noticing.

“I love you both,” Trucy says, turning off her phone.

Chapter Text

Phoenix frowns down at his phone. Three more missed calls and two voicemails. Eventually he’s going to have to do something about that, but he wants to mull it over a little longer. It’s not a problem with an easy answer.

“Daddy, did you see?” Trucy asks. Phoenix tucks his phone away.

“See what?” He asks, giving her his full attention where she’s sitting at the breakfast table, one foot tucked up under her other thigh in that weird, awkward way she swears is comfortable somehow. She’s going to pinch a nerve sitting like that, one day. Youth is seriously wasted on the young.

“Take a look,” Trucy says, thrusting the morning paper in his direction. “And my leg is fine, I do a whole morning asana thing to help with flexibility. Athena taught me. You should get up early and try it with me sometimes.”

“No thanks,” Phoenix says, taking the paper. “I’m not the one trying to get out of an underwater straightjacket before I’m twenty.”

“I could be the youngest and you could be the oldest,” Trucy says sweetly. “That would sell a lot of tickets.”

“I am thirty seven, you brat.” He bops her with the paper and then turns back to the front of it. “Chief Prosecutor or Demon Chief? A History of Corruption in LA.” Phoenix reads aloud, then shakes his head. “Guess Lotta Hart’s trying her hand at political journalism these days.” He reads through the article, liberally splashed with lurid pictures of Miles at various ages and locations, all with that trademark sneer, cravat flaring ominously. It continues on inside for a full two pages. There’s timelines and retrial data from his first four years, Manfred Von Karma’s photo and a blurb about his crimes, and, most irritatingly somehow, a line about the dethroning of Miles Edgeworth at the hands of Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney.

Even later, in the office, Phoenix glances at the paper from time to time. Come to think of it, when Miles first got the promotion, hadn’t something like this happened? Must be a story they dredge up whenever there’s a slow news cycle. That sucks. Even if it didn’t bother Miles (which it absolutely does, Miles is sensitive), people asking him about it must.

Phoenix invites him to lunch; Miles shows up and orders nachos, even though he generally refuses to eat them before five thirty pm, a stipulation he has for any food designed to be eaten by hand that has the potential to drip on a dry clean only velveteen blazer.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Miles says firmly, when their server leaves.

“I know,” Phoenix says. “I figured you could use a breather out of the office.”

Miles relaxes slightly. ”Yes. Their obsequious tiptoeing is driving me mad. They face hardened criminals daily; you would think they would have better inscrutability. They could just pretend they hadn’t read it. I would rather pretend it was never written. Is that so hard to grasp?”

“Would be nice, if it never happened again,” Phoenix muses.

“One can only dream,” Miles sighs.

~~

When Phoenix gets home, he ignores his missed messages and makes a call to a different phone number instead.

“Hey, Spark. How’s business?.... Uh huh. Well, I was wondering if I could call in a little favor…”

~~

“You’re awful busy lately,” Athena says to him as he’s rushing out of the office the next week.

“Sorry, I’ve got something in the works,” he grins sheepishly. “I’ll make it up to you all.”

“It’s fine, we’ve got this, boss.” Apollo says, giving him the old familiar Apollo trademark grin. He’s been back at work full time for a few months now and the tension is slowly bleeding away to be replaced with something like the friendly rapport from before- like water running from the faucet slowly warming up from cold. Phoenix is abruptly, devastatingly grateful.

“I know you do,” he says seriously. “And I’m lucky to have you. Both of you,” he adds, looking at Athena. “This office wouldn’t run without you. I wouldn’t want it to, either.”

Apollo’s ears go red; Widget blinks a pleased green. Aw, shucks! it trills.

Then he’s out the door because he really is running late. It’s a little like when he was working on the MASON system, but better. Lower stakes, so the adrenaline rush isn’t so intense, but that also means that Phoenix can mull over it, really take pride and joy in the thing he’s creating. It might not be as important as trying to reform a broken legal system with his bare hands, but it’s still important. Little things can be important, he’s learned. It’s alright to make things a priority because of that.

After the Iris thing, which was hard and ugly and guilt strewn and, in the end, strangely peaceful, Phoenix had been feeling reckless. What the hell. He could talk. He used to do it for a living, before he got disbarred, and he’s been getting back into it. So Phoenix has been talking a couple things out, here and there, with people who get paid to do that kind of thing. And Phoenix absolutely could; he found he was great at talking. It was the listening part he had to work at a little. Not just listening to what other people were telling him, through their actions or their words- but listening to himself, too. What did he actually want? Why was he thinking these thoughts, acting this way? What kind of person did he want to try and be? How could he try and do that more?

Weird, uncomfortable stuff. Still, it was good for perspective, if nothing else. It’s a little like going to the gym; seeing the end results take a while.

Phoenix slides into the passenger seat of the purple car in the parking lot. “Thanks for the ride,” he tells Klavier Gavin who nods amiably. Trucy’s got school weekdays and he needs someone discreet to help with the other side of this. Klavier backs out onto the road and only glances back at the Wright offices in his rearview mirror a half a dozen times or so before it disappears from view.

