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It's very quiet on the twelfth floor of the Los Angeles Prosecutor's Building.
At first, Athena does not think anything of it. After all, only Edgeworth, Gavin, and Simon work on the top floor, and none of them are particularly loud. Edgeworth's office is the largest, situated at the end of the hall. Gavin's is near to the elevator and faces east. Simon's is closest to the fire escape and faces west. There is a break room, supply closet, and several empty offices. It's a large space for just three people.
"It's eerie," Apollo says the third time they go by to converse about a set of recent cases that saw the Wright Anything Agency in court against first Simon, then Gavin, and finally Edgeworth.
The comment, throwaway as it seemed, nags at the back of Athena's mind. Apollo, after all, excels in observation in a way no one else does. A couple of weeks and a murder later brings Athena back up the elevator, which pings pleasantly in the silence. Now that she considers it, the silence seems manufactured. Careful. More than a little strange.
"Is it always so quiet?" she asks as Simon slides the door just short of shut behind her.
Simon blinks, thrown slightly by her question. His hand lingers on the doorknob, but it often does. She knows he would prefer to have the door completely open.
"Edgeworth-dono prefers peace and quiet," Simon says, dropping his hand and moving over to his desk, pausing briefly to open the window behind Taka's perch a bit wider even though the hawk shows no signs of wanting to leave. "Klavier's usually got music on, but he's soundproofed his office."
Athena settles herself in one of the three chairs that face Simon's desk. "I can't imagine working in such silence," she says, a laugh half on her tongue. "Things are never quiet at the Agency."
Simon's lips twitch as he sits down, resting his hands over the old-fashioned desk blotter she would tease him for if it wasn't so clear that he likes it. "I can imagine," he says, and he sounds so very happy before his expression sobers again. "But, to business."
It's only later, going over that conversation on the long walk back to the Wright Anything Agency, that she realises there was a flash of jealousy in that happiness, too.
There's a lot of things that Apollo and Klavier don't discuss. They do not discuss Clay Terran. They do not discuss Constance Courte. They do not discuss 2026.
It's not that they dance around these issues. If they become pertinent, they'll discuss them. It's less the lack of discussion and more that these are things that they don't have to discuss. After all, the dead are dead, and they stay dead. This is one thing that cannot be changed no matter what zombie lore would have some believe.
But the lack of discussion doesn't mean that Apollo doesn't notice things. Kristoph was Apollo's mentor, the strongest adult presence in Apollo's life. Klavier and Kristoph are Gavins. It's easy to explain the spectre. Kristoph falls securely into the category of not discussing 2026, but that is only where Kristoph ended. It is far from where he began.
Apollo knows where Kristoph starts with him. Kristoph's spectre sits in Apollo's court presence, in his understanding and practice of law. It has a hand in how Apollo presses his suits, in how he constructs certain types of sentences and questions. Even if he hates Kristoph's deception and the person he truly was, Kristoph was still the only person who gave Apollo a chance out of law school, no matter how double-edged that sword turned out.
With Klavier, though, Apollo knows it's not so clear cut. Klavier is very much his own person, but there's moments where the familial resemblance between Gavins extends beyond the physical. Klavier lacks Kristoph's didactic tendencies but is equally pedantic when he isn't watching himself. Klavier spends a lot of time watching himself. Kristoph must have as well, consciously constructing what image to project, how best to work a courtroom or crowd or passing individual. It's an excellent quality, this self-awareness, but they take it to a level of excess that Apollo, even with his great observational skills, finds nearly impossible to detangle. The Gavins share a skin, although it's been cut into different suits.
"Klavier."
Klavier blinks a few times, coming out of his reverie. His hand drops from his lips to rest over his laptop keyboard, tapping the spacebar to bring the dimmed screen back to brightness. Apollo glances at the fingers, to Klavier's lips. Klavier doesn't chew his nails.
"Ja?"
Apollo climbs into bed. The sheets are warm, so Klavier must have been sitting there for a good amount of time. Pulling his pillow up under his chin, Apollo looks at the laptop screen. Text splatters over several tiled document windows in the hectic way that reflects the constant barrage that Klavier's mind is always under. Most of it is in German, but there's enough English to make Apollo frown and reach up to prod Klavier lightly in the shoulder.
