city living - dires - 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban (2024)

Herman Crab, it can be confidently said, is no stranger to Shipshape Aquarium’s Swashbuckler Spectacular.

Jack had instated it only a few months after he’d become manager a year or so after Herman had been hired, meaning that, with nine shows having been held every week since—one every weekday and four every weekend, naturally—he’s seen it over a hundred more times than what he could count on both hands. It can’t serve to surprise him any longer—but, admittedly, watching Orla and Sasha’s grand return to action is enough to bring a smile to even his face. Marlon definitely doesn’t make for the best Redstache in the world—his spindly frame doesn’t command nearly as much attention as Jack’s used to, and his swordsmanship leaves much to be desired—but he’s doing better and he’s finally happy and, at the end of the day, that’s what matters the most. Herman makes sure to cheer as loud as his lungs let him once the show ends.

He has to beat the crowds out if he wants to avoid DePlume’s unwanted attention, though, and so he leaves without speaking to either of them, figuring that he’ll catch up later. He picks up the pace as he rounds the corner to the pub, and when he does—

“—Ow! sh*t!”

…And when he does, he bumps into something warm and uncomfortably solid and squeezes his eyes shut out of reflex. When he hears a loud thump , he cracks them open to look at what it is he’s collided with; when he does he registers an unmistakable hairstyle on a familiar, sturdy frame, and realizes that it’s Phoenix Wright who sits on the floor in a burgundy-colored sweater, dress shirt, and jeans as he rubs his lower back, wincing. He thinks, again, how strange it is to see him in comfortable clothing, but only hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand to help him up.

“Oh, Dr. Crab!” Phoenix says, recognition flashing across his face as he takes Herman’s hand to stand. “It’s you again.”

They’d already seen each other a few hours prior out in front of the aquarium, but that was when Herman’d had Athena’s overflowing excitement to divert a notable amount of attention away from himself; now he is alone with Phoenix— completely alone, given that the vast majority of everyone at the aquarium is still slowly trickling out of the outdoor arena—and is thus stuck in exactly the kind of situation he was trying to avoid by leaving early. Existing around Phoenix is significantly less unpleasant than doing so around DePlume, however, and so he decides to suck it up and exchange pleasantries. As one does.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Lawyer,” Herman says, pulling Phoenix up onto his feet. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t either.” Phoenix replies, smile lines digging into his cheeks. Herman averts his gaze to his feet. “I was here looking for you, actually. Wasn’t sure if you’d be watching the show.”

“Really?” he asks, stopping the drag of the edge of a flip-flop over a crack in one of the floorboards to look up at Phoenix in surprise. “What for?”

“Well,” Phoenix says, expression turning into a bashful as he lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, “I was looking for the gift shop, but I got really lost. It’s my daughter’s birthday next month and she really likes penguins, so…”

“Ah,” Herman says, struggling to fight down a snort; Phoenix looks so genuinely embarrassed that it’s hard not to laugh. “Sure. I can take you there. It isn’t far.”

“Really? Thanks so much,” he says. Herman starts to walk away and he hears Phoenix scuffle to run up and fall in line with him. They’re quiet for a few moments as he starts to walk through the passage connecting the bar to the exhibits nearby, but the silence evidently makes Phoenix uncomfortable; he asks, a touch of nervousness in his voice, “So how have you been?”

They have descended into small talk. Herman suppresses the urge to shudder as he replies flatly, “Alright.”

He watches a little girl tap on the glass of a tank, giggling as the minnows inside scurry away from the touch, and reminds himself to put up those please-don’t-touch-the-glass signs he’s been putting off. He continues, “Got Sniper out of my hair, but she won’t stay put with the other penguins no matter how hard I try. Lives in my office now. Win some, lose some, I guess.”

“At least she isn’t burrowing around in there anymore. Must be nice to not have to worry about her freaking out and biting you, huh.”

“Honestly?” He turns the corner. “I kind of miss it sometimes. It’s like watching a kid grow up and not need you as much anymore.”

“Sure,” Phoenix laughs. “I think it’s a little different with animals and with human kids, though.”

“Well, obviously.” He stoops down to pick up a stray flier, crumpling it up and putting it in his pocket. “Speaking of kids. Yours is named Trucy, right? I think I’ve seen her on T.V. You must be proud.”

“I really am. She’s amazing.” Phoenix’s chest seems to puff out a bit, as most parents’ do when talking about their kids, and Herman figures he’s hit the nail on the head of conversational topics. “I think she was wanting to talk to Sasha about how she does practical effects in the Spectacular. Said it would help with her shows.”

“Bad idea to get Sasha started,” Herman snorts. “She won’t stop.

“Well, here we are,” he says, bringing his feet to a stop just in front of the gift shop. “Hope you can find something she’ll like.”

“Thank you so much,” Phoenix says with a sigh of relief. “I left the show early to get a head start, but I got lost right away. I’m glad I bumped into you.”

“Quite literally,” Herman points out.

“Right!” Phoenix laughs. Looks away. “Um…”

He pauses, and his easygoing smile is replaced by a tenser look. Herman shoves his hands in his pockets and furrows his brow as he observes Phoenix’s sudden shift in demeanor; it seems as though there’s something more he wants to say. His eyes flick over to Herman, only to go back to staring bullets into the gift shop sign; he thinks he might see the tips of his ears turn red, but he can’t be sure. Phoenix draws his lips into a thin line and chews on the inside of his cheek before sighing.

“...Never mind,” he says, turning to face Herman properly once again. “Thanks, Dr. Crab. I’ll see you around.”

Herman lifts up a hand to wave him goodbye, but Phoenix has already turned away. And when he gets back to his office, DePlume is there waiting for him.

Truthfully, he isn’t expecting to see Phoenix ever again.

Naturally he’s very grateful to him and Athena for helping establish the innocence of Sasha and the orcas, but the obvious assumption would be that his business at the aquarium is now officially over; he’d secured his not-guilty verdict, happily utilized the coupon for free tickets for him and his co-workers that Sasha had pushed onto him as thanks, and now should never return. This would be the logical train of thought.

Illogically, however, the moment he opens his office door to answer a knock the following week Phoenix is standing next to Sasha, looking altogether bashful. Sasha has a typical toothy grin spread across her face. Herman feels the sudden, burning desire to slam the door and never speak to anyone ever again.

“...Mr. Wright,” he says, tone just a touch on the annoyed side. “It’s you again.”

“I thought you’d like to say hi,” Sasha says, just as relaxed as always, which only really serves to stress Herman out further. “And also, I have to go and help out with Ora. So I’m leaving him with you.”

“Sorry,” Phoenix says with a smile. “I said she didn’t have to, but she insisted.”

“It’s just good manners!” she says, shooting Herman a thumbs-up. “And anyway he’ll only be here a little longer, so you won’t have to sea him for very long. Toodles!”

Evidently Herman must have missed the part of the conversation where he said it was alright with him to be transferred to customer service, because Sasha saunters off before he can even get a word in. He can do nothing but frown at her retreating form as she skips away; Sasha Buckler has mastered the knowledge of his mannerisms, at this rate, and consequently perfected the art of getting Herman to do whatever she wants—much to his chagrin. He turns to Phoenix—who at least has the decency to still look embarrassed—and frowns.

“Why are you here by yourself? ” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Oh!” Phoenix says, jolting a bit, as if he’d only just noticed that they were alone; he must have been lost in thought. Herman raises an eyebrow. “About that…I asked the people at the gift shop to hold it for me until I could come back. I didn’t want Trucy to see it.” He lifts up a bag that Herman hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying and shakes it lightly, rattling whatever’s inside. “And I just now had some time to come and pick it up.”

“Couldn’t you have just hidden it in your trunk?”

Phoenix stares at him blankly as if he’s considering the possibility for the first time.

“Yeah, um…Yeah, maybe I could’ve,” he concedes, gritting his teeth and looking away. “...I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that you got lost again and needed Sasha to help you find your way?” Herman snorts, moving to rest his hands at his hips.

“For your information, ” Phoenix says, reaching over to hit him lightly on the shoulder, “I found my way just fine. I just wanted to say hello to Sasha, so I came looking for her. She was the one who said we should come say hi.”

His shoulder feels weird after that, and Herman instinctively moves to grip it with one hand. He isn’t really used to people doing that—touching him, that is—and he does his best to shrug it off. “I see.”

“But how are you?” Phoenix says with a smile. “It’s been a few weeks.”

“Alright,” Herman says, a bit put off by the fact that Phoenix isn’t walking away from him yet. Small talk isn’t exactly his strong suit. “I think I’d feel better if I hadn’t just found out you lack so much common sense, though.”

Phoenix guffaws, at that, and Herman is struck once again by just how easygoing he is off the job; he’d heard all of the stories twice over during those long seven years he spent disbarred—Phoenix Wright, dethroned attorney, king of poker, with a face so unfeeling it would chill his opponents’ blood to the bone—but looking at him now, it’s difficult to envision any of them being true.

“Maybe,” he says as he finishes laughing. “But if I did, I wouldn’t have gotten to see you.”

It takes a second for Herman to process what has been said to him—and, when he does, he inexplicably feels his face get hot. Before he can reply, though, Phoenix smiles and says, “‘Till next time.”

Herman watches him walk away a little bit stupefied. This time, he’s inclined to believe him.

—

Bad things come in threes, or so Herman’s mother had used to say. In all fairness she’d been interned as a paranoiac for the last few years of her life, but this week he has found her little superstition to be true: Sniper spills tea on his pants thrice, he gets yelled at by entitled visitors for being too standoffish thrice, and, embarrassingly, falls asleep on his paperwork and drools all over it—you guessed it—thrice.

That, and Phoenix Wright graces Shipshape Aquarium with his presence for the third time.

That morning Herman’s office stash of coffee grounds runs dry and so, grumbling to himself, he drags his feet to the break room to steal from the bag Carol has hidden on top of the cabinets—he could just take from the communal supply, but she buys a nice brand—which she somehow still hasn’t realized that he knows is there. However, as he moves to cross the area in front of the main entrance, he hears an unfortunately-familiar, chipper voice.

“Two adult, please!” it says with altogether too much energy for nine-thirty in the morning, and Herman doesn’t even have to turn and look to know that it’s Trucy Wright standing there; her voice is unmistakable on its own, electric-blue hat and cape notwithstanding. He confirms his suspicions with a brief glance that he doesn’t think will be conspicuous, but he has evidently underestimated magicians’ connection with their sixth sense; her head snaps around almost immediately, and her face lights up into a toothy grin immediately upon laying eyes on him. He freezes in his tracks, cursing out the universe—not for the first time—for his oft-inopportune timing.

“Dr. Crab!” she exclaims, stretching her whole body up onto her tiptoes to wave at him. He’d only spoken with her very briefly when she’d come to watch the show with Phoenix and his co-workers—three months ago now—but evidently she had been fascinated by his equipment enough to remember his face and name. She actually isn’t wearing her uniform today, having opted for a simple yellow dress; the color suits her. Phoenix stands next to her in a rather threadbare hoodie and looks down at his feet the moment his eyes meet Herman’s. “Over here!”

Figuring that it would be a little too rude to pretend like he just hadn’t spotted her, Herman saunters over slowly, keeping his eyes peeled in case DePlume is lurking around in the dark around some corner. When he gets to them he says, “Hello, Trucy. Mr. Wright.”

“Hi, Dr. Crab,” Phoenix says, finally looking up at him. His appearance is more disheveled today, most likely a byproduct of it being a Saturday—his stubble has grown out and his hair sits flatter—but the look is charming in its own right. When he catches himself thinking that his eyes widen just a little, surprised, and he shoves the idea as far down as it will go. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he says. “Touring the aquarium again today?”

“Well, Daddy’s birthday present made me want to come back,” Trucy says with a giggle as she passes a fifty to the ticket saleswoman underneath the glass divider separating the two of them. “But he’s been out of town, and I was touring. I finally got a day off from doing shows today, though, so here we are!”

“Just spending some time together.” Phoenix’s smile has a certain way of making Herman’s stomach do something unpleasant, tired and scruffy as he looks. “She liked it a lot here last time.”

Herman nods and is just about to excuse himself when Trucy interrupts.

“Oh! Oh, I know, Dr. Crab!” she says, with an air about her that makes Herman confident he won’t like whatever’s going to come out of her mouth. “How about you give us a tour?”

“Trucy…” Phoenix says with a sigh. “I’m sure Dr. Crab has more important things to be doing right now.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Trucy says, tugging at Phoenix’s arm, and turns to flash what Herman can only assume are her biggest puppy-dog eyes. “Won't you, Dr. Crab? Please?”

Phoenix is right: technically, Herman does have more important things to be doing. He should really say no; he has to finalize transfer papers for a new dolphin and finish his routine check-ups on all the animals before Wednesday and, naturally, be on speed-dial for any animal-related crises that may arise. All that on top of there being the fact that he makes it a point to not leave his lab for extended periods of time. Ever.

…Though, admittedly, there is another part of his brain that urges him to say what the hell. He likes Trucy quite a bit, even if he’s only spoken to her briefly, he’s already two-thirds of the way through the examinations, and he has the TORPEDO system secured safely in his back pocket in the event of any emergencies.

But, perhaps most importantly, he’s almost positive that he saw the swish of a white satin scarf turning the corner to the pub when he was leaving to help clean Orla’s pool that morning, and he certainly isn’t going to be tussling with that today. So maybe keeping a wide berth of his office is a good idea.

“You know what,” he says with a shrug. “Why not. Need to get more steps in anyways.”

Trucy lets out a little squeal, jumping up, and claps her hands together in delight. Phoenix, however, doesn’t look so convinced.

“Are you sure?” he asks, an edge of consideration in his voice that Herman isn’t used to hearing when he’s being spoken to. “I know you don’t really like to leave the lab that much. We can handle ourselves.”

“It’s fine,” Herman says noncommitedly, pretending like he doesn’t appreciate the sympathy as much as he actually does. “DePlume is around here, anyhow. Probably better to stay on the move.”

That makes Phoenix laugh, and Herman’s stomach inexplicably lurches.

