Chapter Text
When the address Mr. Gavin gives Apollo turns out to just be the front gates of a huge, nearly empty park, he has a good mind to turn right back around and bike home to the office. He can pretend to have met with Mr. Gavin’s “friend” and when Mr. Gavin asks what consultancy the friend gave Apollo can give his own opinions on the damn case, or maybe just tell Mr. Gavin to go fuck himself.
Not that Mr. Gavin would deserve that, really, Apollo admits to himself. Not that Apollo would be able to muster the ill-will to actually tell him off, either, not after Mr. Gavin remembered the stupid complicated coffee order Apollo pretends not to have, and not after Mr. Gavin gave him a little space themed snow globe last week, “for your little friend’s birthday, yes? I thought you mentioned that,” not after he picked Apollo up from the gas station a town and a half over when his tire popped.
He sighs, chains his bike to the sea-monster shaped bike rack outside the gates, and reviews the facts to himself, hands on his hips and head angled up at the arch proclaiming it to be Gourd Lake Nature Park.
One: Mr. Gavin doesn’t joke, not really, and definitely not practically. His friend must really live at this address, or at least Mr. Gavin must think he lives here.
Two: this is definitely the address Mr. Gavin gave Apollo, since he’s double checked both the street numbers on either side of it and the little tracker pin on his phone since arriving.
Three: this is definitely a lake, not a residence. Apollo has enough faith in his boss’s… not kindness, maybe, but goodwill that he would tell Apollo if he was looking for a homeless person living in the park instead of a brick and mortar building, so...
Conclusion: either Mr. Gavin’s friend lied or there’s a house hidden somewhere in the park and Apollo just has to go find it. Which means his choices are to go look for that pipe dream of a house or he can go back to Mr. Gavin and tell him that his friend-slash-consultant ghosted him. Only one of those options is going to be satisfying to his boss.
Apollo huffs to himself and slings his messenger bag higher on his shoulders. The path into the park is a kind of cobblestone, forming hundreds of L-shapes under his feet. His newly shined shoes stand out against the grayed tone the entire park seems to have, with piles of dead leaves from the newly minted autumn scraping against the sides of the path and drifting from the canopy of trees above him.
It’s not depressing, per say, although maybe Mr. Gavin and his parades of rich, shining clients would disagree. Apollo has low standards for the mood of his surroundings and he’s always had a fondness for city parks. Good memories of sneaking out of foster homes with friends at night, he figures, and the bite of fall air reminds him he’s alive, still kicking and- well, still running meaningless little errands for his boss.
Not that he’s not grateful for the job, obviously, he’d just figured that when he’d been accepted as a junior partner he’d be doing, you know, partner stuff. Like arguing cases or at least being able to consult on cases himself, instead of being sent out to find other, apparently more insightful consultants who are also hiding in Gourd Lake.
Mr. Gavin had obviously been paying a little bit more attention to the junior part of the job title when he'd hired Apollo, since that’s how Apollo feels half the time they’re working together. A kid that Mr. Gavin had adopted, or taken under his wing, someone to lecture on shoe-shining and to lightly drape a jacket over when he falls asleep at his desk. Not another lawyer who’d gone to law school just as long as he had, not someone who passed the bar in California nearly a half-year ago.
But Apollo doesn’t really mind it, if he thinks about it. Which he doesn't, since that's embarrassing.
The beach that he comes up to next is lined with slow-moving food trucks, the smell of street food mingling over rough, pebble-like sand beneath his feet. It chases away the brightness of the fall air almost immediately, snapping Apollo out of his thoughts.
Hm, maybe someone working at one of these stands would know if there’s anyone living in the park. Worth a try, probably.
Apollo tries the noodle stand first. The man standing beside it has aptly-styled ramen hair and a hat to match his bowls, which even Apollo has to grudgingly agree is good marketing.
“Uh,” he says, “Hi, I’m looking for someone who lives in the park. Are there, like, live-in rangers or something, maybe, or a residential area somewhere on the grounds?”
“Mm,” the man says, leaning on his stand, “d’you know who you’re looking for?”
“No,” Apollo admits.
The noodle vendor raises an eyebrow and Apollo squares his shoulders. “Well,” he finally says, drawing the word out like a tune, “you could try the boat caretaker, down at the rental shop. He ain’t much for public visibility, so don’t get your hopes up, but you look like a good kid.”