"Don't bring work to bed."
Klavier makes a noise of acknowledgement, fingers flicking over the keys. Command-S, Command-W. Apollo watches the way Klavier's hands move, the way he curls his little finger unconsciously when he uses the command key, depressing it with the flat of the bone below his nail.
"Why are you studying tort law?"
Klavier closes his laptop and sets it on his bedside table before reaching up to take off his glasses. "Herr Edgeworth asked me to confirm a few discrepancies between English tort law and U.S.," he says as he lifts the blanket to slide down into bed.
"When?"
A soft hum. Klavier reaches out and tucks Apollo's unstyled bangs out of his face. Apollo catches his hand, and Klavier lets him examine the calluses that have created deep grooves in the whorls of his fingers.
"An hour ago," Klavier murmurs, sleepy and unhurried.
That tone of voice would normally make Apollo smile because it's one that's Klavier when he isn't watching himself, but the contents of the statement nag at something that's been bothering Apollo for a while now. He looks from Klavier's hand to his face, very close in bed.
"You can wait until the morning, you know."
Klavier extracts his hand to rub his eyes. He breathes in deep, out, almost a yawn.
"Ach, ja," he mumbles, dropping his hands and closing his eyes.
Apollo can't tell if Klavier is really that sleepy or if he's trying to distract Apollo from the topic. Apollo lets Klavier have the first, turning over to turn off the bedside lamp. When he loops his arm over Klavier's side, Klavier returns the gesture, pulling Apollo into an embrace.
It's the embrace that gives Klavier away. He only initiates such intense contact when he feels most alone. Apollo is very careful not to react, even though he wants to grind his teeth.
Klavier, like Apollo, has a problem saying no.
Phoenix notices.
At first it makes him angry. A lot of things make him angry nowadays, although differently from when he was younger and more naïve. It's sad in some ways to think that someone whose mentor had been murdered, who had been accused of murder, and who had literally run through fire could be considered naïve, but that was what he was. The Dark Age of Law was a lot of things. To call it unkind would be so much of an understatement it would be a lie.
The only reason that the anger doesn't burn hot and explosive is because Phoenix knows casual cruelty when it's intended. It's what he spent seven years learning and then picking apart. It's been a year between himself and Kristoph, yes, but there will always be scars. It's the knowledge of those scars that stop the anger from blossoming into rage.
"You're doing it again."
Miles stops mid-step. He shuffles, unmoored and painfully awkward for a moment. His glasses glint in the harsh overhead lights between Courtroom Three and Four. He grimaces. Breathes out and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Damn," he hisses, and the way he looks at Phoenix threatens to strip away almost a decade. "What was it this time?"
Phoenix glances over his shoulder to make sure no one has followed them, that hopefully no one is listening in. When he turns back, Miles has his lips pressed thin, hand clenching and unclenching at his side.
"Tone of voice. I know you were trying to praise him, but it came out like a scolding."
Miles blows out a sigh, head turning to the side like he's searching for something only he knows. "I wish they would say something -"
Phoenix snorts, which cuts Miles off. Miles watches him with that half-wary expression that Phoenix hates that he's grown familiar with. He knows that the Dark Age gave him a new smile.
"You know they can't."
Blackquill was on death row for the majority of his adulthood. Phoenix can't say he knows anything about what that was like, but he can't imagine it encouraged protesting to maintain well-being. Gavin--well, Phoenix doesn't know where to start with that.
Miles shuts his eyes. "I'm going to have to talk them," he says, soft and pained.
"Yes," Phoenix agrees, low enough that Miles opens his eyes again to look at him. "But don't do it at the office. You can't be their superior in that conversation."
A short, jerking nod. They're quiet for a long minute under the court lights. They use the same ones throughout the building as in the courtrooms.
Miles breathes out a sigh. "We're going to be late."
Phoenix shrugs, almost expecting a beanie to slide down his forehead. The back of his head itches, so he scratches it.
"Yeah, I guess," he says.
He moves to join Miles, hands finding his suit jacket's pockets. He knocks his elbow against Miles' side.
"Let's go."