—

“Thanks again for walking with us,” Phoenix says, later, whilst Trucy is starry-eyed and mesmerized by the underside of a manta ray that floats lazily along in its tank. Phoenix looks on at her with an expression of fondness Herman doesn’t think he could replicate in his lifetime. “You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” Herman says. There’s a half-empty packet of cigarettes in his coat pocket that he’d forgotten was there; he runs his thumb back and forth across the smooth plastic absentmindedly. “Like I said. DePlume was around.”

Phoenix smiles. “I’m serious. It was really nice of you.”

Herman doesn’t really know what to answer, so he just stares at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Phoenix turn to look back at Trucy.

“...Don’t you ever get bored, by the way?”

Herman looks back up. “Sorry?”

“Just staying here all the time, I mean,” Phoenix says, tilting his head to the side just a bit in thought. “I mean, I know you really love your job. But don’t you ever wish you had one that let you get out a little bit more."

“Not really,” Herman says. “I mean, you could come up with a question like that for virtually anything. I could ask you why a job where you’re the deciding factor in a person’s future doesn’t stress you out more.”

Phoenix laughs. “That’s true,” he says. “But I think I could answer that question.”

“Really? Go ahead, then.”

“Well,” Phoenix says, touching two fingers to his bottom lip, “I’ve learned to trust in myself a lot more over time—as I’ve grown older, as I’ve taken on more clients—and I know that there’s very little that can stop me from doing everything I physically can to help a client. So even if I wasn’t able to secure an acquittal for an innocent person—which luckily hasn’t happened yet—I know that I did everything I could for them. And, even then, I wouldn’t stop fighting.”

“How loyal,” Herman snorts, lighthearted as he can.

“Well, I’d like to think I am,” Phoenix says with a grin. “I mean, I’ve been held at gunpoint in court before, so—”

Herman does a double-take. “You’ve what?”

“Oh!” Phoenix says, bringing a hand up to his chest as if he’s just now realized that isn’t exactly a normal thing to say. “Um. Not here in L.A.”

“ Obviously not here! What the hell?”

Phoenix shrugs and throws up his hands as if to say I don’t know . “Well, I’m fine, aren’t I?”

Herman scoffs before a smile finds its way onto his face again.

“I guess so,” he says with a shake of his head. “But that’s definitely a story I’d like to hear.”

“Guess I’ll have to come back sometime, then,” Phoenix says with a wink.

Herman coughs, at that, and looks away again, back of his neck burning and praying that Phoenix doesn’t notice. Trucy skips back a few moments later, giving him the excuse he needs to change the subject. He feels Phoenix’s eyes on him for the rest of the morning.

—

“Thanks again for the tour.”

Trucy and Phoenix decide to leave at around one o’clock, when the former’s stomach growls loud enough to scare a wild animal and she sheepishly admits she can ignore it no longer. They decide to set off to lunch, and Herman walks with them out of the building. Out of propriety, he would say—but he’s forced to admit that they make for rather nice company, and he’s a little sad to see them go. Herman stuffs his hands in his pockets as he watches Trucy skip happily away towards Phoenix’s car. She’s sweet. He turns his attention back to her father.

“Again,” he says noncommittedly, kicking a pebble away from his feet. “It’s no problem. It’s not like I had to make some giant sacrifice.”

“You don’t have to for something to be nice ,” Phoenix says. Smiles again. Herman can’t bear looking at him for too long. “So, yeah. Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles.

Phoenix stands there for a few more seconds, looking like he’s thinking of something to say. He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and looks away. The air is uncomfortable after their hours of casual conversation, with, evidently, neither of them quite knowing how to say goodbye. Herman, in a desperate attempt to cut the tension, clears his throat and says, “I’m too used to life here.”

Phoenix looks up.

“Sorry?”

“I never answered your question,” Herman mumbles, once again too embarrassed to keep looking at him. He looks down; his right sock has a tiny hole in the big toe, he notices, and the left a threadbare string. He should get some new pairs soon. “You asked why I don’t want a job that lets me get out more. It’s because I’m used to this. I don’t feel like I need anything else to be satisfied with my life.”

Phoenix blinks. Smiles, and nods.

“I can understand that,” he says, putting his own hands inside his pockets. “But satisfaction and happiness are two very different things, you know.”

“I guess,” Herman says. “They feel kind of the same to me, though.

“Plus,” he snorts. “I’m too old to go to new places. I get stressed out.”

Phoenix laughs. “Oh, me too. They’re exhausting, aren’t they? Maybe those two things feel the same to you because you haven’t gotten to experience different things in a way you’re comfortable with in too long, though.

“I mean,” he says, quickly backtracking. “Sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you’re unhappy or anything like that. I was just wondering.”

“It’s fine,” Herman says with a shrug. “Maybe you’re right about trying new things. But even if I wanted to…I don’t really know what I’d go out to do, even.”

And that’s when Phoenix starts to act strange again: his eyes widen just a little bit, posture stiffening, and a familiar red starts to creep up the back of his neck and up his ears. A dot of perspiration dots his forehead as he opens his mouth to speak, only to close it again. He scratches his jaw, drops his hand to his pocket once again, and says, “um….I…”

He looks up at Herman, then, but does nothing except get redder and stare down at his feet. Herman gives him his best unimpressed look.

“...Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” is what he finally says, altogether mumbled. “There’s lots of things to do around here. If you know where to look.”

“I’ll keep an open mind, how about,” Herman says with a small smile.

“Well,” he says, spine popping as he stretches out his back with a grunt, “I should head back. Good to see you, Mr. Wright.”

“...Bye, Dr. Crab,” Phoenix says with a bashful smile, lifting his hand up to wave at him just a little. His face is the last thing Herman sees before he turns back around, and the image lingers in his head all afternoon.

—

The thing is: he keeps coming back.

Herman wouldn’t fault anyone for liking to come to the aquarium on a regular basis (Lord knows that no visitor could get quite as obsessed as DePlume, at any rate, and he f*cking lives here), but what strikes him as strange is that Phoenix always seems to have a perfectly-convenient excuse: Athena wanted to see Sasha but her car is totaled so she needed a ride; he’s chaperoning for a field trip for Trucy’s class; he’s representing an employee in a civil case and he had to meet up with them to ask them some questions. Again and again and again—and again—and he always manages to have some different reason for being there.

Eventually, he’s there almost every week—and he always stops by Herman’s office. And “stops by” is putting it lightly: he’ll chat Herman up, sprawled out comfortably on his examining table— he doesn’t have any other chairs—and will sit there reading a book for an hour or two, cutting the silence with some comment or other every couple of minutes.

It’s not as though Herman minds, exactly—he’s a good conversationalist, respectful, and not noisy, which are some of Herman’s preferred attributes—but it’s definitely…different. Once a week he turns Herman’s cemented routine upside-down, once a week he gets Herman talking more than he has in years, and once a week Herman perks up just a little when he hears the sound of his feet walking across the pub.

(That’s not as intimate as it seems. The soles of his favorite pair of shoes make a very distinct sound against the wood flooring. Honestly.)

“That Wright keeps coming around,” he thinks of saying, one day, when he and Sasha and Marlon are camping out in the break room together during a particularly slow day. Sasha sits cross-legged on the counter sipping on a can of soda while Marlon—who is newly back in school—toils over the trigonometry homework that lies scattered across the coffee table. They both look up at him almost simultaneously when he speaks, breaking their well-established silence.

“Really?” Sasha says, jutting her bottom lip out in thought. “I don’t think I’ve seen him in a while. Have you, Marlon?”

Marlon just shakes his head as he drums the eraser of a dull pencil against his chest. He’s been on the same page of his textbook for half an hour, Herman has noticed—but pointing that out wouldn’t really benefit anybody, he figures, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Herman says. The coffee machine dings then as the liquid finishes dripping out, and he pours himself a fresh cup. He tears a packet of creamer open with his teeth and continues, “He’s been hanging around my office once or twice a week for a month and a half.”

Sasha and Marlon shoot each other a capital-L Look, at that.

Herman isn’t quite sure why it is—probably the fact that they’re closer in age—but they’ve got a secret manner of communicating with each other that he’s never quite been able to understand. He just frowns as they look at him, to each other again, and then back to him one more time. He pours his creamer in, picks up a spoon to stir his coffee with, and says, flatly, “What.”

“Oh, nothing,” Marlon says, turning back to his homework. Well—at this point all he’s doing is doodling, but it is still technically his homework.

“It’s just,” Sasha says, slowly, as if she’s deliberating on what to say, “it’s definitely weird for Mr. Wright to only visit you, isn’t it? Especially when he knows me and Marlon pretty well.”

Herman shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. He always has some reason to be here, and my office isn’t that far from the entrance.”

They Look at each other again. Herman grits his teeth.

“Okay, what,” he hisses sharply. “What is it? Why do you keep looking at each other like that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Marlon repeats.

Sasha delivers a swift kick to his ribcage. He squawks at the contact and grips at the afflicted area in pain as she says, “Look, doc. Have you considered that maybe there’s a reason why Phoenix only visits you ? I mean, can’t you come up with any theories?”

Her comment, on top of the fact that she and Marlon obviously know something he doesn’t, makes anger start to bubble at the pit of his stomach. He pushes himself off of the counter and says, glaring at her, “Look, Sasha, the last thing I need right now is for you to understate my intelligence.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh, well—” she backtracks. “That’s not what I—”

“Stop it!” he says, clenching his free fist and squeezing his eyes shut as he grits his teeth. “I can’t listen to any more of this—this insulting blather!”

“Oh, come on, Dr. Crab,” Marlon says drowsily. “You know Sasha didn’t mean it that way.”

Herman snaps around to face him. “How did she mean it, then?”

“She was just tryin’ to get you to think about it, man. She didn’t say anything wrong.”

“It’s fine, Marlon,” Sasha says, smile already back on her face. “All I’m saying is to think about it. Okay, doc?”

Herman’s jaw starts to hurt. He scoffs, and turns around.

“Ridiculous,” he murmurs, before storming off. Out of his own goddamn break room.

(“And it’s ‘Marlon and me!’ ” he says over his shoulder, all but slamming the door behind him.)

—

What Sasha says plays on his mind, though. Especially two days later, when Phoenix visits once again.

He’s gotten comfortable at an alarmingly-fast rate. Where at first he’d knocked on the door tentatively, asked if he could come inside, and stood for fifteen minutes before letting himself sit down at the edge of the examination table, now he invites himself in and makes himself comfortable right away, knowing full well that Herman will not interfere as long as he’s quiet about it. Sometimes Herman is so engrossed in his work that he won’t notice him until twenty, thirty minutes after he gets there; the first time that happened Herman had jumped so high he’d nearly gone through the roof. Nowadays, he doesn’t think twice if Phoenix is there when he turns on any given day.

(And, well—maybe Herman feels a little disappointed whenever he it turns out he isn’t. But he’d never admit that to anyone.)

And while Herman usually minds his own business save for when Phoenix speaks to him directly, today he cannot seem to stop shooting a glance over his shoulder every few minutes; Sasha’s words echo over and over again in his head, and he cannot for the life of him make them stop. It isn’t until he writes the same sentence four times in a row in a check-up report that he accepts the fact that he needs a break.

Pulling off his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes with the bottom of his palms, Herman swivels his chair around to look at Phoenix. He’s been quite engrossed in a paperback copy of Dostoevsky’s The Village of Stepanchikovo, as demonstrated by his continued silence this afternoon, but he looks up at almost the exact second that Herman turns around to watch him. He places his bookmark in place and smiles.

“Looks like we’ve both been roused,” Phoenix says. Herman finds himself smiling, too.

“Sure,” he says, standing up so he can stretch out his back, “but the difference is that I’m working and you’re reading some obscure novel by a guy who’s been dead for a century and a half.”

“I’ll have you know Dostoevsky was one of the most influential novelists of the nineteenth century.”

“Naturally. But I’d think people would rather read The Brothers Karamazov or Crime and Punishment than about the village of freakin’ Stepanchikovo.”

“Bah,” Phoenix says, and perishes the though with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re just jealous because I have the time to broaden my literary horizons.”

Herman snorts, sits down again, and turns back to his paperwork. “Maybe a little.”

Herman can’t see him, but he can feel Phoenix smile before he turns back to his book. As he scribbles out his mistakes with black ink, the Sasha in his head repeats There must be a reason for the umpteenth time. His cheeks grow warm despite himself, and he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head to make her go away.

“Trucy’s starting senior year in a month,” Phoenix sighs, and Herman hears the sound of a page flipping right after. “It’s hard to accept that this time next year she’ll be off to college. Or working full-time. f*ck, I don’t know. It’s just crazy.”

“I imagine it’s hard,” Herman says, signing his name with a flourish and moving on to the next paper.

“It is!” Phoenix exclaims suddenly, and from the noise Herman can tell he’s shot up from his lazy position. “It’s weird, you know? And I didn’t even know her when she was a baby, but I still watched her grow up! I’m still her dad! And I just…”

He seems to fizzle out then, slumping back up against the wall. “…Ugh. I don’t know. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s really not,” Herman says, standing up to reach a folder filed in one of his wall cabinets, flimsy stepladder wriggling underneath his weight when he steps up on it. “I mean, I get emotional when one of the animals here has a kid. It’s like I’m a grandpa. And those are just animals…you know, this is your human daughter . You can’t be faulted for feeling that way.”

“...Yeah, I know,” Phoenix says. Out of the corner of his eye, Herman sees him lay down fully on the table, eyes trained on the table to stare at the ceiling.

“You make for good company, Dr. Crab,” Phoenix says absentmindedly as Herman back to his files. “I like coming to see you.”

Herman’s body stills, at that, fingers hovering just over the file he was looking for. For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the clock, of Phoenix’s gentle breathing.

And that’s when everything clicks into place.

That’s when Herman’s blood freezes, when his heartbeat speeds up tenfold, and when he squeezes his hands so tightly his knuckles turn white. He turns around and sees Phoenix so comfortable there, eyes closed, so settled , and he suddenly understands, suddenly realizes just why Sasha and Marlon had given each other those Looks that day in the lounge. Herman’s hand starts shaking of their own volition, and his stomach does about twelve successive somersaults, and Phoenix sighs and his muscles relax even more and…and…

(And, admittedly. He really should have noticed it a long, long time ago. But there’s something about turning from the people near to him that’s so easy; there’s a reason he’s been doing it for four decades, after all.)

