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His boss is in prison.
Well, his former boss. Previous boss. Ex-boss. Whatever. Getting his W-2 back is going to be a nightmare no matter what you call it.
Is he his boss now? Apollo can’t imagine the man Phoenix Wright has become processing an employment form, much less doing his own taxes. Is this Wright Anything Agency outfit even legal?
The line moves and Apollo’s thrown forward with it.
The woman behind him offers an awkward apology. At least she makes an effort to sound genuine.
She gets a polite smile for her trouble. “I’m fine.”
He can worry about the legitimacy of his new employer later.
In the time since Mr. Gav— In the time since he last went on a pre-trial coffee run, he has almost forgotten how packed this place could get this time of day. The kind of crowd that used to make his skin crawl—the heat and low susurrus of too many organisms crammed together, all moving and breathing, but not as one.
Really, he thought he’d grown out of this by now, but apparently the two months he spent languoring in unemployment has done as much of a reset on his social tolerance as it has his bank account.
He rubs his temples, and tries to focus on his breathing. Seven seconds in through the nose, five out through the mouth. Seven seconds in…
It’s a wonder why he bothers, really. He has a perfectly fine coffee machine at home. He could be spending this time reviewing his notes on the Kitaki case. Then again, he’s been doing exactly that all night to no avail, and now his eyes burn from the long hours spent gazing into the blue light of his laptop. If it weren’t for the itching roar of ambient noise in the shop, he’d swear he could hear his eyelids sticking together like taffy.
Coffee. That's right. Just get coffee and go.
A register opens up, and he steps ahead, propping a hand up against the counter in a silent plea to stay standing.
“Americano, medium.” Another deep breath. “And, uh, make it a double shot.”
The barista arches an eyebrow in recognition. “Two?” He gestures for emphasis.
“Yeah, thanks,” he huffs. God, he must look worse than he feels if even a damn barista is judging him for extra espresso. He'll need to freshen up at the courthouse. Splash some water on his face, something. He cards a hand through his hair, wondering if he still has eye drops in his bag.
It must say something about how far gone he is that Apollo almost pays nearly fifteen dollars for a single cup of coffee.
“Wait, that can’t be right.” He squints down at the display, card in hand.
“Two caffé Americanos, right?” The barista cocks his head. “The usual, add a double shot.”
“The usual?” he mutters, and it comes out more exasperated than intended, but something about the word sends him reeling. He blinks a few times and tries to pin down the meaning, but the fog of sleep deprivation makes him feel like he’s drowning, grasping for an anchor.
A familiar voice whispers into his ear. It smiles with teeth.
Do try not to embarrass me, Justice.
The chills that roll down his spine are a comfort. His mind flails, willing himself to return to his body where he can grab hold of the thread now tugging at his memories and pull.
That's right. It is his usual.
No, not Apollo’s usual. It’s their usual. His and Gavin's.
It's not even his coffee shop, either. Some overpriced joint downtown Apollo wrinkled his nose at on his first trip here. All looks, no soul. Fine for a reimbursed coffee run to and from Gavin Law Offices, but still nowhere near the courthouse.
Gavin always made him go out of his way, though. What was it he said about the specialty beans? He can't remember now under the blinding glare of the fluorescents.
What am I doing here?
His hand goes to swipe his card before he knows what he’s doing. It takes a few tries. When did I start shaking?
“Of course! Yes, t-that’s… you’re right!” he barks with a laugh he knows sounds forced, voice cracking around the edges, but it’s hard to care over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “Sorry, uh. Late night.”
The man behind the counter hums in a gentle tone, but Apollo doesn’t catch the words that follow. Simply nods his head while signing the electronic receipt, avoiding the concern written on his features like the plague. Something tells him he doesn’t want to know what he’ll see there.
Get out, get out, get out.
He grabs the order and books it the moment his name is called and makes it over a dozen blocks until the cup in his left hand—Gavin’s, always Mr. Gavin’s—falls heavy in his grasp.
It’s the middle of summer, and the scalding heat against his palms is oppressive. There’s a thick film of sweat gathering under his bracelet.
It never used to feel this way.
