Work Text:
The dust motes were dancing in the afternoon sunlight that filtered through the office blinds, and Apollo Justice was feeling pretty good about his life. Almost a year at Gavin & Co Law. Almost a year of watching the Kristoph Gavin, Coolest Defense Attorney in the West, work magic in the courtroom. Almost a year of trying to live up to that impossible standard.
Apollo clutched the case files to his chest, adjusting his tie with his free hand. He was going to impress Mr. Gavin today. He had organized the brief perfectly, highlighted every relevant precedent, and he was going to walk into that office with confidence.
He pushed open the door. "Mr. Gavin, I finished the–"
"Ae–!"
The sound was small. Delicate. Barely audible.
It was also coming from his boss, who was standing by his bookshelf with a feather duster in one elegant hand, his hair slightly mussed, and his face contorted into an expression Apollo had never seen before—eyes squeezed shut, nose wrinkled, mouth open in a silent gasp.
Apollo froze. "Um... Mr. Gavin?"
Kristoph Gavin sneezed.
It wasn't the dignified, restrained achoo of a professional man. It wasn't even the polite stifle of someone trying to maintain decorum. It was a tiny, high-pitched, unmistakably kitten-like sound: "Ee-chyu!"
Apollo's brain short-circuited.
"Ah." Kristoph opened his eyes, immediately composing his features into that familiar, serene smile. But his eyes were watering slightly, and there was a faint pink flush spreading across his cheeks. "Justice. I wasn't expecting you."
"Sorry! I should have knocked. I'll come back–"
"No, no, it's quite alright." Kristoph set down the feather duster and reached for his teacup with a hand that was definitely trembling. "I was simply tidying. Spring cleaning, you know. The maids missed a spot behind the legal encyclopedias."
He took a sip. His nose twitched. Apollo watched, transfixed, as Kristoph Gavin—who had never once in eleven months shown anything less than perfect composure—set down his cup and pressed a curled finger to his lips.
"Mr. Gavin," Apollo said carefully, "are you... okay?"
"Perfectly fine, Justice." The smile didn't waver. "Now, about those files–"
"Ee-chyu! Ee-chyu! Ee—chyu!"
Three in rapid succession. Each one smaller and more devastatingly adorable than the last. Apollo bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
Kristoph Gavin was sneezing like a kitten. Like a tiny, angry kitten who had gotten into the catnip and was having regrets. His shoulders hunched with each one, his hair falling over his forehead, his composure shattering into a million glittering pieces with every high-pitched chyu.
And he couldn't stop.
"Ee-chyu! Ah, excuse me—ee-chyu!"
"Mr. Gavin–"
"I—ee-chyu!—I'm quite alright, Justice, I assure—ee-chyu!—you."
Apollo's hands were shaking. His face felt hot. There was a hysterical bubble of laughter building in his chest that he knew, he knew, would end his career if he let it escape. He gripped the files until his knuckles turned white, staring at the ceiling, at the floor, at anywhere but the sight of his immaculate, untouchable, perfect boss having an allergic meltdown in the middle of his own office.
"Perhaps," Kristoph gasped, pressing a silk handkerchief to his face, his voice muffled and wobbling in a way that was absolutely illegal, "Perhaps you could—ee-chyu!—fetch my antihistamines from the—ee-chyu!—restroom cabinet?"
"YES! I mean yes, sir, right away, sir!"
Apollo bolted.
He made it to the hallway before he had to press his forehead against the cool wall and bite his fist to keep from screaming. Kristoph Gavin. Sneezed. Like a kitten. Kristoph Gavin, who had once called a prosecutor's logic "so unintelligible it borders on clinically concerning," who played the violin like he was trying to seduce the instrument itself, who had never shown weakness for even a second–
"Ee-chyu!"
The sound drifted through the closed door, followed by a soft, frustrated groan that Apollo would take to his grave.
He took three deep breaths. He was a professional. He was an attorney. He had faced down murderers and liars and prosecutors. He could handle this. He could absolutely handle this.
Apollo walked back into the office with the bottle of antihistamines held out like a peace offering, his face arranged into what he hoped was a neutral, respectful expression.
Kristoph had retreated behind his desk, slightly less disheveled but no less pink. He accepted the pills with a nod that tried to be dignified and mostly succeeded at being exhausted.
"Thank you, Justice." He cleared his throat, a sound that was almost but not quite a tiny chyu. "I trust you'll... disregard what you witnessed here today."
Apollo looked at his boss, really looked at him. At the watery blue eyes, at the hair that definitely had dust in it now, at the way Kristoph Gavin was trying so desperately to rebuild the walls of his own mystique with nothing but sheer force of will and a silk handkerchief.
"Witnessed, sir?" Apollo said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I didn't witness anything. Just... spring cleaning."
Kristoph's smile softened into something almost real. Almost vulnerable. "You're a good man, Justice."
And then, because the universe hated Apollo Justice specifically, Kristoph Gavin sneezed one last time—"Ee-chyu!"—and Apollo had to physically turn around and face the wall to keep from making a noise that would have gotten him fired for unprofessional conduct.
"Go," Kristoph said, with what dignity he had left. "Brief on my desk by five."
"Yes, sir."
Apollo made it to the hallway before he started laughing so hard he had to slide down the wall and hold his sides.
He respected his boss to the end. He really, truly did. But he was never going to unhear that sneeze.
And somewhere, deep in the most unprofessional corner of his heart, he was pretty sure he didn't want to.