“You could go up,” Phoenix suggests gently. “Come in for some coffee or something. I’ll invite you and everything.”

Klavier stares straight ahead. “He doesn’t want to see me,” he says.

“He won’t see you. That’s not exactly the same thing.”

“Ah, Herr Wright, forgive me for saying so, but not all problems can be solved through constant pressure. You and Herr Edgeworth are an exception, not the rule.”

“Well I wouldn’t suggest anybody go about it like we did, that’s for sure,” Phoenix sighs. “And I guess I only got away with pushing Miles as hard as I did because he didn’t have much to compare it to. He wasn’t what you’d call properly socialized.”

“That may have been the reasoning then, but what about now? Things have changed, ja?”

Phoenix shrugs with a smile. “Sure, but I don’t push anymore. Not like I did.”

“So you say. Then what is this?” Klavier pulls up to the dingy little office downtown where a twitchy, sweaty man in glasses fiddles with the pencil behind his ear as he waits outside.

“I’m just selfishly doing what I feel like doing,” Phoenix says, getting out of the car. “Thanks for the ride- and the quotes. Keep an eye out, not sure when it’s going to drop.”

“Oh, I will. Goodbye, Herr Wright.”

~~

Phoenix honestly kind of forgets about the whole thing, after. He gets back into the office regularly, taking his usual kind of cases and living his usual, every day routine. He calls Maya, and visits; he has lunch with Edgeworth and keeps his pining to a minimum; he checks in on Gumshoe and asks after Maggey and the kids; he comforts Larry between heartbreaks. Phoenix takes the whole office down to the food truck rally once a month and has dinner with Trucy and Apollo on Fridays. He spends time with his daughter, not just when she needs an audience, but when she wants to just hang out in the same room, doing nothing together. It’s nice, like when it was just the two of them, except it’s not just the two of them anymore. There’s a whole lot of people to love and things to do and this is just one part that he lost, lying all the time.

“I’m sorry I lied to you. About your Mom and about a lot of other things.” Phoenix says abruptly one night while she’s painting her toenails seafoam green. While her first coat dries, she leans over and paints his big toe; He extends his leg absently so she can get to the rest of them.

“I know, Daddy. I think we’re okay about it now,” Trucy says, expertly painting his entire left foot.

“I’m also sorry that I wasn’t a better role model. I was, like, a quarter of a real person then.”

“Are you a whole person now?” Trucy asks, going back to do a second coat on her own feet.

“Maybe three quarters? Three fifths? Eight sixteenths?”

“That’s half, Daddy,” Trucy tells him seriously.

“So it is,” he agrees, stretching out his right foot. They might as well match. Trucy obliges, dipping the little brush into the pot and shaking it out. “I was surprised when you started painting your nails after the Vera thing,” he says incidentally.

“I can’t go around expecting poison in every polish, you know. Anyway… I’m not sorry. I liked that quarter person: Phoenix Wright, pitiful pianist and professional poker player. I like this one too, and whoever you’ll be when you download one hundred percent completion.” Trucy goes back to do a second coat on his first foot.

“I like you, too,” Phoenix tells her. “I mean, obviously I love you a stupid amount, but I like you too. You’ve got a good head and a good heart, even if you’ve got a little less blood than the average girl. I think you’re neat even without it.”

“Did your therapist give you homework again?” Trucy asks suspiciously. He likes that about her too; he wiggles his toes meaningfully and she adds a second coat to his right. There, all finished.

“Nope. I won therapy.”

“You can’t win therapy,” Trucy says.

“You can and I did. I was told I probably didn’t need to schedule regular sessions anymore; that my coping mechanisms and psycho-what’s its were good enough to just pop in on a need-to basis.” He grins at her. “Do I get a gold star?”

What he gets instead is a sudden, fierce little hug that squeezes the breath out of him.

“Oof,” he says, surprised, then returns it.

~~

When Miles Edgeworth storms into Phoenix’s office on a Wednesday, Phoenix is completely taken off guard. He sets down his coffee cup and sits up straight at his desk. Miles makes a beeline over to him, posture stiff and arms at his side. In one hand he clutches a crumpled up newspaper.

“Wright,” Miles says sharply. “Explain yourself.”

Behind him, Apollo and Athena are staring at Phoenix with equal accusation and disappointment. Unfair! He doesn’t even know what he’s done, there’s no way they do. Taking Miles’ side automatically is total bull; he’s not the one paying their salary.

“Uh…” Phoenix says, scrambling for a response.

“Hey, boss, we’re going to go…” Apollo gestures vaguely.

“Away,” Athena adds helpfully. “Anywhere else! For a while.”

“Great, nice going, that was totally obvious,” Apollo gripes as the two of them hurry out the door. Miles doesn’t even turn around, and usually he’s very nice to Phoenix’s employees. Nicer than he is to Phoenix, anyway, although that’s not completely unjustified…

Still, why exactly is he getting yelled at this time?

Phoenix gets up and walks around, putting his hand on the desktop for emphasis. “What is this about, Miles?”

Miles thrusts the paper at Phoenix and Phoenix takes it. He skims it without comprehension for a second; then he grins.