Last winter was full to bursting with excitement. Waking up at the crisp crack of dawn for vocal exercises and a trip to Gavin’s stupidly expensive coffee shop before making his way to the office or courthouse, depending on their itinerary.
Gavin certainly didn’t make it easy, but he gained so much practical knowledge about practicing criminal law during those months under his tutelage. It was more than just the daily grind that made it so satisfying, though. Chats about case precedent over Thai while pulling overtime. Talking strategy and commiserating in the defense lobby over recess. Sharing in the blinding exhilaration and relief of another big win.
Will I have to do that stuff with Mr. Wright now?
He found his résumé. In the fall-out, that is. At the time, he told himself it was only logical. He was Gavin’s only junior partner and would be back to box up his own belongings anyway. It only made sense for him to square away his boss’ case files, too. Now, somewhere deep down, he knows it was all in some misguided sense of loyalty forged over those six short months as his mentor.
He remembers the words written at the bottom, penned in Gavin’s immaculate cursive: “Shows great promise.” Now an illegible wash of ink, permanently marred by his tears. There one moment, and gone the next.
Just like Gavin.
He looks down at the cup now hanging uselessly by his side. Seven bucks for a single coffee? And on his own tab, too.
What a waste.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, but the thought of carrying it further feels like a weight slowly being lowered onto his chest, teetering, poised to crush him entirely. He wants so badly to believe that this tightness in his rib cage is brand new—a mere contagion he contracted upon carelessly crossing an invisible boundary clearly marked “Property of Kristoph Gavin." A proper, rational barrier that just… slipped his mind in the months he’d spent at home. Waiting.
Waiting for what?
It comes to him now that he would still be at his shitty apartment, waiting for… whatever, if not for Phoenix Wright’s inane request only twenty-four hours ago. Curled up under the blankets on one side of his bed; laptop, game controllers, and prescription bottles strewn about in a careful pile on the other.
Sure, there was some job hunting. In the beginning, at least. But then he looked at his bank account and realized he had some time to take a bit of a break.
He still isn’t quite sure if it did him any good.
When Apollo looks up, finally cognizant of the space he’s taking up on the sidewalk, he sees it. A trash can only a few yards away, morning light glinting off the metal rim like a beacon.
The glare becomes more blinding the longer he stares at it. He blinks, eyes stinging with sweat and maybe something else. Though he can hardly feel them, his legs manage to trudge slowly ahead of their own accord.
Apollo doesn’t— No, he shouldn’t care anymore. It’s wrong. He’s a murderer, for Christ’s sake. A cold-blooded killer who tried to pin his crime on an innocent bystander—exactly the type of man he should despise the most. So why does he care? Why does he fucking care when it hurts so damn much? Why, why did he have to—
The thwap-skrich of knock-off slides against concrete. A gait somewhere between a limp and a swagger. A cigarette pinched between a thumb and pointer finger, poised to meet a scruffy jawline.
“Don’t you got better places to be, kiddo?”
As if this day couldn’t get any worse.
The Hickfield Clinic, of course. He always passed by it on his way to the courthouse. He knew that much.
What he wasn’t expecting was for his former hero, current asshole boss, to be propped up outside the back entrance, a crutch in one hand, cigarette in the other. Still in yesterday’s hoodie and sweats.
Wright lets out a long whistle, the corner of his lip curled up in another infuriatingly smug pastiche of a smile. “Someone looks like death run over,” he chuckles, taking in another drag. “Long night?”
Big words coming from the man who was literally mowed down by a car, but whatever.
Apollo grits his teeth, sets his shoulders. The words come as natural to him as breathing, “I’m—”
“Fine?” Wright finishes, a bit more sober, eyebrows raised in question. Bastard.
“Yeah… that,” he pants between a gulp, thankful for the weather as an excuse.
Wright stomps out his cigarette with his good leg before approaching—a gesture that might actually be considered courteous on anyone else but him.
In the stillness between them, Apollo is suddenly very aware of the second cup of coffee still hanging loosely by his side. The flinch is involuntary, but Wright’s eyes light up all the same.
The image of Olga Orly on the stand replays in the corner of his mind. Is this what it feels like?
“Hope that’s hot chocolate.” Wright gestures to the drink. “Truce hates the stuff. Still has that kid energy.”