And, well…f*ck. f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck.

—

So Phoenix Wright has feelings for him. Exactly to what extent and what he intends to do with them is not something that Herman is particularly concerned with at the moment; mostly he is preoccupied descending down a tight spiral because of the fact that Phoenix Wright has feelings for him . Like, romantically.

Calling it a crush feels juvenile, a word he’d only have used all the way when he was back in grade school, but Herman isn’t aware of a better term for it even now. The next day—a Friday—leaves him reeling from the shock of his new revelation, and the confusion etched across his face is evidently prominent enough that even Marlon, spacey as he is, takes notice.

“You good, doc?” he’d asked that morning during Ora and Orla’s feeding time. A changed man most certainly, but still just as much of an airhead. “You look like you’re been thinkin’ hard about somethin’."

“It’s nothing,” Herman says, and means it, too, because he isn’t about to open up about his essentially-nonexistent love life to a kid who’s delusional enough to think that backwards baseball caps are still in fashion. And who tried to get his whale killed. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Sasha—Sasha who has worked here the longest out of any of the employees besides himself, Sasha who he's known since she was fourteen and she lied on her job application about her age and references because she’d wanted to work at an aquarium so desperately—is a different story. He’s felt an arms-length away from her ever since the incident with Azura and Ora, but lately they’ve been piecing together the fragments of their relationship relatively well, to the point where it’s easier to talk about…well, anything. At least, he’d like to think so.

He doesn’t quite know how to bring it up with her, though. There’s the issue of the fact that it’s not like their relationship is naturally that casual—he’s only a few years shy of being old enough to be her father, after all—but his biggest problem is just that it’s awkward . Herman has never brought up anything even resembling this topic in the almost-decade that he’s known Sasha—he never even did so with Jack, who was his de facto best friend—and he isn’t quite sure how to now.

In the end he decides that, as is often the case, honesty can be considered to be the best policy. He expects her to be as perplexed as he was when he tells her—but Sasha doesn’t even take a second to process before she bursts out laughing.

“Oh, please, doc!” she says, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye. “ I knew that, and I haven’t seen that guy in weeks .”

“…Was it that obvious?” Herman asks. “I feel like I only just figured it out.”

“Well,” Sasha says, pensively, taking a sip out of her (overly-sweet, Herman knows) morning coffee, “I guess you could argue that he just wants to be friends with you like…really, really bad.”

“I just feel like he’d be more upfront about it if that was all he wanted,” Herman grumbles. He really needs a cigarette.

“Right. And Phoenix doesn’t really strike me as the buddy-buddy friendship type.”

“I agree,” Herman grumbles, crossing his legs and clenching his jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut in thought. Another thing he has learned about Phoenix with time: polite as he may seem at first glance, he’s snarky and judgmental as anyone else on the inside. He has a laundry list of grievances with just about everyone—something Herman can relate to—and it’s that attitude that stops him from getting to know too many people. “I’d know.”

“That leaves us with one option, then,” Sasha says. “What do you think?”

Herman opens his eyes and looks up at Sasha. “What do I think?”

“I mean,” she says, “you’re half of the equation in this, aren’t you?”

“But…well. What do you mean, what do I think.”

“Exactly that. Do you feel the same way about him or not?”

Herman frowns. Considers this.

Honestly, he hadn’t done that yet; really thought about it, that is. He’s been mulling over this new information for the best part of the last week and he hasn’t once considered what his actual opinion on it was. Which, he supposes, was logically the first thing to do. He pauses for a moment to do so now.

How does he feel? About what? About Phoenix having feelings for him? That’s…he doesn’t feel anything, necessarily. It’s just a fact of life. It’s just as insignificant to him as the fact that Marlon has a rather pitiful crush on Sasha, or that Rifle is having an egg with Tank again; they’re just things that, though he’s involved with, don’t particularly hinge on how he feels about him.

In that case, he thinks, how does he feel about Phoenix himself? That might be a more relevant question.

Phoenix. Phoenix is…a very caring person. He makes a living out of looking out for people who can’t look out for themselves. He’s a good dad. Good kid. He’s…yeah, he’s good-looking. Handsome. Herman can’t lie about that. On his days off he isn’t quite as put-together, but it does wonders for him, really; the first time Herman saw him with a five o’clock shadow, he found his mind wandering the entire week. He’s attractive, and Herman has taken note, even if involuntarily. He’s a good conversationalist, he’s well-read, he appreciates the arts. He can sing. He’s always humming under his breath, which is…cute, or whatever. He can admit that, too. Herman had joined in when he’d started on an old one, something he’d heard on the radio back when he was a teenager, and the way Phoenix had smiled at him had made it easy to forget the fact that financial statements were due at the end of the week, that he owed Sasha a favor, that sometimes it got a little lonely, being shut up in his lab all day, every day. Herman had smiled back and Phoenix had laughed and perhaps what’s most important of all is the fact that Phoenix likes Herman. And evidently not just physically, but as a person, too. And that, historically, hasn’t happened much.

Herman considers all of this. Everything he has learned about Phoenix over the course of the last couple months, everything he has observed, everything he has wondered. He thinks long and hard, frown on his face, as Sasha wordlessly quirks up an eyebrow. And the truth is that he…doesn’t…

“I don’t know.”

Sasha gapes at him.

“…Sorry,” she says, exasperation evident on her face. “You don’t know?”

“Well,” Herman says, scratching his chin with his hand, “Wright is nice. He’s attractive, he makes for good company…and, well, he likes me. Which is a fact. Obviously. But I don’t know if I can see myself…well, dating him, or whatever. Long-term.”

“I mean, that’s the point of going on a date, isn’t it? To find that out if you’re compatible that way.”

“Well. I mean. It’s not just that. I don’t really know if I like him…well, like that.”

Sasha puts her hands on her hips. “Still kind of the point of a date, dude.”

“Okay, I mean, like,” he huffs, “from an emotional perspective …I don’t know that much about him. Which makes sense, but. I don’t know. Is it normal to feel apprehensive about that?”

Sasha crosses her legs and pulls her feet up close to her body as she tilts her head up in thought. She shakes her head before speaking.

“I don’t think that’s strange at all,” she says. “Honestly, though, doc—I don’t think you’re gonna get much out of Mr. Wright in that regard unless you go on a date…or if you, like, really wear him down.”

Herman asks, “but what if he’s lost interest by then?”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Sasha says. “Which is why I think you should just ask him on a date. Give it a shot. Just to see. If you don’t see it working out, you don’t need to go on another one. That’s the beauty of it.”

Herman crosses his arms. She does have a point, but…

“I don’t know, Sasha,” he says. “I don’t know how to ask him. I haven’t gone out on a proper date since college.”

She stares at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles, face heating up. “It was by choice.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Sure, doc.

“But, listen,” she says, and leans into him. He mirrors the action. “If he hasn't done anything about it yet, then he isn’t going to anytime soon. He’s just scared to ask you. So I would just go for it. Like I said, you don’t really have anything to lose.”

“But what if you’re totally off the mark?”

“Then…make sure that I’m right. Confirm my suspicions somehow. Then ask.”

“Easier said than done,” he grumbles, and lets his arms fall onto the table.

“Oh, you can do it, doc. Your youthful charm remains intact, believe me.”

He blinks.

“...That’s sarcasm.”

She finishes off her coffee with a loud slurp and shoots him a toothy grin. “Astute observation.”

—

Phoenix doesn’t come back in until the following week, when Herman walks in from his lunch break to find him already in his office. Evidently he’s already burned through Stepanchikovo, as today he’s holding a worn copy of Letters to Milena between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t even get the chance to offer a greeting before Phoenix starts talking.

“Listen to this,” he says, eyes flicking up to Herman’s face and back down again. His shaving’s a bit sloppy today and the buttons on his dress shirt are uneven, a fact which he clearly hasn’t noticed yet; evidently it had been a long night at the office. It’s endearing, though. Phoenix recites, “I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: ‘Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.’ Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.”

He looks up at Herman properly then, smiling wide. “Romantic, huh?”

Herman shrugs as he finishes off the water bottle he’s carrying in his hand, crumples it up, and tosses it. “I don’t know,” he says, sitting down in his chair and swiveling around to face his work. “Kafka could have gone to see Milena whenever he wanted, but he didn’t.”

Phoenix groans, sitting up. “It’s the principle of the thing, Dr. Crab,” he says, pointing at him with the book. “Maybe physically Kafka could have gone to see Milena. But he hated himself too much. He didn’t think he was good enough for her, and that’s why he didn’t go.”

“I guess. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t lonely, though.”

“...Yeah,” says Phoenix, a little gloomily. He sounds genuinely sad, and Herman does his best to suppress a snort.

“I wouldn’t have thought you the type to read love letters for entertainment, though, Mr. Wright,” he says, in an attempt to stem his laughter.

“Oh, definitely not.” Herman turns around to face him again, and watches as he flips another page. “But Trucy wanted to start a Wright Anything Agency Book Club to make her school assignments more fun, so I got forced into it. It’s actually gotten kind of big ‘cause of all her fans. It has, like, three hundred online members.”

Dryly: “How extravagant.”

“Listen,” Phoenix says, and meets his eyes with a hard look. “It’s pretty legit. We even have an international branch.”

Herman says, “Does your ‘international branch’ go by the name Apollo Justice?”

Phoenix grins. “Guilty as charged.”

Herman smiles back at him. Phoenix coughs, looks away, and Herman grits his teeth. Distantly, he’s aware of the fact that this could probably be called flirting , but he tries to shake it off. There’s always the chance that he’s reading into it too much.

“More importantly, though,” he says, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, “she’s reading Kafka for a high school class? Like, summer reading or something?”

“Oh, no, no,” Phoenix laughs. “I don’t think they’ve had him on the curriculum since my folks were in school. It was just Athena’s turn to pick this month, and—well, she’s a bit of a hopeless romantic. But I’m sure you remember that.”

It takes Herman a second to recall, but he inwardly cringes when he recalls the things Athena had asked him the previous summer. She’d be a strong contender for first prize in the asking-Herman-inappropriate-things competition. “How could I forget.”

“I know,” he says, grin apologetic. “I’m sorry if she made you uncomfortable. She gets a little excited sometimes.”

“It’s fine.”

Sasha’s words plague his head once again. He tries to shake her voice, but it just won’t go away.

He frowns. Purses his lips, and resigns himself to the fact that he is about to do something very, very stupid. And so altogether impulsively he asks, “What about you, Mr. Wright?”

Phoenix’s eyes widen.

“ Me?” he asks, brows furrowing. “What do you mean, what about me?”

“Well,” Herman coughs, “would you consider yourself a romantic?”

“Oh!”

Herman can’t help but notice the way he tenses up, how the back of his neck turns subtly red. Some strange part of Herman feels a little proud of himself for it. Another—the logical one—can only hope that he hasn’t made him uncomfortable.

“A long…” Phoenix starts, pausing to chew at the inside of his lip.

“Maybe a long time ago,” he continues, propping his head up on one hand. “But definitely not anymore. I grew up, I guess.”

“So nobody’s in the picture?”

“Oh, um…”

Phoenix can’t quite seem to stand looking at Herman anymore. He stares down at his feet. “No. Um…nobody has been for a while.”

“Oh,” Herman says.

Phoenix’s eyes flick to him, mouth quirking up into a minute smile. “I’m on the shelf, I guess.”

Herman just snorts, turning to look back at his work. “Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

His words surprise even himself; he definitely hadn’t planned to say them. He feels heat creeping up the back of his neck as he risks a glance back at Phoenix, whose eyes are about as big as plates, face a deep, fiery red. Herman grits his teeth so hard they hurt. He’s definitely made him uncomfortable.

All at once, Herman feels a deep sense of embarrassment over the whole thing. He’d been stupid. The very notion that this man could develop feelings for him was absolutely ridiculous; he’ll just send Phoenix on his merry way, tell Sasha later today just how wrong she was, and never see him again, and—

“Dr. Crab, do you want to go out on a date?”

…And now it’s Herman’s turn to look surprised.

He says, very, very slowly: “...What?”

His face is so hot his eyes cloud over, and he’s sure that its color is absolutely humiliating. His heartbeat starts to pick up as he says, gapingly, “...You’re asking me out on a…?”

“Oh my God,” Phoenix says. He buries his head in his hands, digging his fingertips into the space above his eyelids. He groans, “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m such a dickhe*d. I must have—I misinterpreted, or—I’m so sorry, I really didn’t—”

“I’ll go on a date with you.”

Phoenix stares at him.

“...What?”

Herman’s thoughts exactly, given the fact that he was not supposed to say that, you absolute idiot, what is wrong with you, why would you say that to him when you don’t even know what you want! Jesus Christ.

…But then he thinks back to it again. Just give it a shot.

“...Yeah,” Herman says.

“Yeah,” he repeats, louder, more confidently. “Dinner. But not a movie. The theater’s too loud.”

Phoenix nods. Slowly.

“Sorry, um,” he says. “You sure? You really, um…you don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know.”

“I want to,” Herman says with a shrug.

And, surprisingly, he finds that he means it. Nothing’s to say this won’t fizzle out within a week and Herman will go back to the life of perpetual solitude that he’s always been partial to, but right now—he must have developed an impulsive streak or the like—he thinks that he’d quite like to take Phoenix Wright out on a test run. Preferably over Italian.

“Okay,” Phoenix repeats. Smiles. “...Okay. Can I, um. Get your number? And we can plan something for…for this weekend, maybe?”

Herman doesn't know how to tell him that that sounds like the best idea he’s heard in months without coming on too strong. So all he does is nod his head and press his phone into his hands, contacts list open.

—

This is weird. It’s weird. It’s weird. It’s weird, it’s weird.

Herman barely leaves his lab, let alone the aquarium; about once a month he does a grocery haul and stops by the pharmacy to pick up his medication and HRT, but outside of that and Supermarine he virtually hasn’t gone anywhere outside since…well, since he started working at Shipshape. All of this to say that walking into Pura Vita (a choice he commends himself for—if he might say—given its perfect balance of comfort and luxury) downtown after twenty minutes of fighting for a parking spot and a half hour to drive three miles is, altogether, an alien experience.