“Oh hey, it ran. I didn’t know that was going to be today.”

Phoenix hums a little to himself as he looks over A Day In Court With Miles Edgeworth. He knew they would have to wait for a slower news day to take over the front page, but it was totally worth it. The pictures are good ones- a little too good, maybe. Phoenix frowns a little at that. Especially this one, the most recent, where Miles is smiling with his arms crossed and his head tilted to one side in good lighting. Paired with an article singing his praises, it’s practically a personals ad.

“What is this?” Miles challenges, and Phoenix refocuses his attention.

“It’s a newspaper article about you. That happens all the time, you know.” He hands it back to Miles who just sort of smacks it onto the desk, rattling Phoenix’s coffee cup.

“Not like this, they don’t! I know it was you, don’t try to deny it.”

“I’m not,” Phoenix says soothingly. “Look, Spark and I-”

“Spark Brushnel?!”

“Spark and I sat down and talked it over. Like, what kind of thing would work to get the muckraking to stop looking like it’ll move papers. This is what we came up with. It’s got quotes from every side- fellow prosecutors, opposing defense, judges, overseas connects, and a couple of convicted and acquitted defendants who all had good things to say about you. It makes the concept of retreading those same jerkass article topics old news; Spark doesn’t think they’ll bother.”

What Spark had really said was “Stop All The Presses: Turnabout Terror Turns Trash Tabloid Into Love Letter,” but whatever. The point was it solved a problem for Miles and so Phoenix was happy to give it a shot. He’d thought Miles would get irritated over it, but Phoenix hadn’t thought he’d get called out for it so quickly.

“You must have called in every favor you could think of,” Miles says in a low voice.

Phoenix shrugs. “You’re the one who did all the hard work. All I had to do was ask around. It’s all true, every word- you’re a hell of a guy, and fantastic at your job. People should know that.” Phoenix spares another glance over at the picture. And now they know he’s hot, too. That’s unfortunate; Miles is popular enough as it is.

“Why would you do something like this?” Miles demands.

Phoenix straightens, suddenly serious. “Don’t ask me something like that when you’re going to get mad about the answer,” he warns. He has been really, really good about not saying it. It’s not fair for Miles to goad him into it and get pissed off about it later.

Miles abruptly kisses him.

It’s a soft, insistent press of lips; Phoenix doesn’t even have the chance to react before it’s gone again.

“I didn’t intend to do that,” Miles says, a little horrified.

“Okay,” Phoenix says slowly, fighting a smile. “I liked it, though. Ah, for the record.”

“Yes, well. Don’t read too much into it. This is not us reconciling.”

“I know,” Phoenix agrees. “That’s not why I did it.”

“It’s not, is it,” Miles says absently, then he leans in again. This kiss lasts long enough for Phoenix to put his hand on Miles’ arm, and for Miles to reach up to lay his fingers lightly against Phoenix’s jaw.

“...did you mean to do it that time?” Phoenix asks afterward.

“I think so,” Miles says with regret.

“Should probably double check.” Phoenix suggests hopefully.

“I believe I already did,” Miles says, raising an eyebrow, but he hasn’t let go of Phoenix’s face.

“Triple check, then,” Phoenix requests, and he’s the one to lean in this time.

There’s no pause at all between the third and the fourth, the fourth and the fifth, or when Phoenix loses track around seven.

Eventually it seems to occur to Miles that he had not come here with the intention of making out with Phoenix in his office midday midweek and he untangles himself where they’ve somehow ended up pressed together; Phoenix half-sitting on his desk corner.

“I’m leaving now,” he announces, only slightly out of breath.

“Hang on,” Phoenix says, reaching for his maroon jacket. When all he does is straighten it out and smooth out the creases, Miles actually looks a little disappointed. Phoenix risks a short little kiss to the corner of his mouth, and that disappointment melts away.

“Thank you for, ah, clarifying.” Miles says with great dignity.

“Thanks for coming by.” Phoenix smiles a little wryly. “You’re welcome anytime.”

Miles frowns. “I need you to know that this doesn’t mean-”

“Anything. I know,” Phoenix says gently.

“Well,” Miles huffs, staring at Phoenix like he does in court, when Phoenix has missed a very obvious and damning fact against the prosecution. “It means something. Obviously.”

He shuts the door firmly. It is only after Phoenix has let out a yell, fist pumped, and fallen back into his chair, spinning in happy circles until he’s dizzy that he remembers how thin the walls are.

There’s a message blinking on his phone.

Really, Wright. You couldn’t wait until I had left the building?

Phoenix smiles down at the message, completely charmed.

no fucking way, he texts back.

~~

Things seem normal after that, although sometimes when he’s around Miles and not being careful, Phoenix will think about that day in the office and his grin turns a little sickening. Mostly, Miles politely ignores it. Sometimes he doesn’t, though.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Miles says sternly at Trucy’s show some time later. “You’re meant to be looking at the stage.”

“Sorry,” Phoenix says, surprised, then turns his attention back to the pyrotechnics. They really do look good like that, all synched up with My Boyfriend is the Prosecution’s Witness. Apollo doesn’t seem to like this part of the performance, though; he’s sitting at a table with Athena and a conspicuously empty seat, chin in his hand and gaze sort of far off.

