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Just A Little Game of Poker, Wright	By : Blackwidina Category: +M through R > Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney Views: 1618 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Ace Attorney series, and I make no money from the writing of this story.

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Well. One couldn't be right all the time. Though Nick surely would have made an awful pun about it.
It was the next morning, and Apollo was facing off against Winston Payne, for which he was supremely grateful. After laughing himself half to death, his boss had quickly struck down any delusions of his dating Franziska von Karma, and then changed the subject to a lesson on signals. Apparently, Phoenix and Trucy had a million ways to convey the same information, and Apollo's brain was still reeling from the overload. At this point, every scratch of his nose, every twitch of his posture seemed laden with meaning.
-Even worse, he was exhausted, because they'd stayed up, absorbed in the lesson, until Trucy had come home at two in the morning. She'd scolded them soundly, then sent them to bed. That in itself was a little awkward, since the office had two rooms—the main office with the fold-out couch, and the inner office, with was Trucy's bedroom—though Phoenix kept most of his clothes and things in there. Usually, Phoenix just sprawled out on the couch, but for the purpose of the impromptu sleep-over, he'd graciously folded out the bed, and they'd shared.
Which was why Apollo was exhausted.
Despite being genuinely tired, despite having used his ability to the point that his eyelids felt clogged with sand, despite knowing that he had a case in the morning, he just could not make himself relax when his mentor, his hero—never mind what he'd blithely said about having learned better—lying in bed just a few inches away.
Phoenix, on the other hand, seemed to have no such problem, and had readily dropped off, leaving Apollo staring off into the office, trying to ignore the way he could damn near feel the heat from his boss' body radiating across the space between them. And trying to ignore that he was wearing a set of the man's clothes, which were just a touch too big on him. And definitely trying to ignore the urge to . . .
Apollo was gay. He'd always known. But he'd never told anyone, ever. When he was younger, he was terrified that such an admission would only make him even less desirable than he already was. It was painful enough constantly being passed over by potential adopters and foster parents when they thought that he was a "normal" kid.
So he'd hidden it, even from the few friends he'd had in the system. When he'd become an adult, the fear persisted. He didn't want to be alone, so he did everything he could to be accepted, following the crowds at college and doing whatever they did. It wasn't until his apprenticeship at Mr. Gavin's law firm that he'd started following his own desires a little more. Mr. Gavin had suspected, surely, but his advice to Apollo was simply to be himself. Apollo, grateful, had slowly been coming out of his shell, being more honest about his likes and dislikes, in all but one matter.
And now that 'matter,' was sleeping next to him.
Apollo slowly, carefully, rolled over so that he was facing Phoenix. He stared at the broad back and shoulders as they slowly moved with each deep breath.
It was kind of scary. Phoenix and Trucy were like . . . his family, in a way. He'd been so honest with them, more than with anyone else. He'd told Trucy to her face that he didn't like the music that she listened to, rather than just play along like he used to. He'd called Phoenix all sorts of unflattering things, and even slugged him when the man had confessed to forging evidence. He was loud, generally sarcastic, and liked chicken and white sauce on his pizza, to their red-meat-loving horror. And they still kept him around.
Apollo wasn't stupid. He knew that he was in a lot of danger with this man. Hero-worship could easily turn into a childish crush (and who's to say it already hasn't, his mind snarked,) and the last thing he needed was to jeopardize his relationship with the only two people—because the Wrights sure as hell came as a pair—that had finally given him the family he had always desperately wanted.
No way in hell would he let that happen.
Phoenix suddenly shifted, rolling over in his sleep, and Apollo's breath caught when suddenly they were facing each other. In the light from the office windows, he could see just how young the other looked, even younger than in his old court videos.
Well, aside from the slight stubble. While he did deign to shave more often than he used to, some old habits—or non-habits, as the case may be—were dying hard. Apollo found himself wondering how it would feel, if he kissed Phoenix. Would it prickle? Would Phoenix's lips be hard or soft? What would they do with their hands? Apollo had a terrible desire to run his hands through those (in)famous spikes, and a kiss would be the perfect opportunity . . .
He mentally slapped himself, shutting off that train of thought. He knew better. Those sorts of thoughts would only cause problems that he wasn't able to deal with right now. Not that he hadn't indulged a few times on his own, but right now, in Phoenix's bed (in the most platonic sense) was definitely not the time.