He tells the greeter the name under his reservation and they show him to a table, where he feels altogether uncomfortable upon sitting down. He’d taken care to shave and wear his extra-nice dress shirt—deep blue, twill, polka-dotted—having decided against a tie after about an hour of entirely needless deliberation. Today he keeps two buttons undone at the top instead of just one. Alluring. Without being racy. He’d had to buy cologne last-minute after realizing that the only bottle he’d kept had been expired for about two years now; thus, eau-de- something currently lingers on his neck and on the floor of the backseat of his car where he’d tossed the bottle after spritzing some on. He thinks he might have put too much.

He compulsively checks the time. It’s five minutes past nine and Phoenix isn’t here yet. Is that normal? There was a lot of traffic. Or maybe punctuality isn’t such a huge deal on a first date. Maybe Phoenix is just the kind of person who’s late to things. Should he have known that already? Maybe he rushed into this.

Herman frowns. Blinks, and shakes his head just a bit to clear it.

He’s getting ahead of himself. The whole point of this is to find those kinds of things about each other out, after all—at least according to Sasha—so maybe he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions just yet. He’ll have to let Phoenix tell him himself.

His knee is already beginning to jump up and down in anticipation, and the noises in the restaurant become overwhelming far more quickly than he’d thought they would. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked to go to dinner. Clink, clink, clink, and the couple in the booth ten feet away are in a fight about buying a new car, and the waiter’s been giving him strange looks since he got here, and he hasn’t gone out on a date in years, and—

“Sorry I’m late!”

Luckily, Herman doesn’t get the chance to fall too deep into his spiral before Phoenix shows up, panting and a little sweaty and looking altogether nice; the vest and jacket he’s layered over a white dress shirt and slacks make Herman feel rather underdressed. He stands up when Phoenix walks over—you’re meant to do that, right? It’s polite?—and flashes him a quick smile before the two of them sit down. Already he feels less clammy, less stiff.

“I’m sorry,” Phoenix repeats, shedding his coat and hooking it on the back of his chair. “I biked here and the streets were so crowded—”

“You biked here? Don’t you live far?”

Phoenix shrugs. “I bike everywhere. I don’t have a license.”

…A fact that Herman didn’t know, actually, so he figures that his formula is working, at least to an extent. He resists the impulse to look down at Phoenix’s thighs at that comment. Not like he could see them. “Well,” he coughs, perishing the thought, “that’s probably better. Greener. And you get exercise—wait. Does that mean your daughter drives you around?”

“Only sometimes, I swear,” Phoenix laughs, picking up his menu and beginning to leaf through it. “Biking’s fun, though. And it only takes a little while to get used to the rigor.”

Herman takes a sip of his water. “Too bad I don’t get out much.”

“Well, we could always change that.”

Herman chokes on an ice cube, at that, and he wordlessly excuses himself from their conversation by having a coughing fit. Very charming. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and doesn’t really know what to say back, so he just starts looking for food, too. Their waitress brings them bread as she takes their drink orders, and Herman notes, privately, how Phoenix first reaches for rye over sourdough.

“Chianti…” the waitress says, echoing Herman’s order as she scribbles it down. She turns to Phoenix. “And did you want anything, sir?”

“Just a sparkling water,” Phoenix says with a smile.

“‘Just a sparkling water’?” Herman asks lightly—at least, as much as he can given his tense state—as the waitress’s back retreats into the kitchen, tossing out a desperate attempt at conversation. “I thought we were here to have some fun.”

“Oh. Um…”

Phoenix suddenly looks uncomfortable. A queasiness starts to build in Herman’s stomach.

“...I don’t drink,” he says, and proceeds to purse his lips and look down at his feet. Herman expects him to say more, but he doesn’t, eyes remaining trained on the floor. Herman grinds his teeth together.

“Oh,” he says, dryly, suddenly hyper-aware of every part of his body where fabric touches his skin. “Uh…sorry. I wouldn’t have ordered anything if I knew.”

Phoenix doesn’t look at him. “It’s alright.”

They lapse into silence again as they turn back to look at their menus. Herman’s been looking forward to having proper ravioli since they’d made plans, but he just can’t shake the prevailing stiffness that lingers in the air; the fact that Phoenix is clearly embarrassed and Herman’s general rigidity as a person do not make for a good combination. They order, hand their menus to the waitress, and proceed to stare at each other for a couple of seconds before Phoenix says, again, “Sorry.”

Herman frowns. “What for?”

“I haven’t been saying anything,” Phoenix says, with some of the tension leaving his body as he smiles lightly. Herman lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, at that, and relaxes a little, himself. “I’m always the one talking. I’m nervous, I guess.”

Herman finds himself smiling a little. At the very least, it makes him feel a little bit better knowing that Phoenix is fretting over everything, as well. He does his best to maintain eye contact with him as he says, “It’s fine. It’s on me, too.”

Phoenix smiles back. He says, a little nervously, “I just…haven’t done this in a while, I guess.”

“...Gone out on a date?” Herman asks.

“Not really,” Phoenix says, scraping a bit of butter off the block they were given and spreading it over a piece of bread. “I mean, I’ve gone out recently. But it’s been a really long time since I’ve wanted to actually spend time with someone.”

Herman tries to ignore the implications as best as he can. The back of his neck heats up as he asks, “What, not a fan of your ex?”

“I don’t think most people are,” Phoenix laughs, propping his head up on one hand and looking away. His smile fizzles out into more of a grimace as he clenches his teeth. “But I guess you could say that.

“It’s different with you, though,” he says, looking back at Herman. “Easier. Like I don’t have to be so worried all the time, I guess. That’s why I like spending time with you.”

Herman frowns, confused and teetering on the precipice of offended. “Are you calling me easy?”

Phoenix’s eyes go as big as plates. “Oh! No, no I’m—I’m sorry—that’s not what I meant at all.”

Herman blinks. He feels all the anger trickle out of his at the earnestness in Phoenix’s expression.

“…Sorry,” he says, slowly. “I. Um. I misunderstand things sometimes.”

Phoenix smiles. “I’d noticed,” he says, no bite behind the words.

Herman snorts, kicking at his leg under the table. “Shut up.”

He laughs again. “Sorry.

“I’m serious, though,” Phoenix says, his tone shifting into something gentler, “this just feels so… normal , in the best possible way. I’ve gone years with my emotions all messed up when it comes to things like this. This is really nice.

“Plus,” he adds, winking, “I actually like you.”

Herman has to fight to keep the red off of his cheeks. “Oh.”

Their waitress comes back then, their food in hand. Phoenix pounces on his calzone like a man starved while Herman takes a bite of his ravioli. It’s good. Creamy. Now, with both wine and proper food in his stomach, he gets just a little bolder.

“What happened,” Herman asks, sipping on his drink to have an excuse to look away, “if you don’t mind me asking?”

Phoenix looks up from his carnage. “Sorry, with what?”

“Everything, I guess—Well.” Herman wishes he could punch himself. He sets his glass down. “Sorry. I don’t know. It just feels like you wouldn’t struggle with this sort of thing.”

“My job for seven years was playing poker,” he says. “Trust me, any assumptions you might have come to about me were intentional.”

That’s kind of hot. Herman coughs. “...And you were a theater major.”

Phoenix grins. “And I was a theater major.

“But about what you said—“ he swirls his straw around in his glass and looks away— “I guess over the years I just…I got tired , you know? All of those people I loved took a piece of me with them when they left. And I never got anything in exchange for that.

“I guess it felt like I had…a duty to them, I guess.” He takes another drink. “And that made me never consider what it was that we owed each other. And what a healthy relationship would look like in that regard.

“I don’t hate any of them,” he says. “I don’t think so, anyway. I cared about all of them. Still do, unfortunately. They didn't exactly put me off romance, but they definitely made me believe in it a lot less.

“But I like spending time with you, Dr. Crab,” he says and smiles and, inexplicably, reaches over and places his hand on top of Herman’s. “It feels like I don’t have to worry about all that stuff when I’m with you.”

The sincerity flusters Herman more than any of his flirting ever did. He considers, not to the first time, his suspended state of loneliness, his evenings in, losing Jack. Something makes his chest warm, and he senses a small feeling of happiness starts to take root behind his ribcage. Spontaneously he turns his palm over and grips Phoenix’s hand in his own. Squeezes it and says, almost inaudibly: “Same here.”

—

Actually, it goes pretty damn good.

Things go back to normal, more or less, once they manage to get over their initial bout of awkwardness. Phoenix eventually pulls his hand away from Herman’s with a sheepish laugh, and they lapse into talking about just about anything: work (he’s been slowly inching Apollo’s desk further away from the as a practical joke and is waiting to see when he’ll notice—the clients? Doing fine, he supposes); Trucy (she’s been a bit sick; that morning she’d sneezes while making breakfast for herself and Phoenix had been so startled by the nose he’d nearly fallen out of bed); food (apparently he refuses to eat any pasta that isn’t campanelle, which is strangely charming); pets (not exactly: it seems as though rather than that he keeps a houseplant named Charley that’s been alive for about as long as he has); among other things. Herman, not for the first time, meditates on how good of a conversationalist Phoenix is. Nothing about his own life is orthodox—he lives in a f*cking aquarium, for starters, with a penguin as his roommate, and can go days upon days without talking to anyone if he so wishes—but it seem to pale in comparison to Phoenix’s when he spins his tales for Herman, smiling all the while. There’s something about just sitting here, talking face-to-face, that compels a soothing sense of normalcy to settle within his chest. It's comforting—something he didn’t know he needed. The wine doesn’t hurt, either.

(He glances up at Phoenix, who is staring absentmindedly at the dessert menu, over the rim of his glass, and hopes that he feels the same way about him. Herman’s noticed the way he stiffens whenever he talks about himself, and figures that he might need this, too.)

Dinner is finished off with a delicious tiramisu and an expected five minutes of haggling over the bill. They end up deciding to just split it, with Phoenix promising to cover it next time they go out.

(Next time. Now Herman really feels woozy.)

“Dammit,” Phoenix says when they step outside and are met with an unexpected bout of rain. The feeling of lukewarm water dribbling down Herman’s temples is unpleasant. Sadly: “My suit…”

“I can drive you home if you want,” Herman says, out of courtesy and, humiliatingly, out of the fact that he doesn’t want their evening out to end just yet. He wrings his hands together as Phoenix gapes at him for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I mean, I’ll have to put my bike in your trunk…”

Herman just shrugs. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

And so after five minutes of speedwalking the half-mile back to Herman’s Hyundai and another few of unceremoniously struggling to shove Phoenix’s bike in the back (the smell of his cologne is pungent, Herman notices with a cringe; some of it must have spilled on the floor), Herman takes the wheel as Phoenix settles himself into the passenger seat.

Another thing Herman has noticed: Phoenix never stops moving . Whenever he’s in his office he can hear the perpetual shifting of fabric as he jiggles his knee, the sound of his fingers drumming against his thigh, the taps of his foot. Were it anyone else he would have found it irritating, gratingly insufferable, but there’s something about Phoenix that just makes the silence seem a little more homely. All of this to say that not even forty-five seconds pass after they get seated and Phoenix has already fiddled with the radio, snooped inside his glove box, and craned his neck to look at the scene outside the window. Then he looks at his odograph—and bursts out laughing.

“ Fifteen hundred miles?” he says in disbelief, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle his giggles. “How long have you had this car?”

Herman mumbles, “Give or take a decade.” That just makes Phoenix laugh harder.

“Oh, Dr. Crab,” he snorts. Smiles. “You’re really something else.”

—

“Thanks for driving me.”

It’s well past midnight when they pull up to Phoenix’s apartment complex; he did bike quite a long way. That, and they’d stayed at the restaurant much longer than Herman had anticipated; he’d been so wrapped up in their conversation that he hadn’t even noticed.

When Herman doesn’t reply, Phoenix starts to talk again. “I—“

“Let me walk you in,” Herman blurts without thinking, cutting him off. The outburst comes from a fear of the natural awkwardness that comes with closing out an evening, he supposes—or, maybe, he just wants to be nice, which is the altogether more perplexing option, given that Herman Crab is not nice to people. Sometimes, though, Phoenix makes him want to be.

“Oh.” Phoenix’s eyes widen just a bit. “Okay. Thank you.”

They start up the stairs—apparently the elevator shuts off after eleven o’clock—to Phoenix’s apartment on the fourth floor. Herman doesn’t really have the energy to walk up three flights of stairs right about now, but he figures that this is probably the chivalrous thing to do. And thus he grits his teeth and does it, because if Herman Crab is anything, it is most certainly not a little bitch.

“I just realized you probably shouldn’t have driven,” Phoenix laughs, bouncing off the walls to reach Herman where he walks behind him. “You had, like, three glasses of wine.”

Herman shrugs. “What the police don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Maybe don’t say that in front of someone who works in the justice system.”

“Whatever,” Herman snorts. “You’d defend me if I ever got accused of anything.”

Phoenix laughs again. “You’re right.”

He grins at Herman over his shoulder as he continues going up. Herman smiles back.

Unfortunately they must reach Phoenix’s floor eventually; he walks up to the second door on their left when they do, fishing around in his pocket for his keys. It’s almost completely dark in the hallway—there’s no source of light besides a bit that streams in through a window from the surrounding buildings on their opposite side—so Herman can’t make out much more than Phoenix’s vague silhouette, can’t even attempt to decipher how he’s feeling right about now.

They stand in silence for a few moments. Neither of them knows what to say, evidently. Herman isn’t quite sure how to wrap up the evening; it feels rather…odd, to leave right about now, but he doesn’t think he can prolong their date any longer within reason. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground in front of him as he observes Phoenix, out of the corner, rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Well, good night,” Phoenix finally says with a smile, breaking the silence. His keys jangle as he moves to pull them up to the lock. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too,” Herman says, and finds the corners of his mouth quirking up into a tiny smile.

Herman is fully prepared to leave it at that—he should probably leave it at that. But as he watches Phoenix stoop down to unlock his door, he is suddenly possessed by an urgent, overwhelming desire to kiss him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a little buzzed or because it just feels like the clichéd sort of thing he should do; regardless, all at once, he feels as though he couldn’t go home in good conscience without pressing his lips to Phoenix Wright’s.

