Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"There are times when I still wonder about you / You are someone I have loved but never known."

- The Crane Wives, "Never Love an Anchor"

The back door of the building creaks open on its hinges, and Mr. Wright steps out, holding a drink in each hand.

“Here,” he says, passing Apollo a can—soda, of course, as they don’t keep any alcohol around on account of Mr. Wright’s hard-fought sobriety.  “Mind if I sit?”

“Thanks.” Apollo cracks open his drink and takes a swig. He shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

Mr. Wright grunts like an old man as he lowers himself down on the stoop beside Apollo. He has his can of grape soda pressed against his face, but it doesn’t do enough to completely conceal the ugly, purpling bruise Apollo dealt to his cheekbone. Apollo winces.

“Sorry I punched you,” he says. “Again.”

Mr. Wright snorts. “Please, Apollo. I’d punch me too.”

“Is Trucy okay?”

“She’s still really confused and pretty mad, but I was able to talk her down a bit. I told her I’d give her a little space, and she asked me if you were okay.” Mr. Wright glances down at him, pointedly.

“I’m mad at you, too,” Apollo says.

“I gathered that when you came out swinging, yes.”

“To be honest, I don’t know how to feel about L–Thalassa. But you lied to me.” Apollo fiddles with the tab on his can of ginger ale. “Over and over, I lost everything, and the whole time you knew I had a mom and a sister and you didn’t tell me. You kept it from me even when we learned about my bio dad. Dhurke died and still you didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to, Apollo. But it wasn’t my decision. It was Thalassa’s secret to keep—and I thought about it, in Khura’in, but even then, it didn’t feel like the right time to spring that kind of information on you. I didn’t think you were stable enough to handle it just then.”

“I’m an adult, and it’s not for you to decide whether or not I can handle it. I deserved to know.”

“I know, and I told her as such. Over and over. Trucy and Apollo deserve to know, I told her, if not that their mother is alive then at least that they share one. But she was too scared, and I didn’t want to betray her trust.”

“So you betrayed mine and Trucy’s instead? Mr. Wright, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“W-Well, when you put it that way—”

“You thought it was more important to keep her trust—Thalassa, who learned she had two children and decided she was too much of a coward to face them?”

Mr. Wright rubs his neck. “Sounds like you are mad at Thalassa.”

“I guess I am. It’s—It’s complicated. But I thought you were done lying to me. I really did.” Apollo rubs absently at his bracelet. “It feels like that’s all you’ve ever done.”

Mr. Wright sighs heavily as he finally cracks into his soda. “Alright, are we finally talking about this?”

“I guess we are.”

“Apollo.” He turns on the stoop to face him. “I’m sorry about what happened back then, I really am. I was desperate. When I realized what Kristoph had done, I had to do whatever I could to take him down, even if it meant using you.”

“You knew back then, didn’t you?”

Mr. Wright nods, ashamed. “I didn’t know Thalassa was still alive—not until the Tobaye case—but I did piece together that you and Truce were related. I knew you had that perceptive ability of yours, and I knew you were working under Gavin, so the opportunity presented itself. You were the wildcard, Apollo, the one thing he couldn’t predict. There was no one else who could’ve done it. It had to be you. And… he was a murderer. He had to go down, even if it meant putting your career in jeopardy.”

“You should’ve just told me sooner what was going on, at least after he was already in jail.”

“I couldn’t have. Honestly, I thought that was the end of it. I wasn’t expecting Misham’s death. I didn’t think I’d get the chance to use the jurist test trial like that, and I had to be secretive. You weren’t the only one I kept in the dark about all of it. I was being watched, and I had to protect Trucy. That was my number one priority, from the very beginning.”

“I don’t blame you for that. I get why you had to do it. But you still used me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Mr. Wright sighs shakily. “But when I met you there in his office, I… I won’t pretend it was the main reason, because I really was thinking only of Trucy’s safety, but there was a part of me that wanted to get you out of there. I knew Kristoph was dangerous and I wanted to free you from under his thumb before you saw something you shouldn’t and he killed you, too.”

Apollo furrows his brow. “Mr. Wright…”

“That’s the last one, Apollo, okay?” Mr. Wright says wetly, swiping at his eyes. He stretches out his arms in a gesture of surrender. “That’s it, nothing else up my sleeves. I’m all out of secrets. Happy?”

A beat passes in strained silence, then, with Mr. Wright quietly drying his tears.

Then something cold and sickly coils in Apollo’s stomach. He doesn’t think he’s breathing when he asks, “Mr. Wright, did he know? Did Mr. Gavin know about me and Trucy, and that’s why he took me under his wing?”

Mr. Wright chuckles bitterly. “No, don’t worry, I don’t think he did.” He winces. “I think he just saw that you were young and naive—and brilliant, sure—but lonely and desperate for validation, and he kept you around because you’d be easy to influence.”

“That’s… not any better.”

“It’s not. But don’t forget, Apollo.” Mr. Wright winks. “I never lost a game of poker to that bastard for seven straight years. He didn’t see what I saw in you—even when I was, admittedly, using you—and that’s his loss.”

Despite himself, Apollo flushes at the subtle praise. He mentally kicks himself for it as he turns away, forcibly blanking his face.

“Don’t think you can distract me from the fact that you hid my mother from me for three years,” he grumbles.

“I really am sorry, Apollo. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me if you aren’t ready for it.” Mr. Wright pulls himself to his feet with an unflattering groan. “I won’t bother you anymore, but… If I can still ask you for one thing, can you check up on Trucy before you leave? I won’t ask for anything else, honest, but… For Trucy.”

“Of course, Mr. Wright,” Apollo says softly. “I’d give anything for her.”

Mr. Wright ducks his head and claps Apollo on the shoulder, covertly wiping a tear from his eye.

“Thank you, Apollo. I’m glad I was right about you,” he says, and walks back into the building, door swinging shut behind him.

Apollo follows suit not long after, letting himself into the Wrights’ apartment above the office and slipping down the hall to Trucy’s room. He raps softly on the door with his knuckles.

“I said to leave me alone,” Trucy’s voice calls out, watery and ragged.

“Trucy, it’s me,” Apollo calls back. “Can I come in?”

“Polly?” A beat. “Yeah, you can come in.”

Gently, Apollo creaks the door open and slips inside. The lights are off in Trucy’s room, save for the star-shaped lamp on her nightstand. She’s curled up against the headboard, and a mountain of tissues threatens to overflow from the little wastebasket by her bed.

“Hey,” Apollo says softly. “You okay?”

Trucy shrugs.

Apollo crosses the room and sits at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry I hit your dad.”

“That’s okay,” Trucy mumbles. “He kind of had it coming.”

“Still, I’m sorry if I scared you.” He reaches out a hand, which Trucy takes. “How are you holding up?”

“Well, I already had a panic attack. Daddy calmed me down, even though I’m still mad.” She swipes roughly at her face. “I don’t know what to do, Polly.”

Apollo squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

Apollo sighs. “I don’t know, Truce. It’s really confusing for me—I never even knew who my mother was. And now she’s suddenly just… in our lives?”

“D’you think she just didn’t want me anymore?” Trucy’s breath hitches.

“Oh, no, Truce, I don’t think that’s it. C’mere.” Apollo opens his arms and Trucy practically leaps into his embrace, nearly knocking him backward on the bed. “The whole situation’s just unbelievably fucked, huh?”

“I thought she was dead, I thought—everyone always said—” Trucy hiccups. “Polly, what if you leave me too?”

“Hey! Why would I do that?”

“Because that’s the Gramarye way.”

“Listen to me, Trucy.” Apollo runs a hand through Trucy’s hair, tucking her firmly under his arm. “I’m no Gramarye. I’m Apollo Justice, I’m your brother, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Trucy sniffles. “Promise?”