Particularly when the other two people in the house were probably two of the most perceptive he'd ever met.
Taking a quiet, deep breath, Apollo reminded himself of all the reasons he could never, ever let his boss know that he was attracted to him. It was an old exercise, one he'd perfected in college, when it seemed every one of his dorm-mates, his classmates, any law professors under the age of 45, had been the perfect target for his long-suppressed hormones.
Besides,' he reminded himself finally, feeling the weight of all the evidence behind his conviction, 'If Phoenix—Mr. Wright—were to be attracted to anyone, it's already clear what his type is. After all, his 'one and only girlfriend was that . . . was . . . oh, no fucking way.
If Iris had been Phoenix's 'one and only girlfriend,' as he'd claimed . . . then who had he been dating, that he didn't get back together with her?
The only logical answer was a man.
And judging by the evidence, including Phoenix's reaction to certain questions, that man was . . . Miles Edgeworth.
Apollo nearly shook with a mix of emotion. Shock, at realizing that Phoenix was into men—and to honest, half of the shock was in that Phoenix had indulged; part of Apollo still saw his preference as something shameful, to be hidden from anyone he didn't want to risk losing. For a moment, he felt a rush of hopeful elation at the natural thought of having even a chance with the man. A long, glorious moment where he could see himself living here, or moving with the Wrights to a real apartment, sleeping with Phoenix, taking care of him and Trucy, helping build Phoenix back up into the man he used to be . . . but when he realized just what sort of competition he was against . . .
If he's into people like Iris Hawthorne and Miles Edgeworth, I don't have a chance in hell. They're so . . . and I'm just . . .
He'd never felt quite so inadequate in his life. Well, okay, maybe this didn't quite measure up to being sent back to the orphanage from yet another foster home, but it was a close second.
And besides, just because Phoenix liked men didn't mean that Phoenix liked him, now did it? Or worse, what if he didn't, but decided to be with Apollo just because there was no one else? He didn't think his boss would be that deliberately cruel, but when a person was lonely . . . Apollo, of all people, knew just how isolation, and the fear of it, could push a person to act out of character. After all, he'd spent hours at bars with his friends, flirting with girls that he cared nothing about.
He . . . he couldn't replace Miles Edgeworth, who had obviously been so special to Phoenix. And he didn't want to try.
Apollo decided, then and there, that no matter how much he wanted Phoenix, he'd never tell him. The potential pain of losing Phoenix and Trucy was a million times worse than anything he'd ever faced before. Even more so, the thought of Phoenix being with him out of pity, or as a way of replacing Mr. Edgeworth. The only thing Apollo could do for all of them was keep things exactly as they were.
He spent the next few hours trying to convince himself of just that.
He'd drifted off, finally, only to be mortified the next morning when he woke up wrapped up in Phoenix's arms, head tucked firmly under the man's chin, and a face-full of surprisingly firm chest. He'd been woken by Trucy's radio alarm blaring what sounded like a Gavinner's song at top volume, and both he and Phoenix had flinched at the sound, groaning as they were mutually ejected from their respective dreamscapes. They pulled apart in sleep-induced confusion and stared at each other blearily, trying to remember how they'd gotten there. When Apollo's brain clicked back on, he opened his mouth to stutter an apology, face reddening.
A hand clamped over his mouth, and Phoenix said, his voice raspy, "If you're about to explode from embarrassment, let me get out of the way, first. And don't break the Chords of Steel. You'll be needing them."
The hand dropped, and Apollo went to say something, though he wasn't sure what, when the door to Trucy's room burst open, unleashing a tidal wave of sound, and a pajama-clad, demon shuffled out, hair sticking up in more directions than previously deemed possible, usually bright eyes squinting against the morning light, feet clad in the ugliest furry slippers known to man. Apollo honestly thought for a second that she'd found two identical bits of roadkill and stepped in them.
"G'mornin'daddy," the creature mumbled, dragging her feet on the way to the office bathroom. Apollo found himself holding his breath until the bathroom door was safely shut.
"You okay, kid?"
Apollo gave Phoenix a wide-eyed stare, before applying some brutal honesty to the situation: "Wright, even if I had been attracted to Trucy before this, I think that would have cured me for life."
