Author's Note: This was written for Malachibi for their birthday. They wanted to see Apollo in the hospital during Dual Destinies. I'm also still convinced Clay is a Carl Sagan fan.

Starstuff and Secrets

"—kid's arm is just a mass of bruises and lacerations—there, I'm in—damn, look at that flash, his blood pressure must be through the roof—"

"Tape it, fast, I think he's starting to—"

Apollo screams as he lunges at his attacker—attackers? His head hurts and he can't see right, something's covering his eyes, and his vision's still blurred beyond making out anything other than vague shapes when he finally blinks one eye into functionality.

Someone hurt him.

He was standing in the courthouse, and then it exploded—

Or he was standing in rubble, and there was just the faintest sound but he didn't turn fast enough and pain drove everything else away—

And his voice sounds wrong where it echoes back to him, too enclosed, and he doesn't understand.

"Hold him still, damn it!"

"I'm try—"

Apollo's hand connects solidly with what feels like someone's nose, and one of his attackers breaks off into cursing.

He needs to get away from here, get back in court. He needs to defend Mr. Starbuck for Clay, because Clay's dead, and his battle cry becomes more of a moan of agony as his second attacker gets a solid grip on him from behind.

"Hold him, let me sedate him—"

"Blood pressure's high—bleeding intracranially—damage—not safe—"

"No choice—broke my damn nose—"

Words that don't quite make sense, that may be in some strange foreign language, assault Apollo's ears, and the world is more a swirl of agonizing color than anything actually comprehensible.

Something cold crawls its way with frightening speed up his arm, drowning out the background hum of fiery agony that he hadn't even noticed.

He tries to fight again, but before he can the cold has reached his neck, pulled a dark blanket over his thoughts, dulled his vision to slate gray, and there is nothing he can do but fall into the darkness with a soft whimper.

XXX

Apollo is fourteen, and his head is pounding viciously.

Clay removes the cloth that has been covering Apollo's eyes, wincing in sympathy as he stares down at Apollo's face. "Oh, man, you are going to be feeling this for days."

Something incomprehensible slides out of Apollo's mouth, and he closes his eyes against the light leaking out onto the balcony from Clay's room.

"There, there." Clay settles the washcloth over Apollo's face again, and the warmth makes his head feel better almost immediately. "Are you sure I shouldn't get an ice pack or something for that eye? It's trying to swell closed."

"Let it." Apollo sounds petulant even to his own ears.

"Come on now, little wolverine." Clay's fingers very gently stroke through Apollo's hair, and his lap is a wonderful warm cradle for Apollo's aching head. "It is not your body's fault that you consistently try to bite off more than you can chew."

"There were only three of them."

"Going by collective weight, it might as well have been five or six."

"Doesn't matter." Apollo sighs as muscles in his neck finally decide that spasming is not helping, and the level of pain each heartbeat brings him decreases dramatically. "They were picking on one of the Chevinski kids—"

"I know. I did participate in the end of the fight, once I heard you caterwauling." Clay continues to thread his hands through Apollo's hair, his fingers massaging gently at Apollo's scalp. "Tell me if anything hurts here. I don't want to hit any bruises by accident."

Apollo grunts. "I think I took all the blows to my face."

"Yeah, that's also not really a recommended strategy." There is a laugh lurking under Clay's words, though honest concern is the primary emotion that Apollo hears.

"I knew you'd come, and if I started something there was a good chance other people would get involved." Apollo sighs, reaching up to pat gingerly at his face through the washcloth. Yep, everything still hurts. "Getting people to do something's really the hardest part of any project. Inertia is a powerful force."

"Eh, no more powerful than most other forces we feel here on Earth. Inertia is the mass of the object multiplied by the square of the distance to the perpendicular axis, so—"

"Clay, shut up." Apollo grins, which is a mistake, because someplace on his lips has apparently decided to start bleeding again. "Awww, look what you made me do."

"I'm just glad you can still do it." Before Apollo quite knows what's happening Clay's gathered him into a tight embrace. "Promise you'll wait for me to get there next time."

Apollo pats Clay on the back, returning his embrace. "I promise not to get too in over my head until you're within clear visual distance in the future."

"I suppose line of sight will be good enough. Your voice will definitely carry beyond the line of sight permitted by the curvature of the earth, after all."

Apollo narrows his single still-emotive eye. "I think you're making fun of me again."

"Just trying to impress upon you that you don't need to carry the good of the whole world on your shoulders alone, Justice."

"Of course I don't." Apollo pulls back, holding Clay at arm's length, and grins despite the trickle of blood running down his chin. "I've got you to watch my back, after all."

XXX

Apollo wakes up in the hospital with his arms strapped to the sides of the bed with soft velcro.