“Phoenix,” he says, placing a light hand on his shoulder. It’s like he’s in a trance.

Said man, seemingly shocked by hearing Herman use his given name for the very first time, jolts a little bit at the contact—but, when he turns around, he doesn’t have the time to get a single word in before Herman shoves him against the doorframe.

Phoenix makes a little sound of surprise into Herman’s mouth when their lips meet, and Herman uses his momentary state of shock to draw their bodies even closer. Phoenix can’t seem to do anything but let his keys fall to the floor as he moves his hand to grip Herman’s back with a sort of desperation.

This feels—weird. But good. Good weird. He hasn’t done anything even remotely like this in a very, very long time—and, as he can sense from his excitement, neither has Phoenix. Herman hasn’t kissed anyone in years, and it’s been even longer since he’s been on a proper date—but, suddenly, he finds himself drinking up Phoenix Wright’s touch like a man possessed, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t. He presses his knee in between Phoenix’s legs and moves his hands, resting one on his jaw, tangling the other in his hair. Phoenix sighs into his mouth and, Herman briefly thinks, this is so much fun.

It isn’t long before Phoenix is panting and Herman starts to feel overwhelmed just from the sheer unfamiliarity of the experience. But, evidently, Phoenix isn’t ready to be done yet; when Herman tries to pull away for air, he just grabs onto his collar and draws the two of them back together, kissing him so fiercely that his nose crunches into itself over the skin on Herman’s cheek. He figures that he should feel self-conscious about doing this in an apartment hallway, where anyone could show up at any time, but it’s almost one in the morning and this is hot and he’s enjoying himself and therefore, in practice, he couldn’t possibly care less. He lets himself place his hands on the small of Phoenix’s back, fingers brushing the waistband of his trousers, the skin underneath, and it only takes that fleeting touch to make Phoenix groan and suddenly Herman’s head is flooded with thoughts he didn’t know he was even capable of entertaining anymore. All of this is alien and strange and—and, again, it’s fun. Surprisingly so.

“Trucy’s at a friend’s place,” Phoenix says when Herman goes up for air, his teeth scraping at his jaw as he moves away. Herman’s mind feels like it’s going lightning-fast, like it’s overstimulated. In a good way. Somehow. Phoenix’s breath is hot against his skin, the ghost of a stubble leaving the faint feeling of a scratch. “If you, um—wanted to come in.”

(And—Herman should really, really go back to the aquarium. Really, he should. But Sasha has him on speed-dial and he hasn’t gone out since last month and he thinks he’d have to be crazy to say no to Phoenix with the way he looks right now.)

“Okay,” Herman says with a grunt, already at work undoing the buttons on Phoenix’s dress shirt. Phoenix’s hands slip underneath his own and he thinks he sees stars. He repeats, “Okay.”

And he doesn’t get to say another word before Phoenix is kissing him again, dizzy and lopsided and altogether nice. He drags Herman in, all but slams the door behind them, and only just barely manages to pull his pants inside. Needless to say.

—

He’d left right after.

He hadn’t wanted to, actually, which was the most shocking part—there had been something about the way Phoenix’s slumbering form had looked that had made Herman’s feet feel like cement as he’d moved to pick his scattered clothes back up—but he’d already spent far too long away from work. It’s not like there are ever actually any emergencies at Shipshape—he’s positive that the last one had been when Orla had almost drowned back during Sasha’s case, actually, and it’s been months since then—but he’s a firm believer in that they can and will strike at any time. And so he’d shimmied back into his shirt quietly as he physically could, shot Phoenix a sad look over his shoulder, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Phoenix hasn’t texted him yet. Herman would do it himself if he actually knew what to say—so far his only options have been I had a lot of fun, which would just be an empty echo of Phoenix’s own words, and that was really nice, which kind of makes him sound like a creep—and he’s been filling up the hours by staring bullets into his phone, flipped upside-down on his desk, while waiting for it to buzz; the only other people who would have a reason to text him are employees, but they know where to find him in person if they ever need anything. And so he plays the waiting game.

(Sasha texts him asking if he wants Mexican for lunch one day and he nearly falls out of his seat in his rush to check the message. He thanks every higher being he knows for the fact that nobody was around to witness that.)

Evidently he manages to look more frustrated than usual at the entire situation, because Marlon makes note of it on the afternoon of the third day. And he’s been known to be rather dense.

“Everything okay, doc?” he asks, mopping while Herman sets out food for the orcas, the two of them by the side of the training pool.

“Yep,” he grumbles, tossing Orla a fish. She jumps up to catch it, consequently showering the two of them with a spray of pool water when she lands; this, naturally, does absolutely nothing to sate Herman’s bad mood. He takes off his glasses—he’d realized that morning that he’s fresh out of contacts, and the pharmacy said his refills are going to take at least two weeks, which is just f*cking fantastic—and wipes them off with a certain fury.

Marlon stares at him blankly. “Alright, whatever you say.”

He busies herself with kneeling down to do a pH test on the water. As he tears a new pack of litmus paper open with his teeth, Herman taps his foot impatiently, itching to get back to work; Marlon is meant to have a long-term member of staff supervise his work for another six months still, and Herman has been forced to bear the brunt of the task most days. Herman still doesn’t really trust him—even in spite of the fact that his court verdict meant he spent a year in therapy while doing community service—and there’s a strange itch in his chest as he watches Marlon place the paper next to his pocket color-comparison chart. It’s as though there’s something bubbling up inside him.

He frowns. That feeling isn’t suspicion. Something’s weird with him. His mouth opens of its own volition, and he—

“Alright, fine ,” he suddenly blurts with a groan.

Marlon looks up at him, eyebrows raising. Herman continues, “I’ll tell you. But you absolutely can’t tell anyone else. Not even Sasha.”

Marlon says again, flatly, “Okay.”

He listens attentively. Or he seems to; at any rate: when Herman actually finishes, Marlon’s only advice for him is: “Man, just text him.”

Herman groans, and throws himself onto a box of training equipment. “I knew you wouldn’t be any help.”

“I’m serious,” he says, shrugging. “Look, from what I’ve heard from Athena, Mr. Wright is kind of eccentric. He’s not that good at communicating…I mean, you thought the same thing, didn’t you? That’s what you said to Sasha and me. I think he’s probably fussing over this just as much as you are.”

Herman snorts. “I doubt it.”

“I think I’m right. Do you think he had a good time?”

Herman looks anywhere except at Marlon because he knows Phoenix had a good f*cking time , but he can’t exactly tell him that. He settles on a mumbled, “I think so.”

“Then there you go. He has no reason to ignore you.”

Marlon stands up slowly from where he’d been sitting on the ground, stretching his back.

“But I’m bad at that sh*t, Rimes,” Herman says. “I was kind of banking on him to not be.”

Marlon shrugs. He crumples up the litmus paper he’s still holding and says, “You should take charge a little bit, then. Maybe that’s what Mr. Wright needs. Shouldn’t be too hard to shake things up a little if you really like him, right?”

Herman thinks about that. It feels like they all took a piece of myself with them, Phoenix had said.

Maybe Marlon is right. But he isn’t about to tell him that anytime soon, so instead he just offers a noncommittal grunt.

“Maybe,” he says, gruffly as he can. “I’ll think about it.”

Marlon sticks his hands deep in his back pockets. He says, for the umpteenth time, “Okay.

“Oh, and doc, before you leave,” he says, calling out to Herman as he’s turning to leave. “Could I ask you for some advice about…this kind of stuff?”

Herman notices, then, the fact that two concert tickets for Sasha’s favorite band are shoved into the front pocket of Marlon’s shirt. It takes everything in him not to cringe. He can’t help but feel a little bit bad.

He clasps his hands behind his back. Said with as much sympathy as he can muster: “I think it’s a lost cause, man.”

—

(And so, Herman gives one of the part-timers thirty bucks and an extra half hour off the clock at lunch so she can stop by the florist’s and buy whatever, in his words, “is relatively aesthetically pleasing.” She comes back with a clump of delphiniums, cornflowers, and jasmines wrapped together in a nice brown paper. He writes Sorry about the wine on a little tag he ties onto a stray stem, decides on drawing a little sad face, too, and hopes to God that they won’t get too crushed being delivered in the back of this girl’s BMW.)

—

Phoenix comes back the next week.

Really, Herman was just about ready to give it up. He did think that Marlon had a point—especially considering what Phoenix had told him at the restaurant—but, still, he was expecting some sort of a reply. Which he did not, in fact, get. Thus his bad attitude carries through into the following week; and then, inexplicably, just before lunchtime on that Tuesday—there he was.

Herman can’t help but gape. Dignity be damned.

“Hi,” Phoenix says, smile sheepish.

“…Hello,” Herman says.

Phoenix doesn’t do anything but keep staring at him in silence and Herman feels a sickening sense of discomfort beginning to overtake his entire body, so he moves past Phoenix to open his office door. He shuffles off to the side a bit meaning to say, nonverbally, Come in. Herman has been, historically, pathetic at breaking silences. Phoenix follows him in.

The silence persists.

And…persists.

And Herman feels clammy and like he’s going to be sick and so he starts to say “Look, I—“ but then at the same time Phoenix opens his mouth with a “I’m—“ and then they both just stare at each other for a second before apologizing at the same time.

“You go first,” Phoenix says, looking down at his loafers. Herman crosses his arms and sighs. Takes a deep breath, and juggles his options.

“Look, I’m sorry,” is what he finally decides on. “I must have jumped to conclusions. I just—I assumed you’d had a good time. It sounded like you did, any—“

“—Okay—“

“I mean, you can’t blame me for thinking that.”

Phoenix’s face is bright red. Herman blinks at him.

“...Right,” he mumbles, finally, eyes looking everywhere but at Herman’s face. Herman sniffs.

“Anyway,” he says, sitting down at his desk and crossing his arms. “It’s fine. I get the hint. I’ll leave you—“

“—No!”

Phoenix’s interjection evidently shocks the both of them. Herman stares at him blankly while Phoenix’s mouth hangs just slightly open. He shakes his a couple of times, inhales deeply, and stares at Herman with an unabashed determination.

“I—no. I want to see you again.”

Herman just keeps staring blankly at him, the words not fully processed yet.

Suddenly it clicks. Incredulously: “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why—“

Herman frowns, then, anger and frustration starting to creep back into him.

He gives Phoenix a hard look. “Why did you ignore me for almost two weeks, then?”

Phoenix grimaces. He looks away, down at his feet once more, and Herman can’t do much besides stare. “It’s just…”

He groans. Covers his face with one hand. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I won’t laugh.”

Phoenix cringes. “Not that kind of embarrassing.”

Herman just says, “Try me.”

Phoenix lets a long, low hiss out through his clenched teeth. He clasps his hands together and waits for a beat before starting to talk. Fast.

“I just really liked you,” he says, “and you were so nice and funny—” He thinks I’m funny — not the point, not the point, dumbass — “and you listened and guess I got scared because I haven’t really—had something like that—in a long time—like it’s—it’s been years since I’ve even—you know—“

At this he makes an obscene gesture. Herman grimaces. “Come on, man.”

“ Fine , okay—sorry—it’s just it’s been, like, two years since I—

He groans again, burying his head in his hands. “... Since I’ve had sex, okay?”

The last bit is whispered. Herman runs a hand down across his face and it gets so hot it almost hurts. He thinks he could die.

Phoenix isn’t done, though. He continues, after a moment, still just as passionately, “And even longer since I did with someone who—“

He suddenly stops. When Herman looks back up, Phoenix’s face is a very unfortunate shade of red. He asks, quietly, “With someone who what?”

“Someone I actually care about.”

Herman’s heart jumps up into his throat. There’s something about the simplicity of the words, of how he knows Phoenix means them, that makes tears start welling up behind his eyelids. He fights them down, though, and chokes out an, “Oh.”

Then: “Wright, you don’t really know me that well.”

Phoenix’s expression becomes surprised.

“...What do you mean?” he asks, frowning.

“I’m really flattered,” Herman says, slowly, choosing his words carefully, “and I like you, too. But I don’t think I’ve told you enough about myself for you to…feel so strongly about me.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” Phoenix asks, panicked, eyes blown wide. “Because if you do I can just—“

“No, I—“

Herman sighs. He looks away.

“…I just don’t know if you feel that way about me, or…or just the parts of myself I’ve shown you,” is all he can provide as a feeble explanation.

Phoenix stares at him for a moment. Then he closes his eyes. Nods.

“I see what you mean,” he says, bringing a hand up to his chin in thought. “I think I know plenty about you already, though. Enough to know that I like what I do know.”

Herman’s brow furrows. He asks, “How do you mean?”

“Dr. Crab,” Phoenix says, tone resolute. “Do you really think that my observational skills haven’t sharpened a bit since I started working with those little freaks?”

Herman doesn’t say anything. He isn’t exactly sure where this is going. Phoenix grins.

“Dr. Crab,” he continues, “you are one of the most caring people I’ve ever met. You don’t show it on the outside, but you are. You’re funny, and you’re smart, and you have a really nice smile, you just—you’re just not as good at showing those things as other people. But I think that’s okay, because it makes getting to know you better all the more rewarding.”

Phoenix takes a step towards him. “You’re very literal. I think that goes to show your honesty. You let a penguin sleep in your damn hair for half a year because you wanted to bring her comfort, even if it was at the expense of your own. You have a soft spot for kids, but you wouldn’t ever admit that to anybody. You love it here, but you do wish you had more stimuli, even if you aren’t willing to admit that to yourself. You try so hard to make people leave you alone,” he laughs as if in disbelief, “but, deep down, you wish you were closer to more people. You put all your energy into acts of service because it’s hard for you to express yourself in any other way. You got me azaleas. I only told you they were my favorite once, three months ago.

“So maybe you haven’t told me that many things,” Phoenix says. Smiles. “But I think I can tell you’re a good one, Dr. Crab.

“So,” he says. Reaches behind him and pulls out, from there, a single, slightly-rumpled crocus. “I suppose this is my formal proposal of a second rendezvous. If you’ll have me.”

(Herman stares at the crocus. It’s blue. He feels a faint memory, something from long ago, of his mother absentmindedly plucking petals from the hydrangea bushes they kept in their front yard, blooms floating to the ground, forgotten. A crushed bouquet of roses on Valentine’s day, thrown hastily upon his doorstep. The carnations he’d tried to grow in his office that had withered quickly with no sunlight and an owner who couldn’t care about himself enough to show them the love that they needed.