Most of Mr. Gavin’s friends are socialites, but this guy’s already a step outside Mr. Gavin’s usual friends with the whole, you know, apparently living in a boat rental shack at Gourd Beach, so Apollo decides to trust the noodles man.
Not like he has any other choices.
“Thank you,” he breathes, pushing his bag up his shoulder again, and the man chuckles.
“No problem. Good luck with Nick, alright. You want some noodles?”
“Nope!” Apollo calls over his shoulder, “Thank you for the tip, though!”
A friendly harmonica tune follows him as he wanders down to the boat rental shop and, as the hot-salty smell of cheap food starts to fade from the air, Apollo’s filled with a strangely buoyant mood. Like something’s just starting to fall into place.
“Daddy doesn’t do interviews,” the girl says, eyebrow cocked and face unimpressed. Apollo blinks at her.
He hadn’t really expected the door to be answered when he’d knocked on it and certainly not by a teenage girl and now he’s standing in front of the doorway like a Jehovah’s witness or maybe just a child who’s very, very lost.
“Uh,” he says, “I’m not a reporter.” Does he look like a journalist? He gets that relatively often, especially at the Prosecutor’s office. The Chief Prosecutor’s office isn’t looking to give a statement on the recent case, when he’s going to pick up files for Mr. Gavin. My local celebrity doesn’t extend beyond those doors, ja? I’m not doing interviews here, when he has the bad luck of running into Disappointing Brother Klavier. No press conferences today, pal, when he tries to ask for an autopsy report.
Is it his height? Are newsmen usually short?
“Oh, well…” the girl eyes Apollo and Apollo eyes her back. She’s taller than him, although that’s not much of a statement, and her eyes are clever and warm brown. She looks… well cared for, is Apollo’s knee-jerk assessment, especially for a teenager who seems to be living in a three-room shack in the middle of nowhere. He likes her overalls, too, sturdy and for someone who works with their hands. “Daddy’s not looking for anyone to take over the Wet Noodle, either,” she says, and snickers at a joke that Apollo obviously doesn’t get.
“This is a boat rental place,” he says, “do you sell noodles?”
“No, no,” the girl says, “just joking around. Joshing, if you will. Throwing a quip or two out there. Pulling your chain. I’m Trucy Edgeworth-Wright, by the way, magician extraordinaire, although mostly I just work part time at my Daddy’s boat shop. If you’re not with the tabloids, though, who are you?”
“Apollo Justice, junior partner at Gavin Law Offices…” Apollo says slowly, trying to digest her words.
Magician extraordinaire… no, that’s not the important part of what she just said. Trucy-
“Did you say ‘Edgeworth-Wright?’” He asks, eyebrows rising. Trucy looks similarly stricken.
“Did you say Gavin Law Offices?”
Apollo nods, mutely, half-hoping his willingness to answer her question will prompt her to answer the half dozen he has on the tip of his tongue. Edgeworth-Wright? Where did the hyphen come from? Where did the teenage girl come from? Does CHIEF PROSECUTOR EDGEWORTH live in a boathouse in the middle of a city park?
No, think about this logically. Does disgraced defense attorney Phoenix Wright live in a boathouse in the middle of a city park?
I mean, it’s not like there’s any evidence to the contrary, no one’s seen him in years, outside of weird little run-ins at food trucks and grocery stores. He sure might have gotten married to the damn chief prosecutor, who knows. Maybe he does live in a boathouse! Maybe he is best fucking friends with Mr. Gavin, it’s not like Mr. Gavin ever tells me anything.
After a moment with his finger pressed to his forehead, he realizes that neither he nor Trucy has said anything for what would probably be an uncomfortable amount of time if they weren’t both obviously lost in thought.
“Uh,” Apollo says, since it seems polite to say something if he’s the one who snapped out of it first, “Are you alright? Why did you- why were you so worried about me working with Mr. Gav-”
Trucy blinks and slaps a hand over Apollo’s mouth. “Shh!” she hisses. Apollo pushes her hand off of his face- there wasn’t any force behind her shushing, so her arm falls limply to her side without too much effort on his part. “Daddy doesn’t take interviews, and he definitely doesn’t get mixed up with the elder Gavin again.” She leans forward, hands on her hips, and frowns at Apollo. “He says I shouldn’t either, you know-”
“Mr. Ga- my boss told me he was a consultant on this case,” Apollo says, brow furrowing. “I heard him talking on the phone this morning, too, so it’s not like he made this up out of nowhere.”