In the dark, a hand brushes against Phoenix’s. He glances over but Miles is watching the show. Phoenix looks straight ahead too. Their fingers interlace under the table. Phoenix rubs his thumb against Miles’ wrist idly; they hold hands until the lights come up.

~~

When the phone rings, Phoenix picks it up without a second thought.

“I am free on Saturday evening,” Miles announces without saying hello.

“Uh. Okay. Me too?” Phoenix says, surprised. He hopes he is. Where did he put that calendar? He shuffles through the debris on his desk with one hand.

“You are,” Miles says assuredly. “I’ve asked Trucy already.”

“Oh. Well, then. Looks like I’m free Saturday too,” Phoenix grins. “What are we doing?”

“You may take me to dinner.”

“Wait. Really? Uh, just dinner? Where do you want to go?” Phoenix scrambles for a pen this time with better luck.

Miles scoffs. “I am not going to be responsible for my own wooing, Wright. Provided that is a thing you do.”

“Miles, I will do literally anything you want. I want to take you to dinner, though. And uh… some other date-like activity first.”

“Very specific,” Miles drawls, as though Phoenix should have had a list prepared. Although, maybe in hindsight, Phoenix should have had a list prepared.

“It’s a surprise,” Phoenix bluffs.

In the end, Phoenix takes him to minigolf.

“You googled top first date ideas, didn’t you?” Miles asks, clearly torn between amusement and disgust. Which, fair.

“You love golf,” Phoenix says bravely because he does not, in fact, know if Miles loves golf. It’s not a thing that ever came up in conversation before, as Phoenix does not love golf. But rich people like golf and so this seemed like the least far-fetched of the far-fetched options on the Buzzfeed listicles.

“Minigolf is not golf,” Miles tells him severely, then unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling up the sleeves. “And I am out of practice. It was something Von Karma insisted I master, as it is a gentleman’s sport and handy for rubbing elbows with judges and politicians. I have not played in years.”

“Exactly,” Phoenix says sagely. “Which is why I went with minigolf. Uh, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Miles echoes. He proceeds to beat the pants off Phoenix, making a hole in one nearly every other green. Phoenix manages to lose his ball completely around hole six. He loses his club somewhere around nine. After that he just follows Miles down the line and quickly realizes that Miles was somewhat holding back, before. Now he sinks each ball the first go round with an almost bored expression. Only his little glances back at Phoenix to make sure he’s suitably impressed give him away.

“God, I love you.” Phoenix says, slipping up at the final eighteen. He almost thinks he got away with it when Miles doesn’t react right away. Instead, Miles drops his club off at the end of the range and they head out to the road. There’s a noodle place in walking distance with really good Thai tea, according to Yelp.

“You could have kissed me in the car,” Miles says.

“Yeah?” Phoenix smiles at that, thinking of the drive out here and the almost tension that made their conversation stilted in the best kind of way.

“In Gavin’s driveway,” Miles clarifies, and Phoenix’s smile drops.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“I knew the moment we met again in court that you were going to be my doom, one way or another,” Miles says briskly. “The how was a bit confused, but you have a knack for that. I love you now as I loved you then, and as I shall, I imagine, in perpetuity. Thank you for humoring my attempts to do otherwise. Are you really going to allow me to dictate the terms of our relationship going forward?”

“Yes,” Phoenix says. “I’m not saying we’ll never fight, but the things you want are things I want too. I want them for me, and I want to give them to you.”

“And if I become possessive? Insecure? Jealous? I have exercised patience for many years. I don’t believe I have much left. I may sabotage the situation over something quite innocuous. What I am saying is that the fact that we’re in love does not negate a great deal of the difficulties between us.”

“You’re a reasonable person,” Phoenix says. “I think we’ll have our problems, but I’m okay with that.”

“I may become unreasonable.”

“You keep trying to talk me out of this,” Phoenix says with a little laugh, “but if I’m the thing holding you back, it’s a lost cause. I changed my life for you, I want this more than I can say. The only thing I’m going to regret is how much I hurt you before.”

Miles stops in the middle of the parking lot of Bangkok Rose and turns to look at him, lit in neon pink from the blinking sign. It’s one of those moments, in a quiet, mundane place, that haunts you always. The way the gravel crunches underfoot, the air cool and crisp, just enough to keep hands in warm pockets; Miles, lovely and stern but softening, as he only ever does when they’re together.

“I’m desperate for you, Phoenix,” he says. “Please don’t break my heart again.”

“I won’t,” Phoenix swears. “I promise. I won’t.”

~~

Miles hates the tea. Phoenix gets a second date anyway.

~~

Phoenix meets Thalassa Gramarye in a cafe across from the courthouse at ten am.

“I know it must have cost you greatly to see me,” she says. “Thank you.” She puts her hand on the table, meeting him halfway. Phoenix keeps his hands in his lap.

“No,” he says. “Everyone knows exactly where I am and who I’m with. And they already know what I’m going to say to you.”

She withdraws her hand slowly.