“I promise. Accepting that I have a sister is the easy part, trust me. The rest we’ll figure out together.”

“Are you and Daddy fighting?” Trucy asks in a small voice.

Apollo sighs. “Honestly, I’m still pretty angry with him, but we talked.”

“That’s okay. I’m mad at him too, still. But… he’s my Daddy, so I think we’ll be okay.”

“Me too. I just need a little time to think it over, okay? But it’s not going to come between me and you. You’re my sister no matter what.”

Trucy extracts herself from Apollo’s hold, wiping at her wet cheeks. “Thanks, Polly. I’m really glad you’re my big brother.”

Apollo’s heart swells. “Me too, Truce.” He gets up from the bed and stretches. “I ought to get home soon and feed Mikeko. Are you gonna be okay here with just Mr. Wright?”

“Wait!” Trucy blurts. “Um. Could you stay with me for just a bit longer? Just a few more minutes.”

“Sure thing. Scoot.”

Trucy beams and wriggles herself under the covers, patting the spot next to her with a fervor. Apollo sits against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him atop the bedsheets, and Trucy tucks herself against his side. Apollo pulls up videos on his phone, and they sit there in peace together until he feels Trucy’s full weight slump against his shoulder. She’s already snoring softly by the time Apollo carefully separates her from his side and settles her down in her bed.

Mr. Wright’s nowhere to be seen when Apollo slips out of Trucy’s room. He excuses himself from the apartment and makes his way to his bike, alone.

Apollo stares at the gold bracelet on his mother’s wrist and tries—to no avail—not to feel like a bug under a microscope.

It’s not her fault, really, any more than it is his. They’ve both been cursed to be Gramaryes, by blood. Apollo doesn’t care much for blood ties, though. He’s never had that kind of luxury.

“I’m sorry if this is strange,” Thalassa says in that melodic voice. “I… sort of expected Trucy to come along and break the ice just a tad.”

Apollo tightens his fist on his knee, under the table where Thalassa won’t catch it.

“I didn’t want to force her,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Thalassa shakes her head. “Please, don’t be. I just want her to be happy. If that means I must stay away, I can accept that.”

“I don’t think she is happy,” Apollo admits, meeting his mother’s gaze. “She really, really missed you. She’s just… she’s really been through a lot.”

“So have you,” Thalassa says softly. “As have I.”

Apollo says nothing. In front of him, his coffee is going cold.

“I regret that you spent so long in the dark,” Thalassa continues.

“I know,” Apollo says. “I get it. I’d be afraid to face me, too.”

“Oh, Apollo.” Thalassa swallows thickly, blinking wetness from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Oh, how I mourned you for years, my precious baby boy. When I learned you were alive, I… I just didn’t know what to do. I was so lost, so ashamed that I left you behind in Khura’in. There was not a day that I did not think about you and Jove, not for years, not until I lost my memories, and with it, everything.”

Apollo squirms uncomfortably under her watery stare. How strange, to feel like the ghost of a dead boy and his father wrapped up in one, to feel Thalassa’s years of grief projected onto himself, a young man she barely knows at all. She was not there to soothe his fevers and teach him to read, not there to talk him through fiery nightmares he didn’t understand, not there to see him through law school, to sing him lullabies, or to hold him after his best friend was murdered. Apollo fights back the urge to dig his fingers into his forearms, where angry scars from burns and debris still mark him from hand to elbow as the damaged goods he is, not the bright and innocent baby Thalassa once knew. It’s not hard to imagine her being disappointed to find that he is not exactly like the image of his grown-up self she created in her head.

Even though he tries to hide it, Thalassa still notices; her eyes focus sharply on his face.

“What about Trucy?” Apollo blurts out before she can call him on his discomfort.

Thalassa looks wounded for a moment before her expression settles into something carefully cool and collected. That, too, makes Apollo squirm.

“What about her, love?”

Apollo barrels on past the affectionate term. “You thought I was dead, sure. I never really knew you, and it must have been a shock to find out that I was in LA all along. But you raised Trucy, for several years of her life. And you didn’t want to go back to her as soon as you remembered?”

“Apollo, please, think about it!” Thalassa says somewhat tersely, hand coming up to fiddle nervously with the end of her braid. “Not only did my memory return after about a decade, but I soon found out that my father had died, Trucy was left behind, and my husband had been murdered, and it had all been part of a larger scheme that I could not understand. What would you have had me do?”

“You say that like I don’t know already!” Apollo says, too loudly, and a few other patrons and passersby give him an odd look. He takes a breath in an attempt to center himself, the way Nahyuta taught him as a meditation technique. Then, more evenly, he continues, “Don’t forget that it was me who had to put all of that to rest. Me and Trucy and Mr. Wright, and Klavier too, we were the ones who had to drag all of that out into the open. Mr. Wright used me, and that drove a huge wedge into my professional relationship with him and into my career. But I didn’t turn my back on Trucy, and wouldn’t dream of it now. So forgive me if I don’t understand how you could.”

Thalassa is quiet. Apollo feels shame coil in his gut; it turns out he is mad at Thalassa after all, just like Mr. Wright said. It’s a quiet, misdirected sort of anger, though, volleyed on behalf of not his own orphanhood, but Trucy’s—marked by the loss of a mother who left you, not one who you never even knew.

“I simply didn’t want to cause her—or you—extra pain,” Thalassa says softly, pained. “Please forgive me, Apollo. I thought she might be better off without me.”

“And if she is?” Apollo asks. “If you’re not capable of actually being a parent?”

Thalassa does not reply.

Apollo’s body moves on instinct before his brain does, and he’s shooting up from the table and fumbling in his wallet with shaky hands. He slaps a few bills on the table to account for his abandoned coffee and regards Thalassa with the most piercing Gramarye stare he can muster, half looking for a sign and half looking to intimidate. It feels almost cruel to use such an obvious courtroom tactic on his own mother, but then again she left him orphaned across the Pacific to fade into memory like the burned-out corpse of his father, and so, and so, and so.

Either way, he doesn’t find anything in Thalassa’s carefully concealed expression. Trucy’s always had the better poker face, so maybe it’s a Gramarye self-preservation skill he’s never learned, rather than something innate. Another argument of nature-versus-nurture.

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says, honestly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t blame you. I know what happened wasn’t your fault.” He turns to leave, but before he can think better of it, stops and adds, “If you really want to be part of our—of Trucy’s life, you have to own it. I don’t care how hard it is, I’m not going to sit back and let you just come and go if you decide it’s too much for you after all.”

Thalassa frowns. Apollo regrets coming here, regrets replying at all when he got that text, Meet me for coffee tomorrow afternoon? and felt too guilty to say no.

“Sorry,” he says again, and hurries off.

Apollo is sprawled out on the floor of his apartment, phone clutched in one hand and the other resting limp at his side. His back is likely to protest if he spends too long in this position, but he can’t bring himself to get up. The shock of the last few days is finally catching up with him, and he fears he’ll get dizzy if he sits up.

The phone finally stops ringing, and a smooth voice picks up, tinny through Apollo’s shitty speakerphone.

“Prosecutor Klavier Gavin speaking.”

Apollo snorts. “I know you know it’s me, asshole. I called your personal phone.”

“Ah, Herr Forehead!” Klavier sing-songs. “To what do I owe the pleasure? It’s been so long, I’d nearly forgotten your voice.”

“Listen, I’m not in the mood for jokes, okay?” Apollo swallows thickly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, but things have been… weird. And I have to tell you something. I-Is now a good time?”

“Ja, of course. What’s wrong?”

“Okay, don’t freak out, but…” Apollo takes a steadying breath. “You remember Lamiroir, right?”

“Ah, the lovely siren herself. Yes, I’ve been trying to contact her about working together again, but it would seem she’s unreachable. Why?”

“Well, um, about that. She got her sight and her memories back and, um, I learned her real name. It’s, uh. It’s Thalassa. Thalassa Gramarye.”