Phoenix laughed, then gave him a push, "Go get ready for court."
It had been a surreal morning. He'd watched the demon slowly transform into Trucy, a process that apparently was hastened by leftover doughnuts from the previous morning. He'd also been scared out of his wits by an escaped rabbit that had managed to get closed up in the bathroom with him. A brush of fur against his ankles, and he'd been reduced to a less-than-manly shriek and had leapt up on top of the toilet in a display of dexterity that had surprised him. He'd had to be rescued by Phoenix, who'd made fun of his Blue Badger boxers before removing the offending bunny.
"OBJECTION!" Apollo bellowed at the retreating figure, "I REFUSE TO BE RIDICULED BY A MAN WITH PINK PRINCESS BOXERS!" Ahhh, and there was his Chords of Steel warm-up for the day, made all the sweeter by the sound of Trucy squalling, "Don't blame me, Daddy! He must have seen them when he helped me with the laundry!"
And now here he was, fending off the exhaustion that follows the doughnut-induced sugar rush, mind half on his 'battle' with Payne—he hadn't been bluffing when he'd told Wright that he had this one in the bag—and half running through all the various signals he'd learned.
Poor Payne tried his best, but under the weight of Apollo's increasing experience and the solid testimony and evidence, the jury unanimously voted 'Not Guilty,' and their defendant was freed, all before lunchtime. Apollo and Trucy accepted the heartfelt thinks of the defendant and his wife, then had a celebratory lunch at a local diner.
"So, Polly, what's up? You've been distracted all morning!" Trucy prodded.
"Just thinking about tonight," he answered honestly. He'd been trying very hard not to think about anything . . . else. Besides his case, of course.
Her head tilted, eyes sparkling, "You're nervous, aren't you? Don't be! You're even better at perceiving people's twitches than I am!"
"Yeah, but that's only because of this." He held up the wrist with its ever-present bracelet. "You can do this without it, and since you're a magician, you're used to being all subtle and sneaky. I'm not so good with that."
She giggled, delighted at the dubious praise. "If you don't trust yourself, trust Daddy. He's the best for a reason."
"I know. He kicked my butt last night."
"He's got more tricks than us up his sleeve," she nodded.
"Yeah . . . it's kind of weird how the both of us have the same . . . ability, I guess you'd call it. I don't know anyone else who does. Did you?" Apollo said this slowly, the thought only really half-formed.
She shook her head. "You're the first person like me I've ever met."
"And I didn't even realize that I was, until you told me. I just thought my bracelet was tight on occasion. When I worked with Mr. Gavin, I guess I just got used to it going off all the time. It's supposed to be pretty tight, after all."
"Is it?" Trucy didn't say anything else, but he saw her eyes glance at it with an open curiosity. He took a drink of his soda, trying to give her some privacy for her inner struggle. "Can . . . I . . . look at it?" she finally asked, blushing a little. "I mean, I know it's special to you, so you don't have to, I was just-"
He couldn't help but laugh, "It's okay, Truce. I . . . I know I can trust you with it." And he really did, he realized. To be a tease, he reached out his arm, laying his wrist on the table.
She laid a finger on the bracelet, hesitantly, following the patterns that trailed over it. "It's beautiful. Is it heavy?"
"Yeah, it's metal, after all. I don't know what kind."
She flipped his arm over, looking at the bottom. "I don't see a catch. How do you take it on and off?"
Apollo grinned, and took his hand back. With a dramatic flourish—that, ironically, he'd learned from watching her—he moved his soda over the center of the table and pressed the bracelet to the cold, condensation-covered glass. He felt that side of the metal start to relax and loosen, and when he deemed it slack enough, slid his hand free.
Trucy's eyes were wide, like he'd just pulled a rabbit out of the bracelet instead of just his hand. "Wow! That's amazing! Whatever it's made out of, I want some! Think of all the illusions I could make!" She was so genuinely excited that she nearly bounced in place.
He handed her the bracelet, and just watched as she fiddled with it. He felt . . . odd, without the comforting weight around his wrist. Unprotected. Naked. But he trusted Trucy implicitly. "Try it on, Truce."
"Really?"
"Really."