“I’m not sorry for forcing your memories back on you. I probably should have asked, but I think you would have said you didn’t want them, and that’s not fair to Trucy and Apollo. When you decided to keep it hidden at first, I got it. When you dragged it out for years, that was selfishly for you. It was on me, though, to keep letting you do it. If I made you remember, I should have made you tell them- or I should have done it myself and just let you be pissed about it. It wasn’t fair for me to take the reins and give up halfway.”

“You can’t do this anymore. You can’t use me as a proxy to get to Trucy and you can’t use Trucy as a proxy to get to Apollo. It was always going to be hard, but you’ve made it all a lot harder on yourself. Stop calling. Go back on tour, or go write a sad album in the countryside. They’re young, who knows what might happen? But if anything does, they’ll be the ones calling the shots. If you keep this up, they’re going to hate you. That’s hard to walk back.”

“They’re my children,” Thalassa says, blinking softly. “I’m their mother.”

Phoenix shakes his head. “Maybe on paper, but you haven’t been there. Some of that wasn’t your fault, but too much of it was, at this point. You’re just one more person who let them down.”

“So you… sacrifice me, in order to stay in their lives? That is my place,” she says, eyes darkening. “I belong there, not you.”

“Then why aren’t you there, Thalassa?” Phoenix asks, tired. “Why is it me?”

She can’t answer.

“You wanted to talk, so we talked.” Phoenix says, getting to his feet. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry it happened this way. I should have pushed you to make better choices, but you called the shots here. If you want advice from one screw up parent to another, it’s this: be there when they’re ready. Those kids have been giving all they have, trying to get someone to notice and love them. All we ever did was take. There’s nothing left for you right now; you’ve got to wait for it to grow back again before you can ask for any more.”

“Goodbye, Phoenix Wright,” Thalassa says, rather coldly. Her shoulders are very straight; she looks lovely and regal and alone.

“Goodbye,” he says.

~~

Outside, there’s a red sports car waiting. He gets into the passenger side and heaves out a sigh.

“How was it?” Miles asks kindly, not because he can’t tell by looking, but because he thinks Phoenix might want to talk about it.

“Not great, but it’s over,” Phoenix says, smiling weakly. “It’s between her and them, now, just like it should have been from the start. Believe it or not, it’s kind of a relief.”

“I believe it. Where do you want to go now?” Miles asks. “We have the day off. Let me be kind to you.”

“Anywhere,” Phoenix says. He closes his eyes because he feels like crying. He’s in love and he’s loved, he’s happy and also part of other people’s happiness. No one who matters hates him anymore- not even himself. “I just want to go with you.”

Miles puts the car into gear and they drive off together.

Chapter Text

Apollo watches Phoenix Wright unveil the small gold plate next to the law office’s front door.

“Ta-dah!” He says and Trucy produces a flurry of confetti from nowhere.

“I am not cleaning that up,” Apollo grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and fighting a pleased smile at the freshly engraved Wright and Justice, Attorneys at Law. He hopes they all go inside soon; he wants to sneak back out and take a selfie next to it.

“Cleaning what up, Polly?” Trucy asks innocently. He looks down and the confetti has all vanished, as though it had never been.

“Cute trick. If only it worked on cleaning your room,” Phoenix says to Trucy playfully.

“Where do you think all the confetti goes, Daddy?” Trucy asks with a pout.

It’s still weird to see their traveling sideshow routine, but Apollo finds he hates it less now. Exposure therapy, and all. They’re not going away, and neither is he, so if he has to be the straightman to their one-two punches sometimes, he guesses that’s okay.

“Say cheese, Polly!” Trucy says, and Apollo looks up, startled. Athena snaps a picture with a too-bright flash and he reels.

“Oh yeah, this one’s going on the wall,” Phoenix says with a grin. Apollo checks the screen over his new law partner’s shoulder: his eyes are half closed, his mouth twisted up in confusion, washed out by the flash. It is one of the worst pictures of himself he has ever seen, which is saying a lot- Apollo isn’t particularly photogenic to begin with. Apollo glares at Phoenix wordlessly.

“I’m kidding! Of course, ha, totally, totally kidding. Deleting… and done! Seriously, it’s gone, stop looking at me like that, you’re going to hurt my feelings. Trucy, don’t you have a tripod in those magic panties somewhere? Come on, Athena, let’s all take one together…”

This one is nice. When Phoenix gets a copy framed for the office, he gives another one to Apollo for home. Apollo lays it on his desk. He likes Athena’s and the rent is reasonable, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of place to put a picture like this. He knows where he wants it: on a dark purple accent wall, iridescent with tiny subtle silver patterning, above the havsta combination glass and wood storage shelves. It had been bare still, six months ago. Apollo’s legal textbooks would have looked really nice there.

A month after Apollo left Klavier’s, Klavier had called- just the once, with a vague sort of invitation for food, the way he had before.

“I don’t think so,” Apollo had said as gently as he could.

After that, it was done. Klavier didn’t call and Apollo didn’t call and it sucks an incredible amount because Apollo finds that living with your long term crush for four months while your life falls apart and slowly rebuilds itself is basically a one way ticket to serious, unavoidable capital F Feelings. He’s at least been too busy to really brood, so thank god for small favors. They’ve already been no contact for longer than they were hanging out to begin with. How long does it take to get over someone you never actually dated?