“Gramarye?” Klavier repeats. “As in—”

“As in Trucy’s mother, yes. And, uh. She’s my mother, too, apparently.”

There’s a long stretch of silence in which Klavier only breathes into the receiver. Apollo’s stomach turns.

“K-Klavier?” he prompts. Another beat passes, and then:

“...Apollo Justice, are you fucking with me?”

“What? N-No, it’s true. I just… thought you would want to know, given everything.”

“This is… Mein gott, Herr Forehead,” Klavier chokes out, bewildered. “You are telling me that your mother is Lamiroir herself? I have performed alongside your long-lost mother? And Fraulein Magician—Trucy Wright—she’s your sister?”

“Half-sister, yeah. She and I only just found out from her dad.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I punched Mr. Wright in the face.”

Klavier barks out an ugly laugh. “Charming.”

Apollo’s cheeks flush. “H-Hey, it’s not like I didn’t apologize!” He huffs. “Klavier, you—”

“Now, hang on a minute. It’s clicking now. Gramarye. M-My brother, he killed… Apollo …” Klavier’s voice takes on a strained quality. “We all thought Thalassa Gramarye had died. That was the impetus for the whole thing!”

“I know, I know.” Apollo throws an arm over his eyes, chuckling dryly. “Sorry you’ve been so wrapped up in my family’s bullshit.”

“No,” Klavier says sharply. “Do not apologize. We found the truth together in the end, ja? You are not tainted by your blood. You bear no responsibility for them.”

Apollo surprises himself by stifling a cry that instinctively rips from his chest. There’s a wet patch forming on his sleeve where it presses into his eyes.

“Herr Forehead? Apollo.” Klavier’s voice softens. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I just—” Apollo’s chest constricts painfully. He forces the tears back. “Thanks for saying that. This—It’s a lot. I love Trucy so much, so much that it feels like breathing, but… All the Gramarye bullshit , I thought we were done with it. Turns out I’m Gramarye bullshit, too. My mom, she’s been through so much, and Trucy—Mr. Wright knew all this time and didn’t—I just don’t want to ruin things, I can’t lose anyone else again—”

“Hush. You’re rambling more than you do in court. It will be okay.”

It takes Apollo a moment to realize he’s sobbing. Mikeko has padded over from the other room to check on him and is now curling into his side, purring.

“It will be okay,” Klavier repeats. “Nothing will be ruined. You are not bullshit , Apollo Justice. It’s confusing now, but you will get through it, ja? You will .”

“I will,” Apollo concedes.

“This is a good thing! You can get to know your mother after all this time, and she finally gets to meet her son. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

“I suppose so… But what about Trucy?”

“I’m not surprised that this is difficult for her. But she is going to be just fine, even if she’s unable to forgive your mother, or Herr Wright for that matter. Do you know how I know this?”

Apollo sniffs loudly. “No, how?”

“Because she has a wonderful big brother,” Klavier says softly, “who loves her more than anything. She is not the lonely little girl she was nine years ago, Herr Forehead.”

“You’re being sappy,” Apollo hiccups.

“But am I wrong?”

“No.” Apollo swipes at his eyes. “I love her to death. But that’s why I’m… I’m scared I’ll fuck this up.”

Klavier tuts disapprovingly. “You are not going to fuck it up. The two of you were practically joined at the hip from the day I met you. Why would that change now?”

“I-I don’t know, I just never had blood family before. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You know blood isn’t everything.”

“Of course I know that. But—”

“No, no, listen to me. Here is what you’re going to do, ja? Take several deep breaths, and put this idea out of your mind. Focus on the things that are lovely and true. You have a sister who already chose you as her own. You and your mother both survived, and you have all found your way to each other. Isn’t that a wonderful thing, to know that another life wasn’t snuffed out for no reason?”

“That feels like a really big can of worms to open if I think about it for too long, Klav.”

“Ah, I know. But still, Apollo. You and I both know this twisted series of affairs has taken far too many lives as it is. Be sure you don’t let it ruin another.”

“You’re probably right,” Apollo concedes, rolling onto his side and pulling Mikeko to his chest. The cat beeps in confusion and displeasure, but he doesn’t squirm away.

“Probably? I’m definitely right, Herr Forehead. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Except for all the times I proved you wrong in court?”

“Ach, you wound me.” Klavier chuckles. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I am. Thanks, Klavier.”

“Don’t mention it. Oh, and for what it’s worth?” Klavier’s voice softens. “Your mother is a lovely woman, and I would love to meet her again—properly, this time, as her truest self.”

Apollo smiles into the top of Mikeko’s head. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thank you kindly. Goodnight, Apollo Justice. Give Trucy my best as well.”

“Will do. Goodnight.”

The phone falls silent at Apollo’s side once Klavier hangs up. Apollo curls himself further around his cat, letting his soft purrs soothe him.

“I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine,” he whispers, like a prayer. It feels mostly true, at least, and mostly is better than not at all.

The knock on Apollo’s door comes a little after 8pm, somehow both tentative and frantic. He creeps up to the entrance on socked feet and peers through the peephole. When he sees who’s on the other side, he practically throws the door open.

“Trucy?” he asks, incredulous. “What happened?”

His baby sister (and isn’t that still a revelation) stands soaked head to toe, dripping water all over the grimy carpeted hallway of his apartment building. She’s in her usual get-up, oddly sans hat and gloves, and from her red-rimmed eyes and the way she’s shaking, it’s clear she’s been crying. Apollo quickly ushers her inside and shuts the door, suddenly concerned she’s being followed.

“Talk to me, Truce,” he says when he has her safely within the confines of his apartment. He places a hand on her shoulder and gives her a quick once-over. The heels of her palms are red and bruising, and a nasty scrape on her knee drips a steady trickle of blood down her shin. The sight sets off further alarm bells in Apollo’s mind, even though she seems otherwise unharmed. “Are you in trouble? Do I need to call someone right now?”

Trucy shakes her head. “I’m okay,” she says, sniffling. “I tripped on the way here, and I-I—” She’s cut off by a sudden sob, which turns into another, which quickly spirals into Trucy quietly weeping in Apollo’s front entryway. The panic leaves Apollo’s body in a rush, replaced by a sort of instinctual calm: Get her cleaned up and calmed down now, ask questions later.

“Okay, you’re okay,” he says with more assuredness than he really feels, reaching forward to unhook Trucy’s cape from around her shoulders. He hangs it on his sparse coat rack to dry and then helps her out of her boots. “Come on, first aid kit’s in the bathroom. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Trucy doesn’t protest as she’s led into the apartment’s tiny bathroom and made to sit on the closed lid of the toilet while Apollo rummages underneath the sink for the first aid supplies. When he finds it, he sits on the edge of the tub in front of her and takes one of her hands in his own. He can’t help but hiss in sympathy when he gets a closer look at the nasty scrape on her palm.

“You said you tripped,” he says, gently cleaning Trucy’s cuts with a warm washcloth the same way he remembers Datz doing for him and Nahyuta when they were boys. “What were you running around out there in the rain for anyway? Didn’t you have show rehearsal tonight?”

Trucy nods. “Missed my bus after.”

“I know I live closer, but why didn’t you just call Mr. Wright and tell him you needed a ride? I’m sure you could have called Athena to drive you home.”

And that was the wrong thing to say, as Trucy hikes up her shoulders and goes a bit tense, and it’s probably not a response to the sting of the antiseptic wash. Apollo immediately backpedals.

“Not that I don’t want you here, Truce. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.” He carefully presses a sterile bandage to one hand and reaches gently for the other. “Did something happen at practice? Something you can’t tell Mr. Wright?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Trucy mumbles. “It’s not—I wasn’t thinking of Daddy. I just needed you .”

Understanding dawns on Apollo’s face. “It’s about Thalassa, isn’t it,” he says, and it isn’t really a question.