She carefully slipped off her gloves, which clinked suspiciously when she set them on the table, then slid a delicate hand through the ring of metal. After just a moment, it had tightened to fit her perfectly. "Polly! It's amazing! Oh! Oh! Lie to me! Think about heights! Anything!"
The rest of their lunch was spent in various attempts to fool the other, with Apollo definitely on the losing end. The game continued once they eventually decided to walk back to the Wright Anything Agency, picking out the nervous tics of the passers-by. By the time they made it back to the office, it was nearly two o'clock. Wright had managed to fold up the hide-a-bed again, but was sprawled out on the couch when they came in.
"Daddy, look!" Trucy flashed the bracelet at him.
Phoenix brows raised, "I think you're a little young to get engaged, sweetie. And Polly, I'm ashamed that you led her so far astray."
Apollo just rolled his eyes, moving to set his briefcase on the desk. He flexed his left wrist again, still feeling slightly off-balance by the loss, but he didn't quite have the heart to ask for the bracelet back just yet.
That being said, Trucy noticed the action right away—probably because the item in question had tightened. "Oh, sorry, Polly. I'll just grab something cold from the fridge really quick."
"What, no frozen chicken in your panties today, Trucy?" Phoenix joked, rising from the sofa.
"Not today, Daddy. It's best to keep a wide variety of appearing objects, so that your audience never knows what to expect," she replied, dead serious. She flounced off, presumably to the office's mini-kitchen.
Wright gave a slight snort, "I never get bored with that kid."
Apollo chuckled as he started pulling out post-trial paperwork, "She's one of a kind, and I can only be grateful." He set the papers on the desk, and was turning back to set the briefcase on the floor, out of the way, when his left elbow was gently grabbed.
Phoenix pulled his left wrist up where he could see it, rubbing a thumb across the lighter strip of skin. "It occurred to me that I've never seen you without it."
Apollo nodded, a little nervous. "I came to the orphanage with it. I was just a baby, but they gave it to me to wear when I was five, and it hasn't really left my arm since." He thought about that for a moment, "Well, unless I'm going swimming. Which is why I don't."
"Don't or can't?"
"Pick one."
"Interesting." Phoenix still hadn't released him, and judging by his eyes, he was thinking about something else, something that weighed on him. Apollo felt the slightest tremor as his body responded to the tension, but without the bracelet, he wasn't sure which of them was setting it off. Feeling the beginning of a blush, he tugged his wrist free, grateful that Trucy was returning, holding his bracelet in her hand. Putting it back on made him feel better immediately.
"Thanks, Polly! It was really neat to see how it works for you!"
"You're welcome." And he meant it.
She looked him over. "You need to get home and changed."
"I do?"
"Well, you don't necessarily want to go to Daddy's poker game wearing your suit, do you?"
Ah, good point. "I see what you mean. What time do I need to be back, Mr. Wright? Or should I meet you there?"
Phoenix was still standing where Apollo had left him, still apparently thinking hard. It took another two tries before they could get his attention. "Oh . . . right, meet me there. Don't wear the suit, of course. In fact, if you've got a hat, wear it."
Apollo tried to remember if he had one. "I think . . . I've got a baseball cap around the apartment somewhere. Maybe. I'll see what I can do."
"I'd also suggest a sweater. The place gets a bit chilly."
"Gotcha."
The first thing Apollo did was go home and take a nap to make up for being a creepy stalker fanboy all night. Then he got up and took a long shower, running through all of his cues in his mind. Trucy had had all sorts of advice for him at lunch—namely about how to act, since he couldn't pull the 'this is my Daddy' card. He had to come off as a good acquaintance, even a friend, but casual enough that they wouldn't give off the impression of being a 'team,' per se.
Because yeah, subterfuge was so his greatest strength.
He eventually found his old college ball cap, and wore it backwards, cringing at the nostalgia. Of course, rather than tucking his bangs through the hole, or gelling them, he kind of tucked them under the hat itself, afraid that they might wind up giving the game away, so to speak. Then he proceeded to try and figure out how many layers he could wear. He'd been to the Borscht Bowl Club once, and nearly come out with frostbite, so he put on a long-sleeved shirt under his T-shirt, some jeans and sneakers, then groaned when he looked in the mirror.
He looked Trucy's age.
On the plus side, he didn't look like Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney.