Apollo doesn’t mean to bring it up. He’s handing over some time-sensitive paperwork to the Chief Prosecutor and it just sort of slips out.

“So,” Apollo says, ninety-nine point nine percent sure that he’s making a huge mistake. “Haven’t seen Prosecutor Gavin in court much lately.”

The Chief Prosecutor, who had already greeted Apollo politely and turned back to his work, now gives Apollo his full, careful attention, pen pausing mid-signature. This evaluation sweeps across Apollo’s face and then over his general appearance in a way that is casual yet calculated. He wonders, suppressing a little shiver, what exactly the other man sees.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have,” Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth says finally. It is a non-answer; the conversation dies.

“Right,” Apollo says, trying not to wilt. Whatever the Chief Prosecutor had been looking for, he must not have found it. “Well, have a good rest of your afternoon-”

“I am taking the afternoon off, actually,” the Chief Prosecutor says, signing his name on the final line and putting the papers back into their folder. He stands and walks around the desk, reaching for his coat on a nearby hook. “I’ll be driving to your office, as a matter of fact. Let me give you a ride back.”

“Oh,” Apollo says, surprised. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother, and I have my bike…”

“Nonsense,” the Chief Prosecutor says dismissively, handing the papers to his secretary on the way out the door. “I’m quite used to ferrying those around. No doubt yours is cleaner than Wright’s, anyway.”

(It is)

When Apollo gets into the ridiculously fancy car, gingerly tucking his feet exactly on the center of the pristine floor mat and closing the door, he gets the distinct feeling that a trap has just snapped shut. The Chief Prosecutor puts the car into gear.

“Klavier is an interesting young man,” he says mildly.

“Uh,” Apollo says, caught off guard. “Yeah? I mean he was a teenage rock god prosecutor, so. Pretty interesting.”

“I think that’s precisely what makes it so interesting,” the Chief Prosecutor continues. “How uninteresting he is otherwise.”

Apollo blinks, stung. “Hey,” he says. “Klavier’s interesting.”

“Oh?”

“He might not have all his ducks in a row or anything, but he’s smart and good at his job.” Apollo winces when he realizes that he’s circled back around again. “I like him,” Apollo admits lamely. “We’re friends.” Sort of, anyway.

“I know,” the Chief Prosecutor says, amused. “At any rate, I believe you’re misinterpreting the context somewhat. You see, I once was a very uninteresting young man myself, so I can speak with some authority on the subject.”

“I… doubt that.” Apollo says, eyeing his cravat out of the corner of one eye.

“Verily. My outlandish style of dress, my courtroom manners, my very dictation were all carefully cultivated products of my mentor. Even my hopes and deepest nightmares were eventually attributed to that man. I felt quite hollow, then. There was nothing to delineate myself as an individual with agency, and so I decided to give agency up. It went poorly.”

“Is this about that gap year before the Engarde trial?” Apollo asks curiously.

“You do like to have your facts straight, don’t you? I think you’d have made quite the prosecutor. Let me know if you’re ever interested in seeing things from the other side.”

“You should have asked me eight months ago,” Apollo snorts.

“I suppose what I am trying to say is… it can be difficult for someone who has lost their sense of self to accept external validation, particularly when it comes to support from those who genuinely care. There simply does not seem to be anything there to care for. It inspires a feeling of self-loathing and of contempt- how foolish someone must be to concern themselves with someone like me. Maudlin, but effective. In hindsight, things would have been much easier on me if I had not cut and run, you see.”

“So I shouldn’t have cut and run,” Apollo says morosely.

“Mm… I wouldn’t say that. I think in your case it’s more a question of… when to stop running?” The Chief Prosecutor pulls to a stop, putting the car into park.

“….this isn’t the agency,” Apollo says flatly.

“Yes, well. I didn’t lie. I do intend to stop at the agency. In fact I think I shall head that way in, say, twenty minutes.” The Chief Prosecutor makes a show of checking his expensive Rolex. Apollo scowls.

“Now Mr. Justice, you have several options at hand. You can sit with me and have a perfectly pleasant conversation on any topic you like for twenty minutes. We can sit in silence, if you are cross over the minor deception. Should you want to take a taxi, you are also welcome- though it is likely the twenty minutes will be up before one can arrive, so I‘d advise saving your money. Or…”

“Or,” Apollo sighs. “I can go inside.”

“You can go inside,” the Chief Prosecutor agrees. “And if it goes poorly, come back in twenty minutes and we will carry on. And if it goes well, perhaps you won’t need that ride after all.”

Apollo gets out of the car and walks up the drive to knock on Klavier’s front door. There’s no answer. He knocks again, a little more firmly, and the front door creaks opens slightly; it had not been closed all the way. Feeling like a grade A creep, he looks back over at Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth waiting behind the wheel of his car; he gives Apollo an awkward thumbs up. It’s not a very Miles Edgeworth gesture; Apollo blames Phoenix Wright entirely for this situation. A heartbroken Chief Prosecutor would have minded his own fucking business.