Trucy shrugs, but Apollo decides not to press her on it for the moment. Instead, with both hands cleaned and covered, he moves to dab the blood from her knee.

“I messed up one of my tricks in rehearsal,” she pipes up eventually. “One of Granddaddy’s.”

“I mean, that’s okay, right?” Apollo replies. He goes in with the antiseptic, and this time Trucy does wince and grumble at him. He hushes her half-heartedly. “You just need to practice it some more. That’s why you rehearse, yeah?”

“Pollyyyy,” she whines. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me. And quit wiggling.” Apollo places a bandaid carefully over the scrape and begins packing away the first aid kit.

“I used to be really proud of it, when I got the performance rights,” Trucy says, fidgeting with a colorful handkerchief in her lap. Apollo’s not sure when or where she pulled that from. “Even when Mr. Reus tried to steal them and have me—Um. I thought to myself, I’m going to carry on the family tradition the way I see it, using my Granddaddy’s magic. Even though he wasn’t a great man.”

You can say that again , Apollo thinks, suddenly inundated with the memory of Magnifi’s scheme that he and Mr. Wright and Trucy uncovered after seven long years—pitting his two proteges against one another, and the endless cascade of tragedy that followed. But he says nothing, letting Trucy continue.

“Even after all that, I was still proud. And then…” Trucy trails off, squeezing her eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears.

“...And then we found out about Thalassa,” Apollo finishes for her. “Mom.”

Trucy nods, and Apollo heaves a shaky sigh. It’s been looming over them for days now, the revelation of their shared parentage and all that came with it. The news must have hit Trucy harder, even if she’s normally better at hiding such things. After all, Apollo had never been a Gramarye. What he did with the revelation was solely for him to decide.

“Okay,” he says to a shivering Trucy now, seated practically knee-to-knee in his tiny bathroom. “You should dry off and get warm before anything else. Your dad will kill me if you get sick.”

“‘Kay,” Trucy giggles, despite everything. Apollo brings her a change of clothes from his room before excusing himself to the small kitchen off of the living room, where he leans against the counter and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to remain chill.

Trucy is in his apartment. Trucy, his teenaged half-sister, ran to his apartment in a November downpour. Trucy has cried more tonight already than any other time in the few years he’s known her, including the time she was literally framed for murder. Trucy came here because she needs her brother. Apollo is her brother. He’s the only Gramarye who hasn’t lied, stolen, or abandoned her, and he’s not even a Gramarye at all.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he reaches for the kettle.

Apollo is just finishing up preparing hot cocoa by the time Trucy emerges from his bathroom, dressed in a well-loved t-shirt he got for free in college, an adjustable pair of gray joggers, and a zip-up GYAXA hoodie that may or may not have once belonged to Clay what feels like a lifetime ago. Her hair is still damp and slightly frizzy, hanging loose from its usual ponytail. She rubs at her eyes and makes a beeline for his couch, where Mikeko is curled up on a cushion.

“Here,” Apollo says as he rounds the corner and slips one of the mugs into Trucy’s hands. “Sorry, I had to make it with water.”

Trucy turns her nose up at it, although they both know she’s just kidding.

“Hey, milk’s expensive and I’m lactose intolerant anyway,” Apollo teases. “Tell your dad to give me a raise if you want high-class.”

That gets another giggle out of Trucy, but it’s frighteningly short-lived, as she goes back to frowning into her cup straight away. Apollo nudges Mikeko’s paws aside and sits on the other end of the couch.

“Trucy?” he prompts softly. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to be a Gramarye anymore,” Trucy blurts out. Mikeko’s ears twitch.

“Huh?” Apollo says, very helpfully.

“Today, at rehearsal. When I messed up my tricks, that’s what I decided.” Trucy finally looks at him, eyes shining with tears. “I decided I don’t care if I ever get it right. I don’t want anything to do with it all. I don’t want to be a Gramarye anymore.”

“Oh, Truce…”

“My Granddaddy knew that Mommy survived. He could have tried to help her get her memory back, but instead he sent her away. And because he was manipulating my first daddy and Uncle Valant, I lost both of them too. And then Mr. Reus tried to take it all out on me, even though I was just a little kid when the Troupe split up.” Trucy sets down her cup and buries her face in her hands. “None of them cared about me, so why should I care about them? Mom was the only one, and then when she had the chance to come back to me, she… she…”

To Apollo’s horror, Trucy starts bawling, curling around her knees. The sound sends Mikeko darting out of the room, and he disappears into the darkness of Apollo’s bedroom.

“Trucy, hey,” Apollo tries to soothe. He slides closer and wraps an arm around her shoulders. Trucy tips over into his side and sobs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I wish your real daddy had lived, Polly,” Trucy cries. “Then Mom could’ve stayed with you and been happy and not have had to come back to our rotten family and have me, and none of this would have happened.”

Apollo’s heart breaks. “ Truce ,” he says. “We can’t change any of that, okay? And I wouldn’t, if it meant I never got to know you.”

“How can you even say that, knowing you could’ve been happier?”

“I’m happy now , Trucy. You’re my family. And you’d be my family even if we’d never turned out to be half-siblings, you got that?”

Trucy turns her face into Apollo’s shoulder and wails , heaving loud, heartbreaking sobs that seem to tear out of her chest without control. Apollo draws her closer and runs a hand through her damp hair.

“Polly,” Trucy cries, her breath quickening between hiccuping sobs.

“Alright, shh,” Apollo whispers. “Breathe for me, Trucy, please. Deep breaths.”

“It’s not fair!” She practically shouts it, her hoarse voice muffled by Apollo’s shirt where she’s leaving a rather large wet spot. Trucy’s hands cling to him for dear life, as if she’ll fall apart if either of them let go. Apollo is beginning to think she very well might.

“I know,” he says. “I know. We’re okay.”

“Why’d they give me everything if they didn’t even want me?” Trucy hiccups. “It’s not a gift, it’s just that I was the only one left who hadn’t fucked it all up already.”

Apollo sighs to himself. Despite how mature she often is for her age, from time to time Apollo is reminded in stark relief that Trucy still is a teenager. A little explosive grief and anger is warranted in times like these, if it weren’t for the fact that Trucy is still wavering dangerously close to hyperventilating.

“Truce, I really need you to focus on me, okay?” he says, tugging her practically into his lap. “I’ve got you. Deep breath, now. You’re Trucy Wright and you’re fine.”

“I’m not,” Trucy blubbers.

“You will be. Breathe , Truce.”

Finally, she sucks in a terribly shaky breath.

“That’s it.” Apollo starts rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. “Give me another one.”

“I’m tryin’, Polly.”

“I know. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.” He begins trying to gently detangle Trucy’s hair with his fingers, still holding her close with the other hand. “It’s okay if you need to cry, Truce. Just try to relax.”

Over time, Trucy regains control of her breathing. Though she’s still crying, it’s not with the same desperate, angry fervor as before. Trucy eventually loosens her grip but remains tucked into Apollo’s side, head resting on his shoulder while she cries. He continues to hold her, rocking her back and forth a little but not saying much of anything until the tears slow down and Trucy quiets.

“Feeling any better?” he asks gently.

Trucy nods against his shoulder. “I’m fine, Polly. I’m sorry.”

Apollo pulls back and holds her at arm’s length to face her straight on. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t need to apologize for this.”

“I just don’t want you to worry about me,” Trucy says, averting that sharp gaze of hers as if ashamed of what she may find. “You, or Daddy, or ‘Thena, or anybody.”

“I’ll worry more if you hide everything from me. I can usually tell, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Trucy grumbles.

“Truce, hey.” Apollo squeezes her fingers, and she finally looks back at him, eyes appraising. “You don’t have to keep any of it. The name, the legacy, the… repertoire, or whatever, or this motto of putting on a perfect entertainer’s smile. You can just be Trucy Wright.”