“I heard Daddy talking on the phone this morning, too,” Trucy says, “but he told the person on the other side to piss off. Well, not in so many words, really, but he basically did.” Her face darkens and goes contemplative as she leans against the doorway. “How long have you been working for Kristoph Gavin?”
Apollo figures that, at least, the fact that she’s asking him personal questions means she’s not going to turn him away quite yet. He’s still not too hyped about the eventuality of going back to Mr. Gavin empty handed- he has a very intense disappointed father face and Apollo regards it with a healthy amount of dread. “Almost a year, I think,” he says. Trucy’s brow creases and her eyes harden.
“Are you a lawyer?”
Apollo twists his face up into a wry smile. “Passed the bar, yeah, but I’m also standing in front of your house after your dad apparently told Mr. Gavin to fuck off, so I’m not sure how much that says.” Trucy doesn’t shut him up for the crime of saying Mr. Gavin’s name this time, which Apollo counts as a small blessing.
Trucy snickers. “Yeah, he’s a control freak, isn’t he. Paranoid bitch.” The vehement defamation sounds kind of strange in her cheerful, teenage girl voice. Apollo feels himself get defensive. Sure, Mr. Gavin isn’t the best boss he could’ve asked for, but he’s not a bad man, and he does care for Apollo, insofar as anyone could.
“Uh,” Apollo says, “he’s not that bad, and- wait, how do you even know him?”
Her face goes dark and Apollo gets the feeling the expression should be accompanied by something else- the dropping of a curtain, maybe, or clouds coming together over their heads. The dramatic tightening of a cape around her shoulders. “Family history,” she says grimly. Apollo’s bracelet tightens, but the statement was vague enough that the fact that she’s avoiding the topic was obvious even without his little parlor trick. Trucy grins again and any strange mood from a second before is gone. “Look, Polly, us Wrights aren’t trying to come anywhere near your “not that bad” boss, but I like you, and Daddy likes lost causes, so d’you want to come in for a little while? Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll even be able to get some of that consultancy you’re looking for.”
“Polly?” Apollo mutters, but Trucy turns inside and waves for him over her shoulder, so he follows.
The main room of the caretakers house is painted a bright, cheerful blue, with yellow tatami mats on the floor and cheap linoleum counters lining a corner. Everything piled with strange looking clutter- a fake plate of spaghetti, a series of traditional scrolls with paintings of severe looking women on them, decks of cards in varying sizes, and more case files than Apollo could count on both hands and feet.
“I think Daddy’s napping,” Trucy says, picking up a flimsy plastic container of cookies from the kotatsu in the middle of the small main room. “Cookie?”
“Thanks,” Apollo says and accepts one of the pink frosted sweets. Never turn down free food, and anyway I like grocery store sugar cookies. He takes a bite. Tastes… stale.
Trucy stuffs one of the cookies in her mouth and there’s another strangely comfortable moment of silence as they both chew. Apollo takes the opportunity to look around the room a bit more.
If he’d had any doubt about this really being Phoenix Wright’s house the cursory examination would have disproved that- there are a few news articles about his old case wins framed on the wall and pictures of him, Trucy, and Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth in various constellations with a half dozen people Apollo vaguely remembers popping up in Phoenix’s old court records.
It’s strange to be sitting in the house of a man who had been the boogeyman in everyone's closets for half his school career- and Apollo really is in Phoenix Wright’s house, because there’s a thing of the hair gel brand Apollo had read about Phoenix wearing when he was in high school, and there’s the Pink Princess poster signed To Phoenix Wright, thanks! on the wall.
“What do you think of the place?” Trucy asks after a moment, hopping back up onto one of the kitchen counters and kicking her legs.
Apollo shifts his weight awkwardly. “Uh, it seems really nice. Homey.”
Trucy grins. “Yeah, thanks! It’s all my influence, you know. When we moved in the place was super depressing, and all Daddy wanted to do was change the kotatsu futon.” She snorts. “And it’s not like Papa has any interior design taste. You know, Polly, I think growing up rich really ruins your sense of style.”
That nickname again. I guess I just have to accept it.
“Like, Papa’s ruffles have absolutely never been in style, but he wears it to all of his fancy dinners- thank God he never asks me and Daddy to go with him, I’d be mortified to be seen with him dressed like that! You agree that it’s ugly, right?”