He blinks, squinting at the speckled white and gray ceiling up above them. His head is throbbing steadily, though it doesn't quite hurt... feels like maybe it should hurt, but something is keeping the pain from actually registering as more than a dull pounding.

His arms feel better, too. Or at least something is keeping them from stinging and itching like they were before. He would like to get a better look at them, but he can't seem to get his head to lift and his wrists are very firmly attached to the structure that he is lying on.

"Polly?" Trucy's head swims into his line of sight, the edge of her image seeming to waver uncertainly until he squints. "Are you there yet?"

Apollo frowns, casting his gaze back down at his body. Where else would he be but here? Who else would be here other than him?

"Poooool-ly." Trucy makes his nickname into a kind of sing-song, waving her hand slowly in front of his face. "Earth to Polly, we miss you down here."

If he's not on Earth, where is he? Among the stars?

A shudder wracks its way through Apollo's body, and he remembers, as though the news were just fresh-delivered, that Clay is dead.

"Trucy—" The voice is Phoenix Wright's, but Apollo doesn't think he's ever seen his boss looking as... scared as he does when he bends down by Trucy, grabbing her hand and pulling it down to her side. "When Apollo's ready to wake up, he'll wake up. Best not to upset him again, though."

"I'm awake." That's at least what Apollo intends to say; what actually comes out is more along the lines of, "'m-a-ke."

"Polly?" Trucy's voice jumps a good two octaves, and she does what looks to Apollo's wavering eyes like a beautiful pole vault over the bed railing, ending up perched beside him like a blue-and-black kitten. "Polly, are you awake?"

A glass with ice chips appears in front of his face, and Apollo manages to wiggle one into his mouth, despite the fact that his tongue feels several sizes too big right now. "I'm awake."

Trucy rears up in a victory cheer; Phoenix gives a sigh so deep it must have started several miles underground, every muscle in his body seeming to loosen. Then he smiles, a hesitant, tentative expression that Apollo isn't used to. "Welcome back."

Moving the ice cube around in his mouth, Apollo tries to remember where he might have gone. "I went... a trip?"

Trucy and Phoenix exchange a glance, and Apollo suspects that the words he spoke weren't quite as fluent and comprehensible coming out of his mouth as they were in his head.

"You did go on a trip." Trucy pats his cheek gingerly. "Somewhere very far away, where I couldn't follow. It was super mean."

"Mmm." The ice cube has mostly melted, and Apollo tries to get the glass in Phoenix's hands to focus. "Sorry."

Apparently looking longingly at something is enough of an indication that he wants it right now, because Phoenix holds the glass for Apollo to wriggle another ice chip out.

"It's okay, Polly." Trucy's fingers ghost over his right wrist, and before he quite knows what's happening she is settling his hand against his chest, the velcro left dangling on the railing. "There. Now you look a lot more comfortable."

Apollo frowns. He doesn't think he likes the fact that his wrists were tied, now that he thinks about it. Too much like he was in handcuffs, but he hasn't done anything wrong. "Why did they tie me up like that?"

Again Phoenix and Trucy share a look.

Phoenix runs a hand back over his hair. "Apollo, what you actually just said was why me tie-dyed. What I suspect you meant to ask was why you were restrained. If that's the case, blink once."

It takes Apollo several seconds to figure out how to make the world go dark and then come back into a pseudo-semblance of focus, but he manages. While he's doing that Trucy apparently untied his left hand, and he twiddles the fingers of both hands together where they lie on his chest.

"You punched the paramedics." Trucy's expression is awe-struck—or at least he thinks it's awe shining from her, certainly that seems to be what he's hearing from her voice, but the wavery quality to the world seems to be getting worse instead of better. "You got the one guy really good—he had blood all over his shirt, I was impressed!"

"Trucy..." Whatever Phoenix intended to say, he clearly decides against it, instead sighing again. "Trucy, you stay here and watch Apollo; Apollo, I'm going to go get a nurse, let them know you're awake. Just... keep doing what you're doing."

That's an easy enough request to follow, and Apollo allows his gaze to return to the swirling gray of the ceiling.

"Polly?" Trucy's hand pats very hesitantly at his cheek.

Smiling, he tries to look down at the young woman and finds that his eyes have closed. He's able to force them open again, but he can't quite seem to squint Trucy into focus. "Sorry. Sleepy."

"That's all right." A hand runs over his hair, fiddles with his bangs. "You can rest as much as you want to or need to. Daddy and Athena and I are going to take care of everything, don't you worry."

There is something that troubles him about that statement, but Apollo can't quite seem to grasp onto it. The more he tries the more the world seems to slide out of focus, and before he even knows what's happening he's asleep again.