“I can’t just erase my own history, Polly.”

Apollo feels a pang in his chest, remembering the decade and change he spent compartmentalizing his childhood so deep into his memory that his years in Khura’in may as well have never existed. He squeezes Trucy’s hand again and hopes it gets the message across.

“You don’t have to keep carrying its dead weight around, either,” he says softly. “We’re more than our parents’ children, both of us.”

“And what about Mom?”

“You can talk to her when and if you’re ready.”

Trucy nods. “Okay,” she mumbles, dropping her head back onto Apollo’s shoulder. Apollo keeps a comforting grip on her hand as she begins to settle, and stays there until she dozes off to sleep against his side.

Apollo’s half asleep himself when his phone vibrates in his pocket, jolting him awake. He nudges Trucy aside and stands to take the call in the other room. His stomach drops when he reads the caller ID: it’s his boss.

“Mr. Wright,” he greets casually when he picks up, rubbing the back of his head.

“I can’t find Trucy,” Mr. Wright says hurriedly, panic clear in his voice. “She was supposed to be home from rehearsal hours ago, and she’s not picking up the phone. I called the theater and they said she seemed to have left the dressing room in quiet a hurry—”

“Woah!” Apollo interrupts. “She’s perfectly fine.”

“What?” Mr. Wright’s voice turns sharp, pointed. “Apollo Justice, where is my daughter.”

Apollo pokes his head back into the living room; Trucy is curled up where he left her, still fast asleep.

“She’s asleep on my couch, safe and sound. I promise.”

A beat passes. Mr. Wright heaves a shaky breath. “Shit, Apollo, I’m sorry. That’s a relief. She’s at your place? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she showed up here around eight, soaked through to the bone. I was so startled, I didn’t think to call you.” Apollo pauses for a sobering beat. “I’d never do anything to put her in danger, Mr. Wright.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I trust you, Apollo, you know I do.” Mr. Wright sighs. “I just—You know how I am. I couldn’t reach her and my mind immediately jumped to all of the worst possible conclusions.”

“I get it, Mr. Wright, it’s fine. I think her phone is dead; I’ll charge it for her and make sure she calls you.”

“Is everything alright? Did something happen?”

“She’s okay, nothing happened. She was just upset and shaken up. Totally safe, nobody hurt her, promise.”

“God, I’m sorry. I can come bring her home? I can call Miles or Athena to drive over and pick her up—”

Apollo cuts him off. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s late and she’s already asleep, just let her stay here. I don’t mind. Besides, it was sort of a… sibling issue, Mr. Wright. I don’t know if it would be such a good idea.”

“Ah,” Mr. Wright says knowingly, if a little guiltily. “She needs her brother right now, I see. Call me if anything happens?”

“She’ll be fine. If you really want to talk to her now, I can wake her, but…”

“No, no, let her snooze. Have her call me in the morning. Thank you, Apollo.”

“Sure thing. Have a good night.”

“Take care.”

Mr. Wright hangs up, and Apollo lets out a heavy sigh as he makes his way back to the living room. Mikeko has now joined Trucy on the couch again, curled up beside her in the space Apollo vacated. Trucy hasn’t stirred, so he fetches a pillow for under her head and tucks his warmest throw blanket around her. She looks impossibly small, and Apollo feels a wave of brotherly affection overtake him. He smooths out her hair with the palm of his hand with a soft smile before turning off the light and heading to his own room to prepare for bed.

Late in the night, a strip of yellow light appears in the dark of Apollo’s bedroom, rousing him from sleep. He sits up, blinking. Trucy’s silhouette appears in the backlit doorway, holding Mikeko.

“Polly?” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Oh,” Trucy squeaks. “I just wanted to make sure you were still here.”

“I live here,” Apollo deadpans.

“I know.” Trucy steps forward into the room and eases the door closed. “Um… Polly?”

Apollo rolls his eyes and scoots over, lifting the covers. “Just come here.”

Trucy deposits Mikeko at the foot of the bed and scrambles under the quilt beside Apollo. She practically glues herself to his side; Apollo doesn’t have it in him to protest.

“Polly?”

“Still here, Truce.”

Trucy kicks him in the shin with a socked foot. “I know that!” she hisses.

“Ow!”

“Oh, I barely tapped you, you big baby!”

“ You’re the one climbing up here to be snuggled.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes, Trucy, you are. Come on.” Apollo snakes an arm under her and pulls her close so her head rests against his chest, right over his heart. “There you go. I’m not going anywhere. Better now?”

Trucy hums in contentment, throwing her arm over Apollo’s middle and clinging to his t-shirt.

“I meant to ask you earlier,” Apollo mumbles. “What happened to your hat and your gloves?”

With a little gasp, Trucy lifts her head up, eyes wide.

“Apollo!” she urges, blinking owlishly at Apollo with her face inches from his. “I left them in my dressing room. We’ll have to go back for them! That’s my favorite hat!”

“Good you didn’t ruin it in the rain, then,” Apollo points out. “We’ll worry about that in the morning. Would you go to sleep?”

Trucy scoffs and lays her head back down. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Quiet.” Apollo shuts his eyes.

“Fine.” Trucy quiets for a moment, but then Apollo feels the weight lift off of his chest again before she whispers, “Wait! What about Daddy?”

“I talked to him already. Call him in the morning.”

“Ooh, you talked to him? What’d he say?”

“ Trucy. ”

“Yeah, yeah…” Trucy finally settles again. Slowly, her breathing begins to even out, syncing in time with Apollo’s steady heartbeat. Apollo burrows into his blankets and adjusts his hold on Trucy to take the pressure off his arm. She doesn’t even stir.

“Love you, Truce,” he whispers, but Trucy is already out cold, grip slackened against his shirt. Apollo glances up at the foot of the bed to see Mikeko staring him down, green eyes almost glowing in the dark room.

“What are you looking at?” Apollo mutters. Mikeko just yawns with his toothy maw agape and curls into a ball, fast asleep. Apollo is soon to follow.

He must have inherited more than just his sight from his mother, because Thalassa is extremely persistent. Apollo’s empathy is his and his alone, though it doesn’t do him many favors when he can’t say no to someone so pitiable, so wayward and lonely as Thalassa Gramarye. This is how he finds himself spending an afternoon helping his mother unpack pieces of her old life, if only because Trucy finally agreed to do something other than share awkward pleasantries from opposite couches in the office.

The old Gramarye storage unit across town is the stuffiest place Apollo has ever been, and that includes the dusty old safehouse in Khura’in. Dust lines every surface, and the musty, acrid smell of disuse and abandonment lay thick in the stale air.

He supposes it’s only fair—the unit was under Magnifi’s name, and with Thalassa still missing after his death and Zak’s subsequent disappearance, no one in the Troupe has touched the place since at least the year 2019. Apollo shudders at the thought. It took Thalassa a lot of work to even get her hands on the key, even though she is Magnifi’s heir; in the end, it required a very emotionally fraught visit to Valant in prison to even find an address.

Beside him, Thalassa sneezes as Apollo opens another box, sending a cloud of thick dust into her face.

“Bless you,” Apollo says. “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Thalassa says. Then her eyes light up as she peeks at the contents. “Oh! Apollo, look at this! I thought this had been destroyed.”

Thalassa extracts from the box a thin gold chain, shine dulled with age. When she holds her hands out to him, Apollo realizes it’s a locket, a delicate little thing cradled in the palm of her hand.

“A locket?” Apollo asks dumbly.

“Yes, love,” Thalassa says with a light giggle. She carefully pries it open and lets out a sad little sigh. “Look.”

Apollo leans in closer to look. There, in the center of the little frame, is a picture of a tiny baby with familiar tufts of auburn hair, swaddled in Jove Justice’s arms. A wave of strange, misplaced grief washes over him at the sight, nearly bowling him over.