The memories fade away, and he’s left staring back at Phoenix’s. Unsightly, limp. But easily his favorite. Phoenix’s smile asks a question: Well? )

Herman reaches out.

“‘Herman’ is fine,” is all he says, grumbling, and takes the flower. Phoenix grins ear-to-ear.

The next time, they go to Santa Monica.

It takes a few weeks for them to get something scheduled—Phoenix has a couple of cases lined up, and then it’s time for Herman to help out with budgeting, because if he’s honest he does half the work around here—but the day finally comes, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Herman is glad; he’d watched that week’s overcast skies with enough gloom that even Sasha had gotten fed up, and kicked him out of the break room.

The atmosphere is considerably more casual, this time around, and that plus the heat means dress pants are out of the question; Herman still feels compelled to wear something at least mildly interesting, though, and thus he steels himself to go clothes shopping for the first time in many, many months. He spends the better part of three hours wandering in and out of tacky brand stores, discouraged by their pricing. He sends Sasha a picture of a red shirt with yellow stripes that actually fits him properly—a rare quality in most of his outfits—and, upon receiving her fantastical input of it’s just a f*cking T-shirt, dude, decides to just go ahead and buy it. A pair of long shorts and sandals later, he looks altogether trig.

What a joke, he thinks with a scoff as he gives himself a once-over in the mirror. A twelve-year-old boy is what he looks like, but there isn’t enough time to get changed; and so decides to just deal with looking a little bit stupid, leaves the aquarium with more than a little spite, and does his best to not sweat through his clothes before he even gets there.

Phoenix’s face lights up the moment that he lays eyes on Herman, and he’d be lying if he said that the attention didn’t make him a little bit bashful. Phoenix waves as he jogs up to him in trainers and black crop pants, smile wide.

(Crop pants. Why didn’t he think of crop pants? f*cking shorts.)

Upon closer inspection Phoenix has grown a half-assed sort of beard in the two weeks since Herman has seen him, an observation which gives him a moment’s surprise. “Does it look bad?” Phoenix asks upon noting Herman’s realization, sporting a sheepish look. Herman reaches over to take a tug at it.

“It’ll look alright once you manage to grow more than three hairs,” is all Herman says, patting his cheek twice.

Phoenix snorts. “Duly noted.”

They spend a little while walking around town window shopping, but they eventually find their way to the pier in classic tourist fashion. Like most other things, Herman hasn’t visited in a long while, so he mostly lets Phoenix take the lead. They eat ice cream first, naturally, then share a funnel cake—Herman should probably watch his cholesterol, but at the end of the day if he’s going to die he’d rather die eating good food—then Phoenix all but drags him to the arcade, where he unveils to Herman a hidden talent for Space Invaders alongside a deep-seated hatred for The Addams Family pinball. It’s their cue to leave when Phoenix almost gets them kicked out for shaking the machine too hard, but not before a few rounds of air hockey, which Herman claims ultimate victory in. Herman is coaxed, eventually, into riding the roller coaster, and ends up with an upset stomach so awful he can’t bring himself to walk for an entire half hour. Phoenix is eventually able to transport him into the ferris wheel, where they sit for a few rotations in relative silence, playing footsies in the air.

Once again, Herman can’t help but reminisce. He’s lived in the L.A. area all of his life, but his high school years were spent in Santa Monica after his mother could no longer afford rent in the city; he’d spent four summers here in all, surfing, sneaking beers, kissing the pittance of other gay guys he could find. When he was fifteen he’d found a washed up stingray on the sand as he’d wandered on his own, tooth marks in its flesh from the jaw of a seal it had managed to wriggle its way from, doomed despite its efforts. He’d pressed his hand to its belly as it died—strangely soft—and knew then what he wanted to do with his life.

But despite all of that, he doesn’t think he could recall the name of any of the people he knew at the time even if he tried. The thought makes him a little bit sad; Herman, it suddenly dawns on him—and the thought is terrifying, paired will a dull ache in his chest—has always held existence at arms-length.

Maybe Phoenix had been right, and he does want more. And maybe he’s just too scared to go looking for it, he thinks, and sneaks a glance back up.

At that exact moment Phoenix looks away from the view and their eyes meet. He smiles sweetly at Herman—who thinks that, at the very least, he won’t be forgetting about this anytime soon. He twists their ankles together and smiles back.

—

The evening out concludes altogether nicely, with the two of them taking off their footwear to walk along the beach, water tickling their skin. Phoenix had reached for Herman’s hand, at one point, and Herman had squeezed it, and he’d squeezed back, and it had been nice.

Now, though, Phoenix has escalated what was meant to be a chaste kiss goodbye into something considerably less innocent. Making out in his car was not something Herman predicted he would be doing anytime soon, and yet here he is now, one hand on Phoenix’s face, the other supporting his weight against the backrest, gear stick pressing uncomfortably into his side. He’s half-concentrating on not letting it move out of park.

Phoenix gets very excited very quickly, Herman has learned, and thus he has to all but shove him off once he starts getting a little too into it. “That’s enough,” he says, fixing his hair.

“C’mon,” Phoenix says, and gives him his best kicked-puppy eyes.

Herman has to look away. “Didn’t you say Trucy’s home?”

“Right,” Phoenix says, and a mischievous glimmer works its way into his eyes as he wraps his arms around Herman’s neck, “but she’s up there, and we’re down here.”

He shoots a not-so-subtle look at the back of Herman’s car. That makes Herman laugh out loud.

“You’re adorable,” he says, patting his cheek. “Fifteen years ago, maybe.”

Phoenix grins giddily at the compliment, the latter half of Herman’s sentence gone seemingly disregarded. As a compromise Herman kisses him long and slow, and relishes in the feeling of Phoenix clinging onto his arms when he does. Phoenix smiles into the kiss, and he does the same.

Phoenix suddenly breaks it, though, and looks at Herman with an uncharacteristically-intense look.

Herman stares at him.

“All good?” he asks, amusedly, letting his hands rest on Phoenix’s hips.

“Dr. Crab,” Phoenix says in response, “I really like you.”

Herman blinks. Blushes a little, despite himself.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “I like you too.”

Herman hears him let out a little sigh of relief. “Okay. Cool.

“So I guess I was just wondering if, um,” he looks down, away from Herman, “if we could, um. Keep doing this? Whatever ‘this’ is?”

He looks up at him expectantly. Herman considers the proposition.

Give it a shot is what Sasha had said. Well, he did. Not once, but twice. And he did have a good time. Great time, even. There’s something about both experiences that managed to take his mind off of everything in the best way possible, relaxed him without making him permissive; slackened his shoulders, lightened the load on his mind.

And what about Phoenix? He is, as previously established, very nice. Handsome. And, as Herman has now come to learn, snarky to an enjoyable degree. Incredibly ticklish, a trait he’s always found endearing; sincerely interested in what Herman has to say, or at least very good at pretending (Herman doesn’t think he’s been enabled to talk about delphinidae so much in his entire life—not even when he was writing his thesis on them); and, perhaps most importantly, someone who genuinely likes Herman. And who Herman likes, too.

But he can’t help but feel apprehensive. Herman’s emotions felt out of order for as long as he can remember, but it’s been worse in recent memory; he hasn’t… felt anything for anyone for the vast majority of his adult life. It’s strange to him—concerning, even—that, after so long, he would just be able to go back to factory reset.

…Then again, just imagining himself involved with anyone but Phoenix is enough to make him feel nauseous; and, even then, only a few short weeks before their first date, knowing that Phoenix had feelings for him was enough to make him feel like he had hives. Maybe he’s just wired a bit differently. Sasha might have a word for that.

The thought doesn’t do much to quell his apprehension. He evidently doesn’t understand himself all that well, after all; and the thought of committing to something like this, of having to come to know another person in that way, is entirely intimidating.

But when Phoenix looks at him that way, the feeling of warmth that envelops his chest feels like an omen. He thinks, meeting his eyes, that this time, he’ll trust his gut. This time, he’ll take the plunge.

“I’d like that a lot,” Herman says, and takes his hand. Even brings himself to smile.

—

It’s all surprisingly…normal.

The world doesn’t end when their third date happens, or their fourth, or their fifth. Herman enjoys himself, enjoys spending time with Phoenix, and carries that happiness on his shoulders with him—and when Sasha and Marlon take note, he just laughs them off, rid of the shame he is so oft-accustomed to feeling. They go out, stay in, and slowly work their way through everything in between. He succumbs to the car once, and has a good time.

(“I’m just glad you stopped scaring off all the little kids,” Sasha teases, but she’s happy for him, though. He can tell.)

Herman could count the amount of committed relationships he’s been in on one hand—wouldn’t even need all the fingers—but none have felt quite as genuine as this one. Sex, intimacy, relationships—for a very, very long time they had felt like nothing but chores to him, things to put up with for the sake of propriety that he rarely enjoyed genuinely. But it’s different with Phoenix; it’s rare someone works so hard to get past his defenses, after all, and he finds the feeling of that doting attention altogether sweet. He likes Phoenix, likes his family (Trucy loves him, Athena makes for a fun gossip, Apollo shares fascinating stories from his time abroad whenever he visits), likes spending time with him. Sometimes he watches Phoenix snore softly, arms wrapped around his midriff, morning rays streaming through a half-open window, and he thinks he would be alright with things staying just like this.

And they would have. Were it not for his f*cking boss.

“Hello, Dr. Crab.” A gesture to the empty chair that sits rather pathetically beneath the imposing shadow of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Elena Esteban, thirty-one and sporting a double master’s in economics and marine biology, had been appointed as Jack’s temporary replacement, meant to only stay for a short while after his death to get things back on track; her provisional term, however, turned de facto permanent the moment it became evident there was nobody else suited for the post available. She’s nice enough, and trusts him to go about his business without much supervision—which he can always appreciate—but she’s no Jack. And their lack of personal connection means that being called into her office like this out of the blue is enough to give him a moment’s concern.

“I’ll get right to the point,” she says as he sits down, not even giving him the chance to ask why she wanted to speak with him. “I got an offer for the head director position at Supermarine, and I’m fully planning on taking it. Better pay, less hours. You understand.”

He blinks.

“…Oh,” he says, after taking a moment to process. “Well, congrats.”

A smile flashes across her features for a moment. “Thank you. The problem is that now I need to find someone to replace me.”

“...Right.”

She stares at him. He stares back.

“I mean,” she continues, when he doesn’t say anything, “I feel like there’s some pretty good candidates around here that might have gotten glossed over when I got hired.”

Flatly: “Right.”

She just keeps watching him as though she expects him to reply with something else. He doesn’t have anything, though—he would rather be wrapping up work and settling down to eat dinner and catch up on Law & Order —so he maintains his blank expression and says nothing.

Eventually seems to be able to withstand the silence no longer. “Dr. Crab,” she says, saccharine smile not quite reaching her eyes, a touch of exasperation in her tone, “you really aren’t picking up what I’m putting down?”

Herman says, “Not particularly.”

She exhales through her nostrils. He’s been called difficult before.

“Okay,” she says. “Look, Dr. Crab. I want you to take over for me. I think you’re the best candidate we have for aquarium director.”

Herman’s jaw slackens. Now he really doesn’t know what to say.

“… Me?” he asks, incredulous, holding a hand up to his chest. “ Seriously?”

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised,” she says matter-of-factly, frowning. “You’re by far our most senior employee. You’re the most organized person I’ve ever met. You know how to whip people into shape while still having them like you.”

He frowns. “I do?”

She arches an eyebrow at him. He says, with more certainty, “I do,” and doesn’t miss the way she rolls her eyes just a bit.

“You would still be able to manage animal operations, of course, if that’s what would make you the most comfortable,” she says as she examines her cuticles lazily. “But if you think you might need an extra pair of hands, you can feel free to put someone else in your current position.”

He starts to interject. “But—“

She holds up a hand to stop him mid-sentence. “Just listen to me for a second. I’m not due to start there until the beginning of next year, so you don’t have to worry about it too much right now. If I could have an answer within a couple of weeks, though, that would be fantastic.”

He runs a hand over his tired eyes and considers briefly.

“…I’ll think about it,” he says. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Fantastic,” she says, smile far too toothy. She continues, in a tone of voice that implies entirely the opposite, “Feel free to come to me with any questions.”

Herman thinks he feels a migraine coming on. All he says, flatly, is: “…Sure.”

—

“I’m not taking the job.”

Phoenix nearly falls off his seat on the couch.

“ What?” he asks, jaw open wide, scrambling to seat himself upright. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Herman says dryly, crossing out another clue in the crossword—five down, sweet-smelling anesthetic , obviously sevoflurane—and moving his hand to scratch his jaw. “I don’t need it and I don’t want it. So I’m not taking it.”

“But—“

Phoenix gets up, walking to sit across from Herman at the coffee table. He looks up from his puzzle, unimpressed, and meets his eyes with a wholly deadpan look. Phoenix looks on the verge of hysterics. “Herman, this is so big for you.”

“I don’t really want it to be,” he says, and looks down again. Three across is cassowary. “Phoenix, honestly. I’m fine where I am.”

“ Fine isn’t the same as satisfied isn’t the same as happy. You can’t honestly tell me that this is everything you ever wanted out of your life?”

“Fine,” Herman says with a sigh, exasperated. “I’m completely satisfied with my life, Phoenix. I’m honestly fine with it. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No,” Phoenix says. “Say you’re happy.”

“Phoenix, honestly.”

“Say it.”

Herman watches him for a moment. Phoenix stares back, eagle-eyed. He looks away again with a shake of his head, and Phoenix scoffs.

“Herman,” he says, crossing his arms atop the table, “all I’m saying is that it’s upsetting to me to see how scared you are of change.”

Herman snorts, and picks up his coffee mug to take a sip. “I’m not scared.”

“Oh, yeah? Why won’t you get your own apartment, then?”

“Because—as I have said —I spend all my time at the aquarium any way. There’s no point.”

“Come on, Herman,” Phoenix says, unimpressed. “You’re a grown man. You need your own space.”