Apollo stutters. Well, at least the reference to the jabot is a confirmation that the "Edgeworth" of Edgeworth-Wright really is the chief prosecutor. Which really just prompts another half dozen questions. “Uh! I mean, I think he’s held to a different standard of dress at this point-”
Apollo cuts himself off at Trucy’s peal of laughter and he flushes. “Nothing was all that funny,” he mutters.
“It’s alright, Polly, you can say it’s outdated. Daddy tells Papa that all the time, I don’t think it’s news to any of us.”
“I-” Apollo tries, then flushes. “When do you think Mr. Wright is going to wake up? Mr. Gavin is probably going to start wondering where I am after a little while.”
Trucy waves a hand dismissively. “He’ll wake up when he’s ready. Your boss won’t be expecting you back for hours if he really told you to come find Daddy parroting his name around. He probably won’t expect you to come back at all, really! Like Daniel and the lion’s den- do you know that story?”
“Um, no.” Apollo has never really been religious- even when he was very very young, his father’s agnostic legacy prevented anyone from dragging him away from his play to go to morning prayers. And Christianity has never even been on the table. “It doesn’t sound like I should be trusting you, though, if you’re the lions.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t!” Trucy chirps. “Really, Polly, following random girls into buildings with locks on the doors is not a good way to go about conducting yourself. You’re going to get trafficked or murdered or something awful. There are a lot of people who want to hurt your boss very badly, you know.”
“There are-” Apollo sputters. “Wha- why would- huh?”
The conversation has clearly taken a turn toward something more like a vaguely threatening, meandering monologue, though, and Trucy doesn’t bat an eye at Apollo’s chords of steel. “I barely know those bible stories, either, honestly. Pearly has to take classes on all kinds of religions for her training and she’s told me a few. I know you said you didn’t know it, but you probably do: Daniel gets thrown into the den for something that his punisher, mr. king hypocrite, did, and all the lions are circling him, ready to eat-”
Oh, wait, I do know this one. I think Mr. Gavin-
Apollo leans forward. “And then they stop, right? Because they know he didn’t do anything wrong?”
Trucy grins at Apollo, and the conversation is back to just that again- a conversation, even if something feels a little like it’s going over Apollo’s head. “Bingo! I’ve always liked that one, you know. The bible part says that God stopped the lions, but I like to think that the lions stopped on their own. Like they’ve got their own morals, in those big kitty brains of theirs.”
“Huh, yeah.” Apollo frowns and takes a thoughtful bite of his cookie. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I dunno. It’s just a story, right? Some guys a thousand years ago watched some dude who got lucky and scrambled out of the den before the lions ate him and they went wow, it’s a goddamn miracle. I don’t think God did it, and I don’t think the lions had any kind of morality either. Everyone in the situation just got lucky. Except the lions, I guess, if they wanted to eat.”
“Hmph,” Trucy says. “Maybe the lions don’t need you to say they understand morality.”
The conversation is rapidly spiraling out of Apollo’s understanding and admittedly limited patience for cryptidness. He stuffs the rest of his cookie in his mouth and chews quickly. Trucy watches him. Finally, Apollo swallows and bangs his fists on the kotatsu.
“Is Mr. Wright going to wake up soon? Either you give me the consultancy I need for my case or I leave. I didn’t come here for a bible study group.”
Trucy hands Apollo another cookie and Apollo reflexively takes it. “Eat your cookie,” she commands, “I’ll go get Daddy.” It’s only a few steps for her toward the only bedroom door in the tiny space, but she pauses before turning the doorknob. “I lied about him napping earlier, just so you know. I don’t let Daddy nap in my room, since he drools in his sleep sometimes and it’s gross. His bed is behind you and, obviously, he’s not on it.”
Apollo glances over his shoulder.
Yikes, that’s the messiest futon I’ve seen since college. Are those criminal law books? I can barely see the blankets underneath all of them- wait, no, half of those look like manga.
“I actually just told him to hang out in my room while I talked to you first, but I like you enough, so I’ll call you vetted and ask Daddy to come out.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t like… you know. Say anything weird about your boss. I don’t completely trust you.”
That makes two of us. Apollo isn’t quite sure what he’s fumbled his way into (or, rather, what Mr. Gavin’s pushed him into) but he nods.