“Oh,” he breathes quietly, taking the locket in hand like a piece of glass. “It’s me.”

Several yards away, Trucy perks up from where she has been stormily digging through boxes of her family’s old magic props.

“Baby Polly?!” She bounds over and peers over their shoulders, leaning her hands on top of Apollo’s head. “Let me see!”

She coos at the photo in an exaggerated manner, with no trace of her earlier foul mood to be found. Apollo lets his sister’s presence and her bubbling laughter ground him through the odd moment.

“You were such a cute baby,” Trucy giggles, bouncing on her toes. “Hey, which of us was cuter?”

Thalassa snorts out a laugh that reminds Apollo so much of Trucy before she says, “Oh, I couldn’t say. You were both the most perfect things in the world, though Apollo used to scream his little head off. You take after Jove in both your looks and those powerful pipes of yours.”

Apollo flushes pink, and it makes Trucy laugh.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen your father?” Thalassa asks gently, possibly noticing Apollo’s demeanor.

He shakes his head. “I have a photo of him that Dhurke gave me. And I… I actually saw his final moments, when we were in Khura’in.” Apollo swallows the fresh wave of grief that bubbles in his chest at the memory. “It helped me set my foster family free, so. I guess I owe him.”

Trucy’s touch goes feather-light and then disappears, and Apollo mourns the loss of contact for a moment, before she plops down beside him in the dust.

“I wish I had more to remember him by,” Thalassa says softly. “But most of our belongings were lost in the palace fire. There was very little that I left behind when I ran away with Jove, and I suspect my father disposed of most of it.”

Apollo quietly makes a mental note to call Datz and ask him to send over any photos from Apollo’s childhood he may still have.

“How come you never told me I had a brother?” Trucy asks.

“Trucy, my love, you were so little at the time,” Thalassa reminds her in a pained voice. “And I believed Apollo to be dead. What was I to tell you? That you had a long lost brother who died six years before you were born? What good would that have done for you at that age?”

Trucy goes quiet. Apollo closes his fist around the locket; the chain is broken, snapped in two as if ripped asunder by some brute force. Ever perceptive, Thalassa notices.

“Shadi broke it one night,” she explains in a near whisper. “Not long before Trucy was born. It was all I had left. I thought he had disposed of it, but perhaps he felt guilty afterward, since I cried so much.”

Trucy leans forward and rummages through the box in front of them, combing through the detritus of her family’s checkered past. She produces a dusty picture frame next. In it, a faded photograph of four people stares up at them through cheap, yellowing glass: A young Trucy, sitting in her mother’s lap and grinning ear to ear; Thalassa, ten years younger and smiling; Zak at her side, with a hand on her shoulder and a grin to rival Trucy’s; and behind them all, Magnifi Gramarye, stoic and still.

It all happens too quickly for Apollo to process, after that. Shattered glass scatters across the grimy concrete after Trucy throws the frame at the nearest wall. Thalassa shouts something in surprise, and before Apollo blinks, Trucy is on her feet with broken glass crushed under the heel of her boot.

“T-Trucy!” he blurts, louder than he means.

Trucy’s shoulders are shaking—she’s crying, head bowed and back turned.

“Trucy, sweetheart—” Thalassa starts.

“Don’t,” Trucy croaks. “Just don’t.”

Apollo sees it, then. He sees it in the rounded slump of Trucy’s shoulders. He sees it in the way Thalassa’s face nearly crumples. He sees it in the broken chain he still holds in his fist, the shared trauma and deeply-entrenched violence that links his mother and his sister. He longs to reach out to Trucy, but doesn’t, and says nothing.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” Trucy continues. “But everything got so much worse after you were gone. You weren’t there when Granddaddy got real sick, or when Daddy—Zak—left me behind. The whole time, I just wanted you to come back. But then I realized you probably weren’t going to.

“And then when you finally had the chance, you still didn’t. You made my Daddy lie to me and Polly about it just because you were scared, and then you didn’t even have the decency to show up and tell us in person. But what about me ? What about when I was scared, when you were gone and things in the Troupe got so tense, and we stopped traveling? When Granddaddy died, and we had to go to court? When Zak disappeared, when he was killed?” Trucy drops to the floor in a squat, arms hugging her knees. “What about when Mr. Reus came after me? You heard about all of it, and still you waited. You let me shoulder this stupid family name on my own.”

Apollo does reach out, then. He scoots across the floor to where she is, gently tugs her backward away from the pile of broken glass. She goes willingly, curling up into a ball again by his side. Apollo rests a hand on her shoulder, an open invitation for affection, should she need it.

“Trucy,” Thalassa says haltingly. “We loved you. We all did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Trucy sobs. “You left anyway.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you, love.”

“I don’t care .”

“ Trucy ,” Thalassa repeats, desperate. “If I could have had anything in the world, it would be to have both of you by my side from the start. To have kept you out of the shadow of the Gramarye legacy, both its lightest and darkest places. But the greatest blessing was the two of you, my children, finding your way to each other in the dark, before I even knew who I was.”

“I want to hate you,” Trucy cries, “but I can’t. I just can’t .”

Apollo thinks, then, as he often does, of Dhurke.

The abandoned and traumatized child inside him still, to this day, wants to lash out at Dhurke, or at least his charming ghost. Sometimes he wants to blame Dhurke for everything—for not trying hard enough to find his mother, for sending him to America alone, for going and dying and ripping the wound open all over again. But adult Apollo, post-revolution Apollo, knows that Dhurke was simply a man trying to be a decent father under dire circumstances.

He often wants to blame everything on Ga’ran and her regime: orphaning him twice, putting Dhurke in such an awful position to have to send Apollo away, holding Nahyuta hostage and keeping his brother so far from reach. But that’s the childish part of Apollo, too, looking for an easy way out of facing the truth of what Dhurke’s abandonment had done to him.

Maybe he should hate Dhurke. But Apollo cannot, even in death.

“You can hate me if you need to,” Thalassa says through her own tears. “I am just so glad I got to see you again.”

“ Mommy ,” Trucy wails, and it’s the most heartbreaking sound Apollo has ever heard. She throws herself across the gap and into Thalassa’s arms, sobbing. Thalassa wraps a delicate arm around her, bracelet flashing in the light from the harsh fluorescent bulbs overhead.

Apollo’s own hands find their way to his arms, fingers running up and down the scars there in a grounding motion. He feels shamefully adrift and out of his depth, sitting amongst the fractured remains of the Gramarye legacy as if he’s had a hand in doing anything but unmasking its ghoulish face in court. In a strange way, he wants to call Mr. Wright, who would understand better than anyone. Or he could call Klavier, and ask to be reassured over and over again that he needn’t be his mother’s son, that his life is more than just the circumstances which produced it. Mostly, Apollo wants to hold his little sister, who would still be his little sister even if it all turned out to be some kind of sick joke, until the pain is gone.

“Polly?” Trucy sniffles. She’s peering at him from under Thalassa’s arm, assessing. Thalassa is attempting to covertly and daintily wipe her own remaining tears.

Trucy sidles forward and hugs Apollo by the shoulders, tucking her face in the crook of his neck. Thalassa just watches them appraisingly, smiling softly, eyes pained. Apollo looks away.

“Perhaps we should be done for the day,” Thalassa says quietly. “We’ve made some progress.”

Apollo just nods.

“Can we go home?” Trucy asks in a small, trembling voice. She sounds absolutely drained and on the precipice of another complete meltdown.

Apollo rubs her back. Her clothes are covered in streaks of dust and grime from the floor, mixed with a layer of cold sweat.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Let’s get you home.”

Apollo looks up at the sound of clinking glass. Thalassa is knelt on the floor, now, absently sweeping the pieces of the broken frame into a dustpan. Given the general state of the place, it seems an almost futile task, but she does it anyway, tidying up the most meager of messes just so no one else gets hurt.