Herman slams his mug down on the table, and Phoenix jolts. When he looks up at Herman they lock eyes and Herman hisses through his teeth, with conviction: “Drop it.”

Phoenix shoots him a nasty look.

“Fine,” he growls. “But this conversation isn’t over.”

“I’m sure that’s what you think,” Herman mutters, and Phoenix goes back to the couch with scorn.

—

Their little—well. Herman isn’t exactly sure if he’d call it an argument— it was moreso petty passive-aggression on both ends—but whatever it is blows over quickly enough. Not because the issue has been resolved; Phoenix simply seems to shove it aside intentionally. Herman even tries to bring it up at one point, but he plays dumb—which is better for Herman, honestly, given his vehement hatred of such confrontation.

Needless to say, Sasha feels differently.

“You should probably have a talk with him about that,” she says from her usual perch on the break room cabinet. “And, by the way. Take the job, idiot.”

“I am not doing that,” Herman says, sternly. “On both accounts. If he wants to let it go, he can let it go.”

“Listen,” Sasha says patiently, tone patronizing, “this is probably a little hard for you to understand because your brain is, like, weird—“

“—Aren’t you sweet—“

“—But it starts with this. Mr. Wright said it upsets him to see you so paralyzed by change. What if one day your relationship gets more serious and he asks you to move in and you don’t want to, and you guys can’t recover from that?”

“Then he probably isn’t right for me.”

Sasha stares at him. Herman is starting to feel frustrated.

“Dr. Crab,” she says, looking genuinely upset. “How can you say that?”

“What!” Herman suddenly snaps, turning to look at Sasha with reproach. “What do you want me to say? All of you won’t stop pestering me to change something about myself to make everyone else comfortable. What about how I feel? Did it never cross any of your minds that I like it here? This is my dream job. My room is nice . I fall asleep looking at the inside of an aquarium. It’s better than staying in a depressing little apartment that I can barely call home because I hardly do anything besides sleep.

“I’m used to this and I like this,” he repeats, a shred of humiliating desperation tearing into his voice. “Why don’t any of you believe me?”

Sasha’s gaze softens. She hops off the counter to stand next to him and, after a moment, tentatively places a hand on his shoulder. He braces at the contact initially, but relaxes his muscles after a moment.

“I don’t—Look, okay. I don’t think you’re unhappy,” she says, slowly, weighing her words. “I just think you’ve been living exactly the same way for so long, doing the exact same things every day, that stuff like this might be too much for you to, like…visualize, I guess.

“I’m not—and I’m sure this is true for Mr. Wright, too—” she continues— “I’m not trying to deny your happiness. I trust you when you say you’re satisfied where you are. I just think it’s really possible that you dislike the idea of change so much because you’ve rejected it for so long, rather than because you don’t actually want those things.

“Think about it is all I’m saying,” Sasha says. Smiles lightly. “Would that be okay?”

Herman stares straight ahead. Purses his lips.

“...Fine,” he says.

He doesn’t actually know if he will. But Sasha smiles at him brightly enough to make him consider it for real.

—

Two days later he sits, once again, in the kitchen of Phoenix’s apartment, swirling a spoonful of honey into his chamomile. Things have been tense, clipped, between them lately, and Herman isn’t quite sure how to breach the topic of conversation in a way that feels natural. In the meantime he just stares at the back of Phoenix’s neck as he steeps his tea at the counter, wishing that words were easier. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’s really the only one who feels that way.)

Phoenix sits down quietly, cracking open his latest read. The Idiot , this month, and no, universe, the irony hath not been lost .

He decides to try toeing the line—but, before he can open his mouth to talk, Phoenix asks, “Think you’ll get any time off for the holidays?”

Herman blinks. The question confuses him before he realizes with a start that there’s only three weeks left until Christmas. How foolish of him to not notice the changing of the weather. He swallows and looks away.

“...Well, the aquarium’s always closed,” he says, pensively, and chooses to stare out the window. “I typically just stay, but…I guess I do.”

He isn’t quite sure what to say. Such celebrations had become meaningless to him over the years; save for the occasional New Year’s dinner at Jack’s with his friends, he’s spent the better part of the last decade celebrating the holiday season by his lonesome, drinking a bottle of champagne while watching his fish drift lazily by, tanks providing a soft, blue lighting in the quiet darkness of an after-hours aquarium.

“Good,” Phoenix says, interrupting his train of thought. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over. I’ve been meaning to host. You can meet Miles and Maya, and…”

Out of the corner of his eye Herman sees Phoenix sneak a glance at him over the rim of his mug before looking away once again. “...And my mom. If you want.”

Suddenly, Herman feels something twist in his gut.

It’s strange. He hasn’t felt this—this— apprehension —in such a way before—but, all at once, staring at Phoenix’s expectant gaze across the kitchen table, every fiber in his body is pulling him back, dragging him in the opposite direction with every ounce of strength he’s got. And, no matter how much he fights against it, he can’t seem to combat the emotion. The words are tumbling from his mouth before he even knows what he’s saying.

“...I don’t know,” he mumbles, taking another sip of his drink. “...Maybe.”

Phoenix stares at him.

And then he explodes.

“What is wrong with you?!” he borderline yells, standing up suddenly, startling Herman enough to make himself splash tea all over the front of his shirt. The liquid burns his skin as it sinks into the soft threads, and he resists the overwhelming urge to cringe. “Are you f*cking kidding me, Herman?”

“ What? ” Herman asks, exasperated. He stands up, too, setting the mug down with a clatter. “I said maybe!”

“ Maybe? Seriously? Almost five months and it’s still a maybe on meeting my f*cking friends?”

“It’s your family, too,” Herman growls, but he doesn’t feel like that helps his argument much. And, judging by the way it just makes Phoenix flare up, it doesn’t.

“Herman,” Phoenix spits through gritted teeth, walking closer, placing a warning hand on Herman’s chest, “You are exasperating, you know that? Exasperating. Are you that afraid of your life changing even a little that you can’t even take a f*cking promotion? That you can’t bring yourself to meet people who are important to me?”

“Are you still on about the f*cking job?”

“ Yes!” Phoenix cries, throwing his hands up in the air. “ Yes! I am! Because for some inexplicable reason you’re f*cking allergic to things that are supposed to make you feel happy!”

“Why do you care?!” Herman spits, and he doesn’t think properly about what he says next. “ It’s my life!”

The fire drains out of Phoenix’s eyes in an instant. Slowly, Herman realizes what he has just said. Phoenix’s hands fall limp at his sides.

“Phoenix,” Herman says, voice trembling for what feels like the first time in years, reaching out to touch him, “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t—”

Phoenix holds up a hand to stop him. Herman lets his mouth fall slowly shut.

“I have spent years,” Phoenix says. Pauses.

“ Years of my life,” he continues, “waiting on people like you. People who cling onto their…their pathetic, ragged bits of happiness, and think that it’s good enough for them. That it’s good enough for this, ” he says, gesturing between the two of them. “Who think that, if they just stoop down and pick up the shards, they’ll have a complete picture left to put together.”

“Phoenix."

He looks right past him. “Do you have any idea how hard that is?”

Herman doesn’t say anything.

“It is so hard.” Phoenix’s voice shakes, too, and Herman can see where water starts to build up beneath his eyelids. “ So hard. My best friend tried to kill himself because he was so scared of things slipping out of his grasp. I was stuck in a relationship with a man who couldn’t accept his own mistakes for seven years.”

Herman feels like a pit has been dug in his throat. He doesn’t say anything.

“People have hated me,” Phoenix says, low and intense, as he draws closer. “They’ve gotten me fired. Tried to get me killed . But nothing hurts as much as this.”

Herman’s final desperate attempt is, “Phoenix, please.”

“Please go,” Phoenix whispers, and Herman has no option but to do so. (He finds, almost with wonder, that it hurts twice as much when his voice is that quiet.)

—

Herman doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care. Honestly. He couldn’t care less whether or not Phoenix stops texting him, or showing up to have lunch with him, or pretending like he exists at all. He cares so excruciatingly, painfully little that it most certainly does not distract him and most certainly has nothing to do with his misfiling a report, forgetting to feed the penguins, and spilling the entirety of his filing cabinet over the floor of his office while trying to dig out Sniper’s medical records. He’d lived forty years of his life without ever having met Phoenix Wright, after all—and, God as his witness, he can certainly finish it off that way.

“Watch those reports, huh, Dr. Crab?” Elena says lightly when she sees him at lunch, him eating as she refills her coffee. She jabs him lightly in the arm and he, gripping his stinging skin, briefly considers that he might hate her.

“Uh-huh,” he grumbles.

“You think about my offer at all?”

The noise of the drink sloshing into her cup is irritating, to say the least. To say the most, it’s so jarring that it makes the skin all over Herman’s body crawl, makes him acutely feel everywhere that clothing fabric touches his chin, where each of his hairs connect to his scalp. He clenches his fists hard enough to hurt, nails digging into his palms, and clenches his teeth. Mumbles, “Not yet.”

“That’s fine.” She smiles, just a touch sad*stic, and sets the pot back down. “Just let me know by New Year’s.”

Herman resists the urge to scoff as she walks out of the room. When he looks up, Sasha and Marlon stare at him with twin concerned expressions, eyes wide and apologetic.

“Dr. Crab,” Sasha says, softly, “are you—“

—

“You shouldn’t be mean to Sasha just because you can’t deal with your own sh*t.”

Herman sighs. All he wanted was to feed his f*cking whale.

“Rimes, listen,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning around to face him, “I’m about two minutes away from blowing my lid, so if you don’t leave right now—“

“ No!” Marlon all but yells, and, really, it’s mostly funny because he’s so scraggly—but Herman can tell he means business, so he decides to pay him at least a moment’s attention. “No. I won’t let you talk to her like that.”

Herman snorts. “You don’t have any leverage over me, kid.”

“I don’t,” he admits, “but I don’t think you want to be treating her like that, either.”

Herman purses his lips. Crosses his arms, and says nothing.

“Look, Dr. Crab, I don’t think this is really about the job.”

He thinks he sees red. He is going to kill Sasha and her big, fat mouth.

“Rimes,” Herman says, slowly, “I am not talking about this with you right now.”

“With who, then? Sasha? Mr. Wright? The only reason you’re acting like this is because you couldn’t talk to them in the first place .”

He looks away. Scoffs.

“What could you possibly do to help?” he says, condescendingly, choosing to dodge Marlon’s question. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Marlon turns red. He says, anyway, “I know enough.”

Herman glares at him. “You do to f*ck.”

“Dr. Crab, please.

“We all care about you,” Marlon continues after a beat, uncomfortably crossing his arms over his chest, shrinking into himself. “Especially Sasha. And it hurts, dude . To see you not care about yourself.”

Herman curls his hands into fists. Unclenches them. Clenches them again.

Then, finally, lets them fall limply at his sides, posture slackening. He looks away from Marlon.

“…Fine,” he grumbles, quietly, embarrassed of himself. “But make it quick.”

Marlon stares at him. He’s nervous, Herman can tell, and so is Herman, but in a different way; where Marlon shifts on his feet and avoids eye contact, Herman does little besides stand, stare straight ahead, feel the ever-present dread in his gut curl into a more intense feeling. Marlon says nothing for a moment, evidently weighing his words.

Finally, what he settles on is: “Do you like Mr. Wright?”

Herman blinks. Frowns.

“…Yes,” he says, puzzled. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Okay,” Marlon says. “So why did you let him go so easily?”

He grinds his teeth. Says, as though speaking to a child: “Because we have ideologies that are incompatible in a romantic relationship.”

“Those being?”

Herman wants to spit. “Excuse me?”

“What are those ideologies.”

“Are we in f*cking court right now?”

“No,” Marlon says. “We’re having an adult conversation. Can you answer the question?”

“I don’t—“

Marlon repeats: “Dr. Crab, please.”

Herman runs a hand down across his face. Inhales, and looks away, too. His chest feels impossibly tight.

“…I don’t know,” is his answer.

Marlon gapes.

“You don’t know?”

“Well—“ he backtracks, “Well—I do know. But I—I just— God. It’s hard to explain.”

He stands unwavering. “Try me.”

Herman fidgets. Marlon was never quite as wimpy as Herman often makes him out to be—he was only really socially awkward, bad at expressing himself, especially after Azura died—but the difference between him now and one year ago is stark; he stands straighter, talks to Herman without a quaver in his voice, speaks louder. For months on end Marlon had been plagued by guilt and grief and the broken promise of a future; Herman’s only obstacle is his own head. He grits his teeth. Steels himself.

“I feel like I’m stuck,” he admits.

Finally, finally. Five words that have been stuck somewhere behind his ribcage for as long as Herman can remember. He continues, rather shyly, “And at first I thought it was just ‘cause of what happened to Jack, but—I think I’ve felt like this for a lot longer than I thought I did at first.”

Marlon just watches him talk as he confesses, humiliated, “I don’t really understand how people work.”

“‘ People’?”

Herman inhales through his nose deeply.

“Just…” he mumbles. “Nothing feels like it makes sense, I guess. I don’t think it ever has.

“I shouldn’t be telling you all of this,” Herman says suddenly, hot shame prickling up his stomach, and turns around to keep tending to Orla. “You’re just a kid.”

He hears Marlon walking up. He tenses upon feeling a hand on his shoulder. He sneaks a look back, and Marlon has the same blank stare as always.

“Talking to someone about it might make you feel less alone,” he says simply.

“Everyone deals with something like that, Dr. Crab,” he continues, and the ends of his mouth quirk up. Herman can’t remember when it last was that he saw Marlon smile. “It’s just a matter of learning how to manage it. And, yeah, maybe you’ve been living like this for a really long time. But you’re not past being helped. Nobody ever is.

“…But maybe you should apologize to Sasha first,” he says, and Herman finds it in himself to laugh. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out to wrap an arm around Marlon’s shoulders. He’s bony and it’s evidently uncomfortable for the both of them, but he forces himself to hold it for a moment, tacking on a squeeze at the end. If nothing else, for the sake of the sentiment.

“...I probably should,” Herman says. Makes himself shoot Marlon a small smile. He smiles back.

“Dr. Crab,” he says, “let me ask you again. Do you like Mr. Wright?”