Steeling himself, Apollo pushes the door open and steps inside.

The place is surprisingly clean. A little dusty, maybe, but it looks a lot like he left it. There’s faint music playing; Apollo follows it back toward the bedrooms. Klavier’s door is not quite closed either and Apollo can hear him moving around on the other side. Apollo knocks on the doorframe.

The music cuts off abruptly.

“Hallo, Apollo,” Klavier says from inside.

Apollo pushes the door open a little. “Hi,” he says. The room is a disaster the way it always is when someone without decent organization skills is getting ready for a trip. Clothes are strewn everywhere: there’s a single ankle boot on the bedside table. “Going somewhere?”

“Returning,” Klavier says curtly.

“Oh,” Apollo says. Klavier looks stupidly good, dressed casually with his hair half tied up, half falling down. It would take hours for most people to look like that on purpose, but Klavier just kind of looks like that all the time. Apollo has missed looking at him. “Uh… did you have a nice trip?”

“I went to scatter Kristoph’s ashes with my parents, so. Danke.”

Apollo flinches. “Sorry,” he says hastily. “I’m- sorry, wow.”

“No, no. Let me apologize. That was not the answer you wanted. Let me try again.” Klavier yanks a dress shirt out of his suitcase by the sleeve roughly. “I have been abroad and only just returned. Yes, my trip was ser gut, thank you for asking. Oh, I have been well, and yourself?”

“I get the feeling you’re upset with me,” Apollo says slowly.

Klavier throws the shirt back on top of the suitcase. “I am not upset,” he says. “I am angry.”

“W-What?” Apollo sputters. “Angry? What did I do?”

Klavier laughs a little meanly, shaking his head. “You don’t even see it, mein gott. At least I know what’s wrong with me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Apollo asks, getting a little angry himself. Where is this coming from?

“You are the reasonable one, ja? Everyone else is so silly, so unreliable. What a saint you are for putting up with us all. You’re the one who called me. You’re the one who dug a little nest into my life and didn’t leave. Did you think I was hosting dinner parties and game nights when you were gone? I could barely think; Herr Edgeworth had to reassign me to bail hearings because I wasn’t fit for trial. You went right back into your life without me once you didn’t need me anymore. And you give Trucy a hard time for being Gramarye!”

Apollo’s temper flares. “That is not fair,” he says sharply. “You were doing me a favor, that doesn’t mean I had to be responsible for you. You’re an adult, take care of yourself.”

“I am,” Klavier snaps back.

“And you know what? If you wanted me to be around so bad, why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you call more or just show up? You know where I am, not like I was hiding-”

“Because,” Klavier interrupts, “I’m not you.”

Apollo bristles. “Not an asshole, you mean.”

“Not brave enough,” Klavier says. “Look at you- you walked into my house. After six months! Ich glaub’ ich spinne. You are the most audacious person I have ever met, you throw your boss in jail, deck a man in the middle of the courthouse, what won’t you do? I should have expected you to barge your way in a second time. I can’t even be depressed in my own house anymore, it’s too clean. Ach! You’re always dragging me around, I don’t know how I can still be surprised.”

“I missed you,” Apollo says, looking closely at the nervous way Klavier keeps crossing and re-crossing his arms, like he’s keeping himself from reaching out to Apollo by force of will. “I thought about you all the time.”

“You’re the one being unfair,” Klavier says, glaring. “Fix und alle. You make me tired.”

“It wouldn’t have worked, would it? If I stuck around, I mean. It could have ended up pretty ugly.” Apollo picks up the boot off the side table. Klavier bends down to retrieve its pair from under the bed.

“I don’t know,” Klavier says, letting Apollo take it. “I would have tried, but I wasn’t good for much. I’m still pissed; you burned that bridge while I was crossing it.”

“Yeah,” Apollo agrees. “It was shitty of me to do that. I’m sorry.” He puts the boots into the closet on the shelf. Together they set the rest of the room to rights.

~~

It’s sort of hopscotching backwards, but they decide mutually to give dating a shot. It’s a little weird after their full blown domesticity, but Apollo figures that out of order is better than skipping steps altogether. They meet up at a mid-priced Italian place downtown; Apollo actually wears his suit jacket for once.

“I have some questions, before we proceed,” Klavier says, opening his small notebook with the Gavineers cover as soon as the server takes their order.

“Fire away,” Apollo says.

“Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

Apollo blinks, confused. “Uh… what?” Klavier waits patiently. “You, I guess? That’s why I’m here.”

“I see,” Klavier says. “I feel the same. Next, would you like to be famous? And if so, in what way?”

“I don’t really like that kind of thing, so I don’t know how well this would have worked at peak Gavinners fame. Hell, I got a footnote on your wikipedia article after the Target trip for about a week, and that was weird enough. I don’t think I’ll mind a little pressure, though, if we’re trying this.” Apollo answers, or thinks he answers.

“I enjoy being famous, but less than I did in the past. Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?” Klavier asks.

“Okay, no, what is this?” Apollo makes a grab for the notebook but Klavier has long arms, so he pulls it out of range easily.