“Trucy? No, it’s not for… I didn’t!” Apollo balks, already feeling more out of breath now, stock still in the shade of the large building, than during his long trek in the heat. He takes another deep breath, repeating the mantra in his head. It might have been relaxing if not for the stench of tobacco still lingering in the air. “They accidentally made two. I haven't had the chance to get rid of it yet.”
A shadow falls across Wright’s features for one moment and is gone the next, poker face still frighteningly intact. Too fast to decipher. If Wright's words falter, Apollo doesn’t catch it.
“What, and toss out a perfectly good cup of joe?” He juts his chin out in a challenge. “Didn’t take you for the wasteful type, Apollo.”
Apollo reels back, all heat. “I am not! It’s not like that—” but a quiet chuff from Wright stops him in his tracks.
He’s fucking with me.
Apollo’s mouth runs dry. He’s tired. Tired of Wright and his games. Tired of lugging around coffee made for a man currently rotting away in prison. He steels his grip for the first time in what feels like forever and raises the cup to Wright, arm outstretched.
“Aw, thanks, Polly! You shouldn’t have!” he fawns, lazily swiping the cup into his grasp. There’s a mask of self-satisfied victory written all over his features, but also something new. An odd crinkle to his eyes Apollo’s never seen before.
Apollo stares on as Wright takes a sip. Loudly. Maybe he wasn’t joking about being raised in a barn.
He pulls his drink away with a sigh, and turns to look Apollo up and down expectantly.
“What?”
“C’mon, now, drink up!" Wright beckons with his free hand, crutch still propped up under his arm. "You know the rule about open containers in the courtroom." He proceeds to grumble something about how it took them long enough.
“Uh... sure," he squints, immediately deciding not to pursue that line of questioning. At least this way, if he plays his cards right, they won’t have to keep talking.
Apollo brings his trembling cup to his lips, and they both sip to the sounds of the cars and pedestrians whizzing by. A flock of birds titters in the distance.
Even in the sweltering weather, the bitter heat on his tongue is just as intoxicating as he remembers. Maybe Gavin had a point about the stupid beans.
“Seems like you could use it,” Wright hums into his lid, voice but a murmur. “You really do look like shit.”
Apollo nearly chokes on his own coffee. “H-Hey!”
“Hm… don’t hear you denying it,” he snickers back.
Apollo narrows eyes at Wright, and takes a large gulp in lieu of a response.
“Y’know, I could never get the hang of Americanos. Watered down espresso, like… what’s the point?” Wright muses to no one in particular.
The words escape his lips before he’s had time to process their implications. “Yeah, me neither.”
Wright cocks his head, tilting his cup side to side in thought with all the air of a cat batting a particularly unconfounding toy. “And yet you bought two.”
Shit.
“I said, I didn’t buy—” but it’s too late. Wright’s already scanning his face out of the corner of his eye with barely disguised amusement.
A strained sigh. He fiddles with the buttons of his vest while clearing his throat. “What I meant was, I didn’t use to like them, you know?” He shrugs. “They were, um… an acquired taste.”
“Yeah…” Wright hums, pausing to examine the shop’s logo on the sleeve. There’s something bittersweet in his expression as he traces his thumb over the indents in the cardboard. Something Apollo recognizes all too well.
Wright chuckles to himself quietly. It sounds bright, bereft of the sardonic tinge that typically accompanies it. He takes a final swig and rises from where he’s slouched against the building, tossing it in the trash. “Same here.”
As Apollo breathes into the silence, all of a sudden the great expense between them feels just a bit smaller. Still vast, but maybe not insurmountable.
“Anyway.” Mr. Wright clicks his tongue. “You better be heading off, then. You’ve got a client to defend.”
He jolts, sufficiently pulled out of his reverie. “Oh, crap, you’re right!” he shouts, disposing of his cup as well.
By the time he manages to look up, his boss's head is already tilted away from him and towards the sky, half-lidded eyes watching the clouds roll past. “Always am,” he chimes, lazy smirk back on full display.
Apollo rolls his eyes, adjusts the straps of his backpack, and pivots in the direction of the courthouse.
Back under the summer sun once again, heels clicking with each step, somehow the heat doesn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.