(Phoenix is a good person. He has dedicated his life to helping others, to doing good where people said it couldn’t be done—and even that aside he is smart, he is funny, he is more than a little sarcastic, he is so handsome. And he likes Herman. Likes him a lot.)

“Yeah,” Herman repeats, and this time means it wholly. “I really, really do.”

And that feels like a start.

—

(He’s lucky Sasha doesn’t want to kill him. To his surprise she’s nearly brought to tears when he apologizes to her; she assaults him with a hug, too, uncommon in their relationship, one which he doesn’t quite know how to reciprocate properly. Face tucked into the crook between his neck and his shoulder, she says, just know we really, really love you. He thinks that, nowadays, he understands that much better.)

—

He shows up to Phoenix’s on Christmas Eve.

It’s seven o’clock, so Herman knows he’ll be there, making the most pressing issue on his mind the rage he feels given that apparently the one f*cking day every three years that they get actual snowfall just had to be today; naturally he hadn’t grabbed a proper overcoat before leaving and that, combined with the fact that Phoenix’s apartment complex is gated off so there isn’t a canopy over the sidewalk there, will soon be his undoing. He paces, shivering, while working up the nerve to press the doorbell.

He stares at its shiny, golden body. Smug bastard.

When his teeth start to chatter, he figures that, ultimately, he favors an uncomfortable-yet-necessary conversation to the risk of catching cold for a week. Taking a deep breath he readies himself, walks up, and punches the button corresponding to apartment 4B.

There’s a long moment of silence before the line crackles to life; when it does Herman hears the low, choppy murmur of voices talking and laughing in the background. The noise is interrupted, though, by a familiar voice.

“Hello?” Phoenix asks, and Herman feels such a rush of emotion at hearing his voice again that he almost feels dizzy. Pull it together, man.

“Hey,” Herman says, voice even as he can make it despite the way his heart thunders in his chest. He can’t help but feel embarrassed. “It’s me.”

Back to just the chattering. Phoenix isn’t saying anything, but at the very least Herman knows he’s still there, pressing on the receiver. The longer the silence goes for, though, the more squeamish Herman gets; he can imagine Phoenix standing there thinking, making that one face he always does. God . He’s reminiscing. He shuffles his feet as he waits for a response and fights back the urge to run away as fast as he physically can.

—

Phoenix appears after a few long minutes—and Herman can’t exactly prove that he was gossiping with his daughter during that period of time, but he can certainly make an educated guess. By the time he shows up Herman can’t feel his nose anymore, and his hands are shoved so deep into his pockets he’s about to rip the arms off of his jacket. Maybe he should hurry things along.

(That attitude is what got you here, he reminds himself. He purses his lips, scolds himself for even entertaining the idea, and just watches as Phoenix walks up.)

By the fuming look present in his expression he’s trying to come off as intimidating, but the ugly sweater he’s got on serves to significantly undermine that sentiment. He crosses his arms as he comes to a stop a few feet away from Herman.

“Nice outfit,” Herman cracks, his attempt to lighten the mood.

Phoenix appears utterly unimpressed. His gaze hardens further as he says, flatly, “What do you want.”

The aggression in his tone stings, but Herman figures he probably deserves it. Instead of shrinking away, though, he reminds himself what he’s here to do. Steeling himself, he sets his shoulders, sets a deep breath, and looks Phoenix in the eyes.

“I’m still not taking the promotion,” he says.

Phoenix’s face immediately angers further. Before he can talk, though, Herman holds up a hand to stop him.

That only serves to make him madder. “Oh, you have some nerve —”

“ But,” Herman interjects before the conversation can get away from him, “I am getting my own place.”

The scowl stays on Phoenix’s face for a moment as he processes, evidently perplexed. Then it slides off like soup through a fork and he’s left staring at Herman dumbly, blankly.

“Are you serious?” he asks, and Herman feels a twinge of relief at the way Phoenix’s posture relaxes, the way the fire fades from his eyes.

Herman nods. He chews on his bottom lip as he considers what to say next.

“I like my job,” is what he settles on. “I don’t want to be somebody’s boss. I like working by myself. I’m saying no because I know it’s just not me . I like what I do, and I don’t feel the need to further my career any more than I already have.

“But,” he says, taking a deep breath, “you were right. I was scared of things changing, and that’s why I said no at first. Why I wouldn’t move out. Why I wouldn’t…”

Herman sneaks a glance at him before looking away again, face burning. “...Why I wouldn’t give you what you deserved, I guess.”

Herman isn’t looking directly at him, but he can see Phoenix’s gaze soften just so under the corner of his eye. He continues, before he loses his momentum: “But I’m gonna rot away in that office if I don’t get out. I have a lot of money saved up. So I’m gonna find an apartment.

“And maybe one day, in a while, if things stay good between us,” Herman says, having to bow his head out of embarrassment, flushing so deeply that it’s almost painful, “it can be yours, too. If you want.”

Phoenix doesn’t say anything. Herman’s stomach twists into knots. He looks up and Phoenix is blushing, just a bit, though maybe it’s the cold—and he’s staring straight ahead blankly. Herman looks into his eyes and sees a decade’s worth of loneliness crashing over him like a wave. He would know the feeling. He has to keep going.

“I really, really , like you, Phoenix,” he says, taking a step forward, fighting to not let his voice tremble. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t show you that.”

That breaks Phoenix out of his stupor.

He looks up at Herman, eyes wide, as if having just emerged from a trance. He holds his gaze for one, two, three seconds—before launching himself the six feet into Herman’s arms.

Herman gasps when Phoenix lands on him, muscles buckling under his weight from both age and the effect of the temperatur, but it’s difficult to care; Phoenix wraps his arms tightly around his neck and Herman pulls him closer, setting his hands on the small of Phoenix’s back.

“I’m sorry, too,” Phoenix says. His warmth seeps through their layers of clothing and washes over Herman; a pleasant, bubbling feeling starts to build in his chest. “For pushing you.”

“Don’t be,” he mumbles, a little embarrassed, and absentmindedly moves a hand to stroke at Phoenix’s hair, so soft when it isn’t styled. “I needed it.”

“Still,” Phoenix says. “I know we’re… really different. And I know I’m going to have to react better to things like that if we’re going to keep this going.”

At that, Herman suddenly pulls away. He meets Phoenix’s eyes. Stares.

After a moment he says, bewildered: “...You want to keep this going?"

Phoenix grins. “Yeah.”

All at once, Herman feels the weight of the world cascade off his shoulders. As its layers fall, soft as silk, into oblivion, Herman cups Phoenix’s face, and kisses him, really kisses him, for the first time in two weeks, smiling into it. Snowflakes flutter down into the space between their faces and leave a sharp chill where they land and quickly melt, but he can’t even bring himself to care. He just draws Phoenix impossibly tighter, presses his body flush against his, and tilts his head into the embrace.

When they pull away, Phoenix is smiling, too. He says, sagely, “It’s cold as f*ck out here, isn’t it?”

Herman says, “It is.”

“Wanna come in?”

Herman’s excuse is almost instinctual. “Oh, well…I’d feel bad. I didn’t bring anything.”

When he meets Phoenix’s eyes his face has fallen once again, heartbreak clear in his expression. He slowly starts to back away. “...Oh.”

What the f*ck, Herman. Breaking himself out of his stupor he shoots himself forward and grabs Phoenix’s arm, saying, “Sorry. Never mind. Sorry. Please let me come. I promise I want to so bad.”

Phoenix laughs at that. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs. They step inside and the snowflakes melt off of Herman’s clothes, and he thinks he feels happy.

—

(“Oh, wait,” Phoenix says, as they take the stairs up, just like they first did all those weeks ago. “If you aren’t taking the promotion, then who’s gonna be the next director?”

“Worry not.” Phoenix’s back is turned to him, but Herman can’t suppress a grin. “I have an idea.” Needless to say, he wakes up the next morning sick.)

—

The Swashbuckler Spectacular: Saint Patrick’s Day Edition had seemed like it would be an absolute bust, initially, but evidently Herman had woefully underestimated the amount of Irish-Americans that have chosen to take residence in Los Angeles. A dozen people file in, and then another, and then another; maybe it’s the subject matter or maybe it’s the fact that one exclusive show only had been splashed across every single piece of promotional material they had been able to get their hands on, but, on this evening Saturday March 17th, the Spectacular sports its first sold-out show since its creation. Herman can’t help but feel a little proud.

“Let’s hurry it up, people!” Sasha all but screams backstage, heckling the employees as they get to their spots. He should not have given her a megaphone.

It had taken a long time to get Elena to wrap her head around the fact that, no, his top choice for the highest-positioned job at the aquarium did not, in fact, have a bachelor’s degree, and that she was, in fact, twenty-two years old, but after a lot of convincing and a lot of promises he will most certainly not be able to keep, he had been able to formally offer Sasha a promotion. Elena’s interview process had been so rigorous it was borderline inhumane, but Sasha took it in stride.

He hadn’t been expecting her to say yes to even just his offer , in all honesty—he did think she was the best person for the job, but she was also young, relatively inexperienced, and his only real choice from all the employees—but, under the condition that she could remain Orla’s trainer indefinitely, she had, to everyone’s bewilderment, accepted the position.

(“She’s a kid, and she wants money,” Phoenix had shrugged around a gargantuan bite of cheeseburger while the two of them were out to lunch one afternoon. “I mean, good for her. She’s gonna get to do whatever the hell she wants.")

Three months later, she is doing a phenomenal job. Herman never was the leadership type, but he can spot a natural when he sees one; Sasha fits into the mold of the role perfectly, the employees like her, and she has fun. He thinks, privately, how happy Jack would have been to see her like this; secretly, Herman knows, Sasha had always been his favorite.

“And action,” she says at five o’clock precisely, and shoots Herman a grin over her shoulder as she leaps into action. Herman isn’t quite sure about the soundness lore-wise of Redbeard suddenly having a cousin Greenbeard who seeks a millenia-old treasure hidden at the end of the rainbow that traverses the skies above the high seas, but Sasha’s idea had sold, and so he will happily keep his trap shut. He watches, amused, as she drives her sword through one of Greenbeard’s goons and gold coins come spilling out, much to the delight of the younger audience.

He’s so lost in thought that he completely disregards someone approaching him before there’s arms snaking around his midriff. “Hi,” Phoenix says, setting his head on Herman’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, setting his clipboard down on a nearby equipment crate and turning to face Phoenix properly. “How’d you get back here?”

“Rimes let me through before he had to go on,” Phoenix shrugs. “Oh, yeah. He said to tell you ‘no funny business’.”

Herman flushes, and Phoenix guffaws. He continues, “He’s a funny kid, isn’t he?”

“Hysterical,” Herman deadpans, and leans in to kiss him.

“It’s kind of cool back here,” Phoenix says when they go up for air, looking up at all the contraptions set up backstage, in the hidden maw of the fake slope of rocks set up as a background for the show. He looks back at Herman and smirks, fingers tapping up across his neck towards his jaw. “So…secluded.”

“You would disobey Rimes’s very direct order against funny business?” Herman feigns indignance. “ Phoenix.”

Phoenix snorts, and moves to lean on his shoulder.

They keep watching the show through the T.V.s set up, Phoenix’s two arms wrapped around his right, Herman’s hand finding respite on the small of his back. He’d be shyer about it, usually, but almost all of the crew involved in the show performs in it; save for two or three manning the lights and sound, they’re completely alone. He lets his head fall against Phoenix’s and they stay there for a moment, in peaceful silence.

(Well—peaceful save for Greenbeard’s permeating wails of agony. But you know.)

Herman looks over at Phoenix and he’s smiling up at the screen, shoulders relaxed, posture loose. It’s that scene—the simplicity of it, the fusion of the two things Herman cares for most, the way Phoenix’s eyes sparkly—that makes him say, suddenly: “I love you.”

Phoenix’s smile slides within a fraction of a second.

They look at each other for a long, hard second. Herman’s heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of his chest, Phoenix’s entire face is red, and Herman’s hands shake where they’re gripping his waist. He peels them off and straightens himself out with a cough, waiting for Phoenix to respond.

“…You love me?” Phoenix says, and it’s so quiet and so fragile that it makes Herman’s chest feel torn right down the middle.

“Yeah,” Herman says, softly. He really, really does.

“Yeah,” he repeats, more confidently. “Is that alright with you?”

Phoenix looks down at his feet and is silent for a long while.

“Nobody…well. Only Trucy has said that to me for…the longest time.”

Herman eyes, suddenly brimming with tears, threaten to betray his stoic exterior. He pulls Phoenix into a hug, then, doing him the favor of pretending not to notice the tears threatening to spill over his own cheeks. “Been a while for me, too,” he says, and places a gentle hand on the back of Phoenix’s neck.

“I love you, too.”

Herman sucks in air through his teeth and pulls Phoenix closer toward him out of reflex. I love you, too. I love you, too. I love…I love…

Lucky, his brain repeats, over and over and over. He got so, so, so lucky.

And that’s when Phoenix starts to laugh.

It starts out small, at first, and grows bigger, until he’s practically snorting. Herman pulls away and gives him a funny look: “What the f*ck?”

“Sorry,” Phoenix laughs, and wipes away at a tear with his fingertip. “It’s just—f*ck. You said I love you to me while we’re quite inside a gigantic rock watching your boss fake-stab your scrawny co-worker dressed as a fat guy with fluorescent hair.”

Herman can’t help but snort, too, and he pulls Phoenix into a tight hug, head resting on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says softly.

He feels Phoenix smile against him. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” Herman says, giving him another squeeze. “Everything.”

Phoenix pulls away so he can look at Herman. Cupping his face, smile lines digging into his cheeks, he says, earnestly, “Thank you , too.”

The crowd cheers, then, as the final blow is delivered, and Sasha the Swashbuckler emerges victorious amidst a colorful explosion of gold and green. She grins, panting, and bows deeply, and Herman claps, too, making Phoenix laugh again.

Some time ago he had thought he could stay just like this: Herman and Phoenix and the aquarium, and little else. But nowadays he thinks he’d throw his home into the mix; Phoenix’s too. Phoenix’s family. His agency. He looks at Phoenix again and, with a smile, considers all the ways his world had grown the moment he had entered it. He wraps his arm around his shoulders and squeezes one more time.