“Thalassa?” Apollo says. She stops sweeping, but doesn’t look at him. “We’re going now.”

Thalassa nods. “I’m going to stay here a bit longer, I think. Don’t worry about me.”

Apollo struggles to his feet, hoisting Trucy up with him. She avoids his eyes.

“Take care,” Apollo offers. “I’ll, uh. Talk to you later?”

The look Thalassa finally gives him is open, a raw and pained smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s a poor attempt at an entertainer’s smile, worn by someone well out of practice who performed with most of her face covered for the better part of a decade.

“Of course,” she says. “Goodnight, Apollo.”

If forced to be truly honest, Apollo cannot say he loves Thalassa. If at all, it’s the way one loves a long-lost friend from summer camp, or an ancestor they’ve only seen in pictures—anachronistic, like loving a ghost, except Apollo already has plenty of those. He doesn’t love her the way he loves Trucy, not in the way he loves Nahyuta, Dhurke, and Datz. He feels a kinship all the same, a deep sense of pity fueled by a grief he doesn’t understand, but it isn’t enough to bridge the gap. Not with Trucy clinging to his sleeve, shaking.

“Goodnight, Thalassa,” Apollo says, and he leaves, one hand supporting Trucy and the other clutching his mother’s broken locket in his trouser pocket.

Trucy is quiet for most of the way home. She dutifully climbs onto the back of his bike when prompted, follows him onto the bus and rides beside him, and follows him off when they reach their stop. All the while, Apollo spends the trip back to the agency with one hand still toying with the chain in his pocket, lost in thoughts of putting pieces back together.

It isn’t until they’re cutting through People Park that Trucy finally pipes up, “Polly, wait.”

Apollo stops rolling his bike. “Yeah, Truce?”

“I’m… sorry. For being such a baby.”

“Huh?”

Trucy falls into step alongside him. Leaves crunch under their feet and blow in the evening breeze. “I mean, I basically threw a tantrum today. And then you had to guide me home by the hand. And that night I came to your apartment, and I had a panic attack, you took care of me and cleaned me up.”

“Stop it,” Apollo says. “Stop apologizing for having feelings.”

“I just… I don’t want to become too much for you.”

“Why would you think that?”

Trucy shrugs. “It feels like I’m always too much or not enough. I thought… maybe you wouldn’t want me anymore if I was too difficult.”

“Trucy, hey, if anyone understands what that’s like, it’s me,” Apollo assures her, thinking not-so-fondly on his first string of foster homes in the States. He swings an arm out and pulls Trucy into his side. “You’ll never be too much or too little. No matter what, you’ll always be just right. Promise.”

Trucy snickers and gives him a shit eating grin.

“No, don’t—”

“Just Wright , huh?” Trucy sing-songs.

“—say it. Oh, come on, you set me up for that one, didn’t you?”

“Nope!” Trucy laughs brightly. “Daddy’s just finally rubbing off on you, I think!”

“ Eeugh. ” Apollo lightly shoves her away, a gesture which she returns twofold.

Trucy hums, “Hm, maybe that’s what I should name my next stage show, instead of using the Gramarye name. Something like ‘The Wright Stuff’. What do you think?”

“I think your dad will cry when you tell him, and it will be extremely gross and embarrassing for all parties,” Apollo replies. “It’s perfect.”

“Anyway,” Trucy says, “if I have to express my feelings, then so do you.”

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Pollyyyy, come on. I know your tells, remember? You were so twitchy today—your arms especially.”

“My scars were just itchy from all the dust in the air,” Apollo lies.

Trucy makes a loud incorrect-buzzer noise, startling a nearby squirrel out of their path. “Nice try, Polly.” She skips ahead of him and begins walking backward in the setting sun. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Apollo shrugs. “I don’t know, Truce. I’m just… I’m never going to fit the exact image of what Thalassa thinks of me. She grieved me for so long, but I never knew her at all. I guess it’s kind of like what you said: that I’m not good enough. She remembers me as a tiny, innocent baby, and I’m, well, not that. My bio dad dying in that fire isn’t even the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Trucy’s hand wraps around Apollo’s and holds it between them as they walk. Apollo didn’t even realize he’d started scratching at his arm again.

“Well, you’re good enough for me,” Trucy says as easy as breathing. Her eyes are bloodshot and baggy even in the evening light, but her smile is like a beacon in the encroaching dark. “I love you so much, Polly.”

Apollo’s bracelet doesn’t react, not even a bit. He blinks back a tear.

“I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.” He takes her by the shoulders and turns her around as they reach the edge of the park. “Face forward so you don’t get flattened by a car, please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Trucy giggles, then yawns. Her jovial mood is flagging again by the time they reach the door to the agency, replaced with a weary melancholy. By this hour, Athena’s already gone home for the night, but the light is still on Mr. Wright’s office. Trucy makes a beeline for his door right away, sticking her head inside and calling, softly, “Hey, Daddy?”

“Hey, kiddo. Oh, Truce, what’s wrong?” Apollo hears Mr. Wright ask in his gentlest voice just before the door closes.

With nothing better to do and no real desire to leave just yet, Apollo settles down at his desk to look over the case notes he was meant to be reviewing today. Before that, however, he pulls the broken locket out of his pocket and drapes it beside the framed photo of Jove on his desk. He smiles, then, and gets to work.

It’s later that Mr. Wright emerges from his office, bleary-eyed and suit slightly rumpled. Apollo concludes that he’s been holding Trucy, and maybe crying a little himself—but doesn’t call him on it.

“How’s Trucy?” Apollo asks, looking up from his phone.

“She fell asleep on the couch in my office,” Mr. Wright reports with a sigh. He sits himself on Apollo’s desk, carelessly moving all of his paperwork aside to make space. “Listen, Apollo. I know that you know this, but Trucy’s home life was pretty toxic before I took her in, and sometimes she doesn’t realize it, but everything that happened really traumatized her. Hence… her unusual behavior.”

“I know,” Apollo says, and pointedly does not add that it’s mostly because her abandonment issues feel so achingly familiar.

“Her getting all of this out is probably a good thing, even though she’s breaking her old man’s heart. I hear she finally talked some things out with Thalassa?”

Apollo nods. “Yeah. It seems like a start.”

“Good.” Mr. Wright leans casually on one hand. “And you? You don’t have to talk it out with me, but are you holding up okay?”

“I think so. To be honest, I don’t think I’m ever going to see Thalassa as a parent. She was never a part of my life. But I think we deserve to get to know each other.” Apollo rubs his neck sheepishly. “Besides, she’s Trucy’s mom, and Trucy’s my sister, so she’d be a part of my family anyway.”

Mr. Wright winces. “Yeah, give those two some time. We’ll see. But… You know your family can look however you want it to, right? No one has to be a part of it. Take it from me. It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody else.”

Apollo smiles. “Thanks, Mr. Wright. I know.”

“Eh, of course you do. Who am I kidding.” Mr. Wright chuckles and stands back up. He moves as if to clasp Apollo’s shoulder, and then seems to think better of it, so his hand just hangs awkwardly in the air. “Listen, I, ah. I get it if you’re still angry with me. But I just want you to know that—Well, I care about you, kid, and my door’s always open if you need me. I’ll even let you punch me again, if it’ll help.”

Apollo grimaces. “Not an impulse I intend to make a habit of acting on, Mr. Wright, but thank you anyway.”

“Well, good. Can’t have you busting up my handsome face, can we?”

“Ugh,” Apollo scoffs with a roll of his eyes. Mr. Wright laughs, and finally moves his hand, this time patting Apollo twice on the shoulder.

“Glad to see you’re in good enough spirits, then,” he says. “I’m going to check up on Trucy. You hanging around here for a bit?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you?”