“No, that’s fine. We can skip that one, I have heard you practicing in the next room before calling for take out. What would constitute a perfect day for you?”

Apollo breaks his date-rule and fishes his phone out of his pocket; he types in a few keywords from the last few questions and hits search.

“Really? 36 Questions that Lead to Love?” Apollo asks incredulously. Across the table, Klavier closes the notebook, face going a bit pink.

“I am just making conversation, Herr Forehead, which is what a person is meant to do on a date. How else am I to know what your intentions are? If you’re so smart, you can carry the conversation, seinen senf dazugeben…”

“Move in with me,” Apollo says impulsively. Klavier shuts up. “Or, I guess I’m asking to move in with you,” he corrects himself.

“You are completely mad,” Klavier says, incredulous. “We are on a first date.”

“I keep thinking about how you called me a Gramarye the other day. You know, I don’t ever think I thought about myself that way. That makes sense, they’re shitty people in general, but I think I was trying to put so much distance between me and them I sort of stopped seeing the bigger picture. Maybe if I was just more of an asshole up front I could get the things I want a little faster without dragging it out and making stuff worse. So here it goes: Let me move in with you. I want to live in your nice house and see you every day, and then you can’t date anyone else because I’ll be in the way.”

Klavier actually puts a hand to his chest, like a little old lady who has been told a particularly rude joke. “That is the most selfish thing anyone has asked of me,” he says in shock.

“Sure,” Apollo agrees. “Daryan and Kristoph weren’t in the habit of asking. You can tell me no, I’m just… done acting polite about it, I think. I want you and I like you, and I think if you gave me another couple of months cohabiting we wouldn’t need some hack article from the New York Times to get serious.”

“What happened to you?” Klavier asks. “Did working for Wright somehow infect you with the absurd? Even he and the Chief Prosecutor aren’t at that stage, it is luftschloss.”

Apollo shakes his head. “No, they’re weird, one of these days the Chief Prosecutor is probably going to just buy the house next door and give it to him and Trucy to avoid asking altogether.” Klavier snorts a laugh. “It’s fine, actually. I think they got a little better and I got a little… worse? Do you still like me?”

“I’d still like you if you had burned my house down with all the Gavineers merch still inside,” Klavier admits.

“I would have dragged it out into the yard,” Apollo protests. “And anyway, you’ve thought about it.”

“The fire or you moving back in?”

“Both?” Apollo guesses.

“Ist mir wurst, I don’t care.” Klavier stabs into his salad vigorously. “You’re running me in circles. Move in, then, you menace.”

“Great,” Apollo says, turning to the bread basket. “I hope you’re good with cats.”

~~

You wouldn’t think an eighteen year old girl would be helpful in a move, but when she’s also the world’s greatest magician, it works surprisingly well. She somehow vanishes half his books off the shelves and onto the truck in labeled boxes in the span of two minutes; Apollo claps politely.

Apollo has these strange, out of body thoughts pretty regularly now. Like, oh, okay, this is what having a sister is like or hey, so having a partner instead of a boss is pretty neat, huh? Sometimes those thoughts are a little less about what he’s seeing than what he never has. As much as Apollo wanted to wash his hands clean of anything that pissed him off, he’s starting to see that you can’t just do that if you ever want answers. You have to pick and choose, give and take. He’s just… not willing to give. It doesn’t have to be that black and white, though. There’s really only one person who would get that.

Apollo drops his boxes of law books by the havsta shelves and leans the picture of the Wright Agency carefully on top; he’ll finish unpacking with Klavier when he gets home from work. In the grand tradition of paying friends and family for helping with the obnoxious task of moving, Apollo buys the two of them pizza, which they eat sprawled out on the living room floor.

“I want you to do something,” Apollo requests.

Trucy hums, sipping her soda through a funny pink flamingo straw she’s taken to carrying around lately. “Sure, Polly, but I just helped you move! Don’t you think you should space these things out a little bit?”

“No,” Apollo says. “I would if I was tricking you, but I’m not as good at that. I just have to come out and tell you when I want things.”

“Fair,” she agrees. “No finesse at all, you’d be an awful magician. Lay it on me!”

“I want you to talk to Lamiror. Thalassa, I mean.”

Trucy sits back against the bottom of the couch, putting her drink on the floor with a thunk. “What? Why, are you talking to her?”

“No,” Apollo says. “I won’t.”

Trucy scrunches her nose, frustrated. “Polly, that’s not fair! Why should I? I don’t want to. Is it because you think I’m missing out or something, because I’m really not.”

“No.” Apollo drums his fingers on the table for a moment before speaking. “It’s selfish. There’s a lot of things I want to know, but I don’t want to talk to her. I’m pissed and I kind of hate her still. I want you to do it for me so I don’t have to. Then you can tell me what I want to know without me having to put in any work at all until I feel like it. It’s cheating. Will you?”

“Oh.” Trucy’s eyes are huge. She smiles then, tremulous and oddly proud. “Polly, yes. Of course I will. I’ll call her tomorrow and tell you all about it.”

And as she pulls him in for a hug, it is the first time that Apollo has ever felt properly like a Gramarye.