Sleeping more than a couple hours at a time always has a way of disorienting him; Apollo’s circadian rhythm is a relatively fickle thing that does not take kindly to him passing out for an undisturbed nine hours. It’s way of revenge is making him feel like he should go back to bed for nine more, but that’s not going to happen when there’s actually a case pending at the office. Work shouldn’t excite someone so much, but it makes dragging himself out of bed and toward the bathroom to prep for the day a fair bit easier despite the lethargy currently taking residence in his bones; marrow replaced with far heavier lead so that each stretch and stride of his is unnecessarily labored.
Despite this, he makes good time on getting ready, and making good time means there’s some leftover to make breakfast, even if it’s only toast spread with peanut butter. He eats one slice standing in his kitchen and holds the other between his teeth when locking his apartment up behind him.
The commute to work is tedious in its repetition rather than its actual length, but sometimes it has its little ‘worth it’ moments, like today: an over - zealous poodle being walked on too long a line bounds away from its owner and to the side of his bike, trotting along at a dogged pace until Apollo jerks to a stop and reaches for the creature who stalls to sniff at his hand. He’s running his fingers through the soft puff of fur at its crown without permission when its owner catches up, winded and red - faced; blond and tall and many ways distracting, though they’re rail thin and have grass stains on the front of their obnoxiously orange hoodie.
“ I am… I was going to be sorry, but you kept pedaling, and now I think I hate you. “
“ That’s fair. But in my defense, I didn’t realize I had a stalker right away. “
It’s just a blip in time, but it feels like possibility. Not every day do you meet someone with the same dry, oft times deadpan humor that you yourself have, but Apollo redirects his attention to the bike lane ahead of him, not hearing what else the dubiously gendered stranger says before he ‘s excusing himself with how he’d ‘like to stay around and talk more, but really has to be on his way to work.’
As has become customary of him in the last several years of his life, he gives the possibility at friendship or anything else a prompt squash. In his experience, after one not - ex in college and a psychopathic mentor, blonds with purebred pet dogs err on the side of evil. And unprofessional profiling and juvenile prejudice aside, he really does have to get to work — but upon arrival, what awaits him but another run - in with a different stranger. Or, not stranger? Maybe actual stalker, unlike the poodle from before, because the sound of his names makes him immediately stiffen, hands tightening on the bars of his bicycle while approaching the bike rack.
“ …we open late on Saturdays. How long have you been standing out here? Who are you? “
Dismounting his bike and locking it into his usual slot, he turns to her, expression and tone pensive as two and two are put together and he realizes she’s likely a reporter. He’d had to avoid enough of those back when he’d turned a trial ass - over - face and got his own mentor indicted with charges of murder two different times, and though the media had quickly all but forgotten about him because he was more or less an upstart nobody, the experiences left him with a sour opinion of them. Memories of sound equipment shoved in his face and an assault of blue - white flashes leaving his eyes watering and aching don’t hold up against this girl though. She doesn’t smell of their stale cigarette smoke or trapped-in-a-vehicle-all-day sweat, either. No, she’s smiling; bright - eyed and hopeful, probably only doing her job like he wants to be doing.
He also shudders remembering Spars Brushel, his overpowering mint smell reaching him when he’d still been at the bench and the man at the witness podium, his eyes flitting everywhere and tooth brush at the ready to gross everyone out…
Apollo sighs, crossing his arms and tilting his head when he looks at her, dark eyes flinty when he stares at her, torn between throwing her a bone and booting her to the metaphorical dog house on principle alone.
“ Yes, I’m Apollo Justice. What exactly do you want to know in regards to the case? I’ll let you know right now that anything regarding my client is absolutely off the table. I don’t know what kind of attorney the tabloids are painting me as, but I take my career very seriously. “ Even if most everyone else wants to treat it like an absolute joke.