Two hours into the game, and he was certain of one thing: he was going to die. Either of cold or embarrassment, he wasn't sure.
Mr. Wright was up against a half-dozen supposed "professionals," all of whom seemed to have formed some sort of poker . . . gang? It made Apollo think of the MIT card-counting group from all those years ago, except these guys were jerks. If they weren't making snide comments to or about Phoenix, they were picking on him.
When he'd walked in, his boss had been sitting at the piano, thankfully not playing, but chatting with his opponents. He'd introduced Apollo as a friend of his, and fielded off all the comments about jailbait with a shrug and a smirk that made Apollo want to punch him, on principle, even as his stomach did funny little flips. All eight of them, plus the dealer, had been searched for hidden cards—Wright had made a funny sort of growling noise in his throat when Apollo's guy got more 'frisky' than needed—and they'd made their way down to the little room.
Apollo couldn't help but grin a little when he watched Phoenix check all of his pockets again before heading down the stairs. Who ever said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks?
Mr. Wright played each person in a row, switching between the blue and red decks. Apollo had had the foresight to slide his bracelet a little higher on his arm so that, if it tightened, it wouldn't pinch as much, making him less likely to jump if it did. As he and Phoenix had worked out before, he focused on trying to perceive each opponent's type of tension, whether good or bad, and would try to convey that information for every hand, using various 'twitches' of his own.
The first game, the guy was disappointed to lose, but fairly nice about it. The second loss was grumbled about, but, as they said, they were going up against a champion, right?
By the third loss, the group was getting annoyed, to the point that all of Apollo's attention had to be firmly focused on the player, lest he be distracted by all the rising emotions around them.
Loser number four was pretty upset, and the next thing anyone knew, he was calling for another search of all the players. Phoenix and Apollo submitted, and of course, they weren't hiding anything, but the anger in the room was getting palpable, though Phoenix was doing his best to laugh it off.
After the fifth game, Apollo was suddenly, terribly afraid that the guy, who probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds, might actually hit Phoenix, but all he did was slam the table and stalk off.
Phoenix leaned back, looking much more relaxed than he really was, and cheerfully called for the next player. "C'mon, now, let's see if you can win back some of your friends' money!"
The last player sat himself down, already looking furious, "You better be ready, old man. And if we catch you cheating, you better believe you'll be in a world of fucking hurt."
Phoenix tried to smile disarmingly, "We all have to lose sometimes, friend. Maybe tonight it'll be me, or maybe it'll be you. It's all up to the cards, right?"
"Yeah, sure. Dealer, let's get this going."
Apollo was fighting back a wave of fear. These men were not happy, and he had the distinct impression that when Phoenix won this game—and he had enough faith to know that he would, indeed, be winning this final round—that someone was going to flip. He almost couldn't read the player, because of the tension level in the room. He'd rather stare down a dozen of the worst murderers he'd come across in court than be here right now. At least then, there were bailiffs to discourage actual violence..
The chips were distributed about evenly, when the opponent pulled out all the stops and bet his entire stack which would decimate the loser's chances at recovery. From his seat, Apollo had watched Phoenix's cards—he'd had two pair, one of sixes, one of Queens. He gave up his four of clubs and received another Queen. Now he was holding a full house with three Queens and two sixes. An average hand, which could go either way.
Apollo concentrated on the other guy, trying to feel out the nuances. He suddenly realized that the other, already beaten players were equally tense, but in a way that felt positive.
They were certain that their guy was going to win.
But the man across the table felt differently. He was exuding a sharp edge of fear, sliding towards guilt, that Apollo didn't understand. He heard Phoenix take a deep breath, and when Apollo glanced over, Phoenix had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed.
"Well, old man? Call or fold. Either way, your perfect streak is up," boasted the other opponent, sounding more confident than he felt.
Phoenix sighed, then looked across the table. At the dealer. "Anya."
The girl straightened immediately, shock on her face, "Um, da?"
"You know if you did it, you're fired. Among other things."
Her face drained of color, "I—I don't know what you're talking about." Her affected Russian accent had disappeared.
Phoenix's face hardened, and he abruptly slid his pile forward. "Fine then, it's your funeral. Show 'em."