XXX

Apollo is twenty-two, and he is very, very drunk on the floor of his apartment.

"There, there." Clay's hand strokes slowly and methodically down Apollo's face, hair to chin, over and over, a rhythm that Apollo finds comforting. "It's really not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"Yes it is." Apollo moans out the words, suspecting they're not quite as comprehensible to Clay as they are in Apollo's own head. "Sent my boss to prison. Destroyed my work place."

"You did not destroy your work place. It is not your fault that your boss was a crazy axe-murderer behind his pretty little smile."

"Not axe murderer. Bottle murderer." Apollo pantomimes hitting the floor with a bottle, his knuckles connecting with the carpet with a bit more force than he intended. "Hit him with a bottle."

Clay's free hand is now massaging Apollo's bruised knuckles. "All right, your boss was a crazed bottle murderer. That is not your fault. You saw justice get done."

"Uh huh." Apollo snickers at the joke he's going to attempt to say out loud. "Saw Justice get done right in the rear end."

He must have been at least comprehensible enough for Clay to get the gist, because Clay gives a little bark of laughter, too. "No, you did not. Come on, you showed great skills as an attorney, right?"

Apollo moans. "Don't knoooow."

"I'm sure you did." Clay tucks Apollo's hand up on his chest, presumably to keep Apollo from doing anything else damaging with it. "And no one can ever question your ethics now."

"I've been employed for two months, and I broke my work." Apollo can feel tears gathering in his eyes, and he sniffles, horrified at the reaction. Maybe Clay was right and he should have stopped a shot or three ago.

"You got to meet one of your heroes, though." Clay's free hand pats Apollo's chest. "You saved one of your heroes."

"Uh uh." Apollo shakes his head, though he immediately regrets the motion as the world continues to spin even after he stops. "He's not a hero. He's a jerkface. Lousy lying evidence-forging jerkface."

"I think the only thing I got clearly out of that was jerkface." Clay sighs. "Evidently we're going to need to discuss this some more when you're sober again. Come on though, 'Pollo. You're not one to sit and mope. You take a hit, you get up swinging twice as hard."

"Broke my work and Wright's a jerkface and I'm going to lose my apartment." Apollo blinks teary eyes at Clay. "I like my apartment. Only had it for a few months."

"You are not going to lose your apartment. You really think I'd let that happen to you, wolverine?" Clay's finger taps between Apollo's eyes.

Apollo instinctively tries to focus on Clay's finger, though it makes the queasy, nauseous feeling he had when he shook his head return with a vengeance. "Won't lose my apartment?"

"No." Clay's finger taps after each sentence. "You are not going to lose your apartment. You're going to find a better job, where you're not working for a crazy bottle-murderer. And you're going to find even better mentors and heroes, I promise."

Apollo swallows, and his eyes are betraying him again, trying to tear up. "Can't promise that."

"Sure I can." Clay grins. "We're all star-stuff, Apollo, but I think you're one of the brightest stars trapped down here. And this sure as hell isn't how your star's going to burn out, my friend."

"'kay." Apollo smiles, and the tight knot that has ridden around in his chest since he punched Phoenix Wright seems to loosen. "Thanks, Clay."

"I'm sure you'll do this for me when I face whatever screwballs life throws me."

Apollo nods, and immediately knows that was a bad decision. "Clay..."

He doesn't have to tell Clay that he needs a bucket. Clay knows him well enough to read his faces, and by the time Apollo has managed to turn onto his stomach Clay has the bathroom wastebasket in front of him, ready to receive the contents of Apollo's stomach.

It takes a real friend to hold a bucket while you throw up into it. Apollo thinks he manages to tell Clay that, sometime that night, though his memories are blurry the next morning.

If he didn't, he's sure that Clay knows, anyway, because Clay always knows what Apollo means to say.

XXX

Apollo wakes the second time to someone singing softly.

It's a male voice, pretty, and he hums along for a handful of bars as he tries to place the singer and the song and succeeds at neither.

He does eventually manage to open his eyes, and the bright white lights shining in the ceiling pierce through his retinas like expertly-thrown javelins.

His head hurts, his eyes burn, and the most he can make is a small choking sound as his body decides that the best way to fight the pain is to make it worse by vomiting.

He manages to roll onto his side, at least, and someone is kind enough to position one of the little plastic kidney-shaped trays in front of his mouth as he dry heaves. Someone is rubbing his neck, too, stroking their fingers through his hair, and Apollo would thank them if he could stop his body from convulsively trying to turn itself inside out for a few seconds. "Clay... 't hurts..."

"Nurse! Schwester!" It is not the first time someone has shouted, but it is the first time the sound actually registers as words to Apