Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Apollo Justice had dreams. He didn’t think them great or grandiose: he just wanted to get a degree, get a job, and help out the people who needed it.

But Apollo Justice no longer believed in dreams. He would say, if asked, that his dreams had died sometime between working his first job in retail and dry heaving with nerves during college entrance exams—the stress of which had prematurely hunched his back, shaded his brown hair with gray, and etched permanent wrinkles along his terribly broad forehead. He could count on one hand—more specifically, one finger—the number of times his dreams had been rekindled since.

That one single spark of hope had ignited during, of all times, his job search after he had just graduated law school. There, among the thousands of different names offering young paralegals sought-after spots in their firms, was a name Apollo recognized from his youth: Edgeworth Law Offices. The legacy of Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright had captivated Apollo when he was a child, and if one were to psychoanalyze his character, they would likely reach the conclusion that Apollo’s dreams of becoming a defense attorney were solely inspired by the two (even though Apollo himself would claim that he decided to pursue law because he wanted to help people, and definitely not because he wanted to LARP as his childhood heroes).

Miles Edgeworth was not a defense attorney, though Apollo knew (from his extensive-and-certainly-not-obsessive knowledge of the man) that his father had worked as one before his untimely passing. And there it was, the very same firm that Miles Edgeworth’s Father had founded, practically begging for new hires in a suspiciously cheap ad in a newspaper!

And for a moment, Apollo Justice again believed in dreams.

Then he got the job, and he was suddenly and cruelly reminded that dreams did not, in fact, come true.

“Hey, Apollo—pick up a coffee for me, would you? Get whatever the house recommends. That cute little barista behind the counter always has great taste.”

Raymond Shields was a good man, if Apollo could bring himself to ignore that he was a destroyer of dreams and a bit of a diet misogynist. He was an experienced lawyer in his own right: no flawless win record, sure, and marketing his firm using the name of the Chief Prosecutor wound up scaring away half of their clients, yes—but Apollo could tell that he was a good man.

At least, thinking that helped him sleep at night.

Apollo had just finished dusting his already-immaculate desk when Raymond posed the request. He drew his attention away from balancing his pencils exactly one inch apart and looked at Raymond with stern, dark eyes.

“Did you already finish your last cup, sir?” he asked.

Raymond, meanwhile, was amusing himself by throwing darts at the board hanging crookedly on the back of the office door. He shut one eye, swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, then flipped his wrist—and, in a whoosh of red, the dart missed the target completely, instead joining the seven-dozen others jutting garishly out of the wood.

“Umm, Mr. Shields?”

“Oh, yeah. Finished it already. Phew, that stuff is good! That shop’s pretty much the only place you can get a real, genuine, Italian espresso. I’m addicted.”

Apollo was aware. He worried for Raymond’s health: he didn’t know how drinking seven espressos a day hadn’t already killed the man.

“Grab me another one, would you?” Raymond asked. “There’s change in the dish on my desk.”

Apollo lifted himself an inch off the chair to peer over at Raymond’s desk—which was actually just the other half of Apollo’s desk, separated by a wall of unopened case files and coffee cups—and into the recycled takeout box Raymond defined as a dish. He counted three quarters, four pennies, and a two-euro coin.

“You realize each thimble of espresso you buy is six dollars, right, sir?”

“Small price to pay for perfection,” Raymond said with a grin.

Apollo had no idea where he got the money. Edgeworth Law Offices had seen far better days: ninety-percent of the clientele who stumbled into their office were too boggled by its chaotic state to hire them, while the remaining ten percent were either definitely guilty or in too hard of times to pay them the proper rate. Then again, Apollo was never privy to the details of their cases: Raymond never let him work on them.

“I’ll pay for it,” Raymond insisted, incorrectly reading the frown furrowing Apollo’s lips. “Don’t worry your little head about that, scamp. You can pick yourself up something tasty, too. Consider it a reward for being such an eager intern.”

“I’m not an intern,” Apollo said.

“Ah, right. Perhaps my plucky paralegal should procure himself a perfect… hmm. What’s a type of coffee that starts with ‘P’?”

“I’m a lawyer, sir. You hired me. As a lawyer.”

Raymond tossed another dart towards the board. It struck right below the target, wedging deep into the grain of the door. “Coffee beans percolate,” he said to himself. “Procure himself a percolating potable. I hate that word, percolate. Sounds obscene.”

“Sir,” Apollo said sternly. He crossed his arms over his chest in a practiced, pouting maneuver that he had mastered during the months he had already spent working under Raymond. “Could we use this moment of downtime—or should I say week of downtime—to talk about the future of my career?”

Raymond rolled his eyes with the full motion of his head. The brim of his fedora fell over his eyes. “This again,” he breathed. “I know you have stars in your eyes, kid, but this career doesn’t work the way you think it does. You can’t just jump right into cases fresh out of law school!”

“Phoenix Wright did,” Apollo said.

“Yeah, well, Phoenix Wright also cross-examined a parrot.”

“And he won,” Apollo added.

“I can’t believe the court accepted that as evidence. Most judges aren’t quite so lenient.”

Raymond’s words of warning were lost on Apollo. The scowl on Apollo’s face had fled, replaced by a dreamy-eyed ennui—the type princesses would don when wishing upon stars.

“He’s the most successful defense attorney of our generation,” he swooned, clasping his hands together. “Ten straight years of riveting cases, saving countless innocents… he’s had his share of all sorts of trials and tribulations! He’s probably the greatest attorney who’s ever lived!”

Raymond sucked in a gasp. “Now that,” he said pointedly, “is going too far.”

“Ah, I mean… Gregory Edgeworth was an ace attorney too, sir.”

“That’s right. Better than that man by a long shot.” Raymond puffed out his chest. He always got ruffled whenever the memory of his mentor was treated with anything other than the utmost reverence. Apollo wondered whether the late Edgeworth would’ve appreciated having someone lauding his legacy, or if he would’ve tipped his hat to his successors.

It wasn’t that Apollo didn’t appreciate him, but… he was no Phoenix Wright. Phoenix Wright had graduated law school early and had been immediately thrown into a whirlwind of cases that changed the legal system forever. He had caught assassins, shattered perfect win records—and, if rumors were to be believed, even cross-examined ghosts. (Apollo had his doubts about that last one, though. The true crime podcasts he listened to tended to exaggerate the finer details.)

“And to think, I wanted to send you to meet the little Edgeworth this weekend.”

Apollo’s wandering thoughts wandered right back on track. His face froze in a crazed combination of confusion and ecstasy.

“With an attitude like that, though, I’m not sure if you deserve to,” Raymond prattled on, waving his hand in flippant disregard. “Hmm. Looks like I’ll just have to go myself.”

“S-sir!” Apollo snapped upright, folding his hands into his lap and mustering the most polite, proper demeanor he was capable of (which was, in his defense, pretty proper indeed). “Are you—are you talking about Miles Edgeworth, sir? The Chief Prosecutor?” The person he had foolishly thought still had something to do with this crummy little law firm?

“The one and only.”

“You—you want me to meet him, sir? Isn’t he….” Apollo’s eyes darted around the office, before he craned himself closer and hissed in a whisper, “…The enemy?”

In response, Raymond leaned down to fumble for one of the many, many papers scattering the floor. Apollo had done his best to organize where he could, but if he so much as looked at Raymond’s “organization” for too long, the blood would rush to his head.

After a couple moments of grumbling, Raymond fished what he was looking for out from the clutter: an ornate, maroon-colored envelope with an intricate wax seal, already breached. He lobbed it towards Apollo like he was throwing a disc, and Apollo caught it like he would catch a disc—that is to say, he missed it entirely and it landed with a whack in the perfect center of his forehead.

“Bullseye!” Raymond cried. “Finally.”

Apollo would’ve made a comment about suing over a hostile work environment, but his excitement eclipsed his annoyance. He took the envelope into his hands and gasped at the quality: the weight of the paper, the delicate bend of the inked letters addressing Raymond Shields… it was exquisite.

With trembling fingers, Apollo lifted the flap of the already-opened letter and slipped out the parchment inside. It, too, was composed on heavy, ivory parchment, and it read, to Apollo, like something out of a fairy tale.

“They’re not kidding about the formal wear,” Raymond said as soon as Apollo had finished reading the letter aloud. “I think this year the theme is royalty.”

“Theme of—what?” Apollo asked, still ogling the paper. He clutched it tenderly to his chest, as if afraid it would flutter away if he wasn’t careful.

“You know, the Gala.” Raymond smacked his lips after the word, as if it tasted sour. “Every year, the local bigwig lawyers like to hold this really fancy party. They invite anyone who’s anyone in the legal world—prosecutors, defense attorneys, detectives… even politicians. It’s an opportunity for the ‘legal community to come together and celebrate their successes,’ but everybody knows it’s just a bougie banquet meant for networking. It always has an awful theme, too. Last year was ‘wild west’, and hoo boy, Miles Edgeworth should not be allowed to wear denim.”

Apollo hadn’t heard of such a party before. “Is it some big industry secret?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” shrugged Raymond. “Like I said, sometimes they get politicians to go. Even celebrities. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, kiddo.”

“I guess I don’t really keep up with the whole, uh, celebrity thing,” Apollo murmured with a wrinkle of his nose. Ever since starting law school, even his obsession with Phoenix Wright had dwindled—he just didn’t have the time to juggle his hobbies on top of his studies.

He shook his thoughts straight in his head and said, “So, umm… this is a big deal, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” said Raymond.

“Then why do you have an invite, sir?”

Raymond’s wry smile stilted into a frown, and he raised his hands, defensively. “Excuse you! Edgeworth Law Offices has a legacy! We’re very important, thank you very much!” He paused for a moment, his attention meandering. “I mean, Miles considers me a family friend. But—I’m sure that’s not the only reason! It’s our legacy!”

Raymond often went on tirades about Miles Edgeworth, like how an uncle would speak fondly about a nephew doing well in school. Apollo wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that Raymond and Miles Edgeworth had ever been in the same room together.

“So, anyway.” Raymond waved his hand, dismissing the sordid thoughts of dwindling legacy before they began to brew. “I’m supposed to attend this ‘royal ball’ or whatever on behalf of the firm. I was planning on sending you in my place—you know, to mingle and network and all that. But if you’re not interested in representing, then—”

“I-I never said that! This is—I mean—is it… is it really okay if I go? Doesn’t this seem a little… out of my league, sir?”

“Nonsense! You’ve never lost a case!”

“I’ve never won a case, either.”

“Well, don’t tell them that part,” Raymond said. “Just wear something nice, and make sure to say hi to Miles on my behalf. Make the firm look good! That’s my only ask.”

“If you’re that concerned about the firm, why don’t you go yourself—wait!” Apollo swallowed his final word up in a gasp. Half of his face twitched with delight, while the other half of his lips slumped into an equally twitchy frown. “If—ifeghe—ifEdgeworvist—thendoyhouthink—Fee—Phoebe—Phoehinick… Ph-Ph-Phoe—?”

“You having a stroke, kid?”

“Do you think Phoenix Wright is going to be there?!”

“Ah. Hmm.” Raymond prepared to grumble a complaint—likely something along the lines of when was the last time that man defended a trial that didn’t involve, like, circus clowns or something, but he spared Apollo the heartache. “I’d have to guess so, what with him and Miles being engaged.”

Apollo squeaked. When next he spoke, his voice had a cadence similar to that of a child on helium. “That’s—that’s amazing, sir! Thank you very much for your generosity! I promise I won’t let you down.”

“You better not. Really, I’m doing you a favor! This kind of event seems like a dream come true for a nerdy guy like you.”

Rude, thought Apollo. He didn’t think being interested in your chosen field was nerdy: it was normal.

“It’s a gift!” Raymond was still rambling on. His fingers and his thumb were propped beneath his chin, striking a cool pose for absolutely nobody to appreciate. “Maybe next time you want to be mean and ask difficult questions like, ‘Why isn’t the law firm getting any new cases,’ you’ll remember ol’ Uncle Ray sticking his neck out for you! And you’ll cut him a break.”

Apollo had a retort readied on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped short of uttering it. Raymond’s plea got him thinking: if there were as many renowned legal professionals as Raymond claimed attending the gala—all of them there with the intent to schmooze—then there might be at least one person there looking to hire a fresh-faced lawyer for their firm. Their real firm that took real cases.

Maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what he needed.

Apollo possessed a singular ally in his plight against the dreamless machine of society: one Clay Terran, with whom he had shared a single soulful conversation with in his youth and who had not left his side since. Apollo considered him his best friend, though sometimes, he wondered how it got to that point: they didn’t share many common interests, and most of the time, they seemed to operate on completely separate planes of existence—

“No way, ’Pollo! You’re going to the Annual Los Angeles Legal Gala?!”

—Which made Clay’s excitement for Apollo’s announcement incredibly suspicious.

The two hardly had any time for themselves these days, what with Clay’s busy job at the space center and Apollo’s not-so-busy not-quite-an-internship. They managed to catch each other for a break between their shifts, carving out a spot of respite in a simple little coffee shop (not the one Raymond asked him to patronize—there weren’t enough cute baristas for Raymond’s taste). Clay was drinking a 32-ounce, whipped, double-shot caramel mocha, light on the cream but heavy on the sugar, while Apollo was enjoying a cup of black whatever the house recommends.

“Is it really that famous?” Apollo asked. If Clay had heard of it while Apollo never had, that didn’t exactly bode well for the future of his career.

“Heck if I know. I just heard of it recently. Because, dude!” Clay took a hefty swig of his drink, then whipped out his phone from his pocket. “I just read an article about it the other day! You will not believe who’s gonna be there!”

“Miles Edgeworth, since he’s hosting it.” Apollo got a fanciful look in his eye. “If I’m lucky, maybe Phoenix Wright will be there, too.”

“Who?”

The fancy died as easily as it arrived. “What do you mean, who? They’re only the most important lawyers in the last decade!”

Clay spun his phone around to face Apollo. On the screen was an image search result for pictures of a singular man. He was handsome, thought Apollo, but in a canned kind of way: some of the pictures were professional photo shoots of him in garish outfits, others were candid shots of him in the aftermath of parties that looked like they had raged on a little too long, and a couple were selfies in which he was very obviously half-naked.

“Why are you showing me a half-naked man?” asked Apollo.

“Dude, this is Klavier Gavin! Have you really never heard of him?”

The name sounded familiar. Apollo chewed on his coffee-stained tongue as he mulled over his limited repertoire of networking knowledge.

“Bro, the party prince of Gavindale? Single, celebrity heart-throb? Has his own band?”

“Uh,” said Apollo.

“He’s only, like, the most sought-after bachelor in the entire world! How have you not heard of him?” Clay pressed his phone to his cheek and sighed wistfully at the screen. “And he’s going to be here, in Los Angeles! God, I’d give anything to meet him….”

“Why would someone like that be going to a legal banquet?” asked Apollo, his forehead scrunching.

“We’d have a little meetcute, we’d fall in love, I’d move to his country, I’d become a prince, and we’d have a million beautiful, blond-haired babies with itty-bitty faces forged by the gods….”

For no attributing reason in particular, on the word forged, a swell of eureka surged upon Apollo. “Oh! Wait, no! I have heard that name before!” he cried. “He’s a prosecutor, isn’t he? He went up against Phoenix Wright almost a decade ago. I don’t know why the heck he’s in a band now, but—”

“Clay Terran-Gavin? No. Clay Gavin-Terran? You know what, I’ll just be Clay Gavin. It’s fine. It’s a royal name.”

Clay was off orbiting around his own little world. Apollo felt his brow twitch in something akin to frustration, but he had known Clay for too long to be bothered by it. That was just Clay: his eyes were full of stars, and his head was as empty as space.

“Well, I know who I’ll be avoiding,” Apollo said with a little huff. It was enough to wrestle Clay’s attention away from his imagination.

“Are you kidding?” Clay sucked down another sip of mocha. It was quite possible that he was actively overdosing on caffeine, but one would never be able to tell. “You have the chance to talk to him! In a professional setting that won’t be at-all creepy! Like, if I went to talk to him at the airport because I stalked his social media and found out what airline he was flying in on, it would be really creepy.”

“It would,” Apollo agreed.

“But with you, it wouldn’t be creepy! You can’t let this opportunity go to waste, dude! You gotta sidle up to him, play it all smooth! Get his number!”

Apollo snorted. He lifted his cup to his lips, and the bitterness helped ground him back on earth. “No thanks. This is a serious conference. And, no offense, he doesn’t look like he belongs there.”

“He’s a playboy with a heart of gold,” Clay vouched, setting his hand on his heart. “He knows how to live a little! Unlike you, Apollo. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Apollo boastfully. “I pride myself on my professionalism. I intend to show that off to people that are actually important.”

Clay threw his head back with a whine. “Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“It’s not my style,” said Apollo.

“I mean, good luck with the gala and all. I hope you, like, network. Or whatever it is you’re trying to do.” Clay rolled his head back around and looked at Apollo from beneath his black bangs. “I’m just saying, if you do happen to run into him, you could, you know, say hi for me? Live the dream that I can’t.”

Apollo didn’t have dreams: he had goals. And he wasn’t an entirely mundane man—he knew that dreams and fairy tales could come true. All he had to do was work hard each and every day, and things would, for sure, start going his way.

Now more than ever, he was ready to be something. Beyond Raymond, beyond wishing on stars—he would make it. He was almost there.