〔 ✑ 〕 A TYPICAL morning, for one miss gwendolyn greyson : get up. never at a reasonable time ; today, she’s an early bird, dragging herself out of bed at an ungodly hour -- but tomorrow, she might not open her eyes until long past noon. one way or another, she’ll be up all night. ( gwen greyson sees more four a.m.’s in the average month than anyone should have to see in a lifetime. ) next, obtain breakfast. of course, her definition of ‘ breakfast ’ is usually ‘ shove a granola bar in your mouth as you run out the door, ’ which is probably not what her father meant when he insisted she always remember it, but she likes to think she’s following the spirit of his request. ( kinda. ) finally, she gets to the rest of your usual bits -- shower, get dressed, gather up your things, all that -- and heads out. ( then, of course, it’s time to realize she’s forgotten something, turn her little scooter right back around, go home, grab what she needs, and head out, take two. many a professor in the journalism department has admonished gwendolyn greyson for being late to their lecture. )
TODAY, THOUGH, was an especially well-done morning. she actually got herself moving in enough time to make eggs & toast -- one of the few dishes she can manage NOT to ruin -- made sure her notes on this particular case were nicely organized rather than a haphazard mess, and managed to leave her apartment without forgetting a single thing. she’s quite proud of how beautifully she pulled it off, actually, which is why she’s a little bit miffed about the fact that she had to spend so long waiting out here before anyone at all showed up to greet her. sure, it’s her own fault for not noticing that the wright anything agency has shortened saturday hours -- and, beyond that, the universe has no obligation to somehow cosmically reward her for being a responsible adult -- but, well, she’s still feeling slightly UNDERAPPRECIATED here !
------& THIS red-suited kid isn’t really doing much to alleviate the feeling, frankly. ( yeah, she knows she’s got no right to call someone who’s a few years older than her a ‘ kid, ’ even in her head, but that’s never stopped her before, and it won’t stop her now. ) but being in the press means having thick skin, and besides, she can’t exactly blame justice for being a bit standoffish -- considering the reason she’s here in the first place.
TO BE entirely honest, gwen hadn’t even been planning to cover the tenma case at all -- not because it wasn’t interesting, but because it was almost too much so. the wildness of the events had made every crime blogger from l.a. to london start writing article after article on the case, to the point that she’d thought she had nothing new to contribute to the conversation. that is, until she’d actually attempted to look into what happened beyond the surface level, and found herself drowning in a quagmire of conjecture, sensationalism, and outright lies rather than in the facts of the case. it seems, you see, that most of her colleagues are much more interested in debating whether the alderman really WAS possessed by demons, speculating on why in the world simon blackquill was allowed to stand in court, or spreading rumors about the defense team than they are in reporting on the actual case. it’s that last bit that makes her forgive justice his gruffness ; the nastiest & tabloidiest of her peers love to dig up his youth record & his former mentor’s murderous streak to use against him. never mind his successful law career, or the fact that he, y’know, put said mentor behind bars. TWICE. she doesn’t know justice, but she feels for him.
AFTER ALL, she knows what it’s like to have someone throw the worst parts of your past in your face, and it isn’t exactly fun.
❝ I’M GWEN greyson. i run cold casing. ❞ yeah, gwen. go ahead and just say that like you’re from the l.a. times, not a blogger with a reaaaally niche fanbase. she gives him a sheepish smile before answering his next question. caught. totally caught. ❝ . . . and you really don’t want to know how long i’ve been standing out here. ❞
HE MIGHT be giving her the glare of the century, but glaring lawyers aren’t enough to make her shrink -- she’s seen plenty of those in her time. she just shakes off her embarrassment & grins at him, showing him her most fluorescent face ; if he’s not going to be happy, she’ll do it for the both of them ! ❝ anyway, though -- that’s not at all what i’m here for, mr. justice. there are plenty of scathing -- and mostly made-up -- tabloid ‘ exposés ’ for everyone involved in the case already. i just wanted to get the facts of the case from the source, rather than a whole lot of hype from the internet. ❞ she squares her shoulders -- though whether she’s feeling triumphant or bracing for impact is hard to say. ( perhaps it’s some of both. ) ❝ i don’t need anything confidential. just a little bit of truth. ---- that’s all i ask. ❞
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