The other guy, looking suddenly nervous (to Apollo, anyway. Anyone else might have missed the slight paling and the tremor of his fingers,) laid his cards out.
A royal flush, which included the 10, Jack, Queen, King and Ace of Spades.
For a moment, the significance went over Apollo's head, but then Phoenix revealed his hand, the full house.
Two sixes. Three queens—and the Queens were of Hearts, Diamonds and Spades.
Two Queens of Spades.
The room suddenly got a lot louder, all of the group yelling accusations at Phoenix, trying to place the blame on him. Phoenix tried to yell over them, but finally looked at Apollo with a beseeching look.
Jumping to his feet, Apollo put his Chords of Steel to good use, bellowing the phrase he loved best: "OBJECTION!"
The silence afterward made his ears ring a bit, but it was worth it to see the hilariously stunned looks on their faces.
Phoenix pulled himself to his feet at well. Leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, he said, enunciating clearly. "It is obvious that someone in this room has been cheating. It is also evident that our house dealer, hired only last week, is in on it."
"Yeah, she's your house dealer."
"She was also hired about the same time your group made their appointment for tonight, which makes her additionally suspect." Phoenix continued. "Anyone care to confess, so we can settle this amicably?"
"Fuck you," said one of the players. Apollo was pretty sure he was number three. "We want our money back, you swindler!"
Phoenix nodded, like he'd been expecting that. "If we could prove that I was the one cheating, that would indeed be agreeable. However, between the card count for the game in question, plus whatever we'll find on the footage from the security camera-"
There was another burst of protest, "What camera?" "We didn't know there'd be no camera!" "You can't do that!"
"Oh, yes, we can." Wright's tone was firm. "It protects us as much as you all, in the case of cheating, or in case the police are ever called here. That's why you were required to pay upfront, so that we can honestly prove that there was never any money exchanged in these games. I suspect that an overview of the surveillance will uncover our cheater. And that cheater, of course, will be made known to the local community. Assuming, of course, that your whole troupe wasn't involved in some way."
Apollo wasn't breathing by this point. He was starting to understand how the man had ended up being punched, tazed, and generally abused in his lawyer days.
"Or," Phoenix continued in a much friendlier voice, "We can all go our merry ways, right now. I don't want to see you in here again, but if you leave without a fuss, I'll keep my . . . suspicions . . . to myself."
"And what about our money?" snarled the number four player.
Phoenix looked off toward the ceiling and recited as if off a grocery list, "As gambling is illegal in the state of California, any and all monetary transactions to the Borscht Bowl Club are considered as either payment for services or non-refundable donations-"
"Like hell, you son of a—"
The room's tension finally snapped as the biggest one of the bunch took a swing at Phoenix.
The next thing he knew, Apollo was being hauled up by the collar by one of the players. He quickly smashed his foot down on the guy's instep, then swung an elbow up into his face.
Living in an orphanage and foster care had taught him a lot of useful skills.
He was quite used to being the smaller opponent, and so used his lower center of gravity to his advantage. That being said, it was two against six, and it didn't take long before he got a right hook to the face, knocking him to the floor.
He dimly heard a male voice calling his name, but he was busy trying to get back on his feet. Someone kicked him in the shoulder, forcing him back down, and he swung a leg out and hit someone else right below the kneecap, dislocating it. While the others were distracted by the painful wail, he grabbed his bracelet, slid it down to it's regular place, then bashed it into the nearest knee—probably belonging to whomever had kicked him.
"Ow! Fuck, Vinnie, finish this kid off!"
Before 'Vinnie' could do so, however, there was a deafening roar, comprised mostly of Russian epithets, and punctuated by the sound of a baseball bat hitting the wall as the owner of the Borscht Bowl Club, Pavel Petrov, descended upon the chaos. As he was almost seven feet tall, 300 pounds, and obviously not shy about beating the shit out of the interlopers who were messing with his business, he cut quite the heroic figure to Apollo.
Within a few minutes, the crowd had parted like the Red Sea, and the troupe had been sent upstairs and out of the restaurant, the threats of litigation combined with a bat upside the head working wonders.
As soon as he realized he was safe, Apollo promptly lay back on the floor to catch his breath, and closed his eyes.
TBC
Thanks to everyone who's been reading!
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Just A Little Game of Poker, Wright