“I mean, you work here. Be my guest. Besides, you’re my daughter’s brother, so…” Mr. Wright shrugs and turns back toward his office.

Apollo calls after him, “Didn’t you just get done saying how that doesn’t have to mean anything?”

Mr. Wright lazily throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I said what I meant and I meant what I said.” He turns his head and gives Apollo a meaningful look. “I told you, nothing up my sleeve, Apollo.”

The implication and Mr. Wright’s soft tone both make something tense and nasty unfurl in Apollo’s chest, just a little, and he cracks a smile despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” Apollo turns back to his desk, cheeks warm. “Thanks, Mr. Wright.”

Mr. Wright waves him off and disappears into his office again, leaving the door cracked in wordless invitation. Apollo’s eyes wander back to the photo on his desk, and the locket at its side. He remembers Thalassa on the floor of the storage unit, on hands and knees picking up broken glass, and an idea strikes him. He pulls his phone back out and sends Klavier a quick text:

Do you know how to repair jewelry?

Chapter Text

And the only gifts from my Lord were a birth and a divorce / But I've read this script and the costume fits, so I'll play my part

- The Lumineers, "Cleopatra"

Ever since settling back down in LA, Thalassa still hasn’t gotten used to the weather.

Borginia had been cold this time of year. Though she could never see it, Thalassa grew used to the biting chill of snow in the air, the sound of it crunching beneath her shoes, the way the air whistled past her ears in the evenings as she and Machi waited for their cab outside the bar.

Machi’s still in juvie, now, and it doesn’t snow in Los Angeles. The troupe used to travel a good bit, but even so, Thalassa still remembers—in fits and starts, as the amnesia knocks those memories loose—those years between Jove’s death and her own, a hazy thing that feels like someone else’s life. She used to bundle sweet, tiny Trucy up in her coat and mittens at Christmastime, and Shadi would talk himself up with that jolly but boastful laugh of his, but he’d be shivering in his light jacket by the time they made it into town.

Thalassa shakes the memory away. It isn’t cold in Los Angeles, is the point. Every day is the same temperate nothing as the one before. It makes her miss Borginia, a place she once knew as her only home, and Machi. But she left Jove’s ghost in Khura’in, and she still misses him too. She even misses Shadi from time to time, and her father, despite how rotten troupe life had grown to be.

How strange, to have lived so many different lives. She often wonders which is really hers, but she hasn’t turned the heat on in her house yet, is the thing, and the implications of that make her feel like a bad person. There’s a more recent memory, too, of Trucy crying and screaming and crushing her childhood beneath her heel, and that one—recency bias be damned—feels more real.

Apollo Justice shows up at her front door on a December morning, the sunlight glinting off his bracelet as he raises a hand to greet her.

“Um,” he says with an uncertain smile. “Hiya.”

Thalassa’s heart swells at that. He is Jove’s boy, that’s for certain.

“Hello, my dear,” she says, opening the door wide. “Do you want to come in?”

“Uh, I can’t, actually—I have to get to work straight after this,” Apollo says, even though they can both see he’s dressed in street clothes. Perhaps it’s a dress-down day at the Wright Anything Agency. Thalassa doesn’t press the issue, despite the way Apollo is wringing his hands together to ward off the—okay, she’ll admit it—slight morning chill, although if the way her own bracelet reacts is any indication, it may be more of a nervous tic than anything.

“Is there something you need, then?” Thalassa asks.

“I wanted to give you something, actually.” Apollo sticks his hands in his jacket pockets. “Trucy was going to come too, I swear, but she has school, so I told her I’d take care of it.”

“Okay,” Thalassa says, masking vague amusement.

“It’s just that, well, I’ve spent so long wishing I could blame someone for everything. But the more that I think about it, the more I realize that sometimes bad things just happen and it’s nobody’s fault. Or there’s too much at fault for it to be worth anything. And I just decided, well, even if it’s hard or it’s not exactly fair , the only thing I can do is keep moving.

“I’ve experienced enough grief and loneliness in my life, Thalassa. We both have.” Apollo produces from his pocket a small box, tied together with a thin red ribbon. “So, I figure, there’s no use going out and creating some more of it on my own.”

With deft fingers, Thalassa reaches for the box like it’s a fragile thing with its own beating heart. She carefully undoes the ribbon and lifts the lid to find her own locket, polished to a shine. The chain has been repaired, as well, but still she’d recognize the piece anywhere. With fingers raised to her lips, Thalassa glances back up at her son, eyes wide.

“Apollo, how did you—”

“I had a little help,” Apollo says. “Klavier Gavin sends his best wishes, by the way.”

Thalassa just blinks in shock.

“Um, are you going to open it?” Apollo rubs the back of his neck.

“Oh! Yes, of course!” Thalassa sets the box down on the end table by the front door and takes the locket in both hands like a baby bird. She pries it open gently and finds the same picture of Jove and baby Apollo, but in the other window is now a photograph of Trucy and Apollo, sporting twin smiles. Trucy is dressed in her usual performance outfit, Apollo in the all-black of a stagehand, but they’re both beaming, evident even in the tiny locket-sized print.

“She’s actually gotten me up on stage once or twice since then,” Apollo says. “But that picture is still one of Trucy’s favorites. She picked it out for you.”

“Oh, Apollo,” Thalassa says in a choked voice. “It’s absolutely lovely.”

“Good,” Apollo says softly. “Merry Christmas, Thalassa.”

Thalassa fastens the locket in its rightful place around her neck. Apollo watches her quietly, contentedly, hands in his pockets. Thalassa marvels once more at the miracle that is her son, having made it through that fire all the way back to her again somehow, standing all grown up on her front step. He could have easily been chewed up and spit back out by the foster system bitter and vengeful, yet here he is, extending an olive branch to her. She sees him there, dressed in a light jacket on a December morning, and remembers that Apollo is a boy stretched thin across an entire ocean. He, too, has lived with one foot in one life and one foot in another.

Those nights had been cold, too, in Khura’in.

Thalassa wipes away a tear. “I have something for you and Trucy as well, Apollo. One moment.” She hurries off to her study, where the gift sits wrapped in a cloth. Apollo hasn’t moved by the time she returns, looking at her with bewilderment in his brown eyes.

“I believe I promised this to you both a long time ago, as thanks for helping Machi,” Thalassa says. “My skills with watercolor are not the best, yet, but I thought now was the right time.”

Apollo reaches out and takes the small canvas in his hands. He pulls off the covering cloth and stifles a cry into his palm.

“Holy Mother,” he whispers. “Are you kidding? Thalassa, this is incredible!”

Thalassa chuckles. “You really think so?”

Apollo traces the lines with the tip of his finger. Thalassa spent weeks on it: A watercolor painting of Apollo and Trucy, standing side-by-side in the courthouse with those same matching smiles. She’d based it off of a photo Phoenix had sent her, taken at the end of the Misham trial. That was the day her memory had begun to return, after all, and the day the whole wretched Gramarye affair had finally been put to rest.

At the bottom, in tiny print, Thalassa had signed the work, and titled it, “The True Gramarye Miracle”.

“I’m serious,” Apollo says, covering the piece back up with reverence and holding it to his chest. “I’ll hang it in the Agency and show Trucy when she gets home. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Thalassa says, clutching her locket.

Apollo tucks the painting into his backpack, grinning. “I have to get going,” he says tentatively. “But, uh, we should get coffee together soon, the three of us.”

“I’d love that.” Thalassa leans against the doorframe. “I’d like to visit Machi soon, if you’d come too.”

“We’d both be happy to, I’m sure.” Apollo puts on his bike helmet. “Merry Christmas, Thalassa.”

“Merry Christmas, Apollo. Please give Trucy my love.”

Thalassa watches Apollo walk his bike out to the road. He turns and waves at her as he rides away, and Thalassa waves back, looking after him with fondness until he is only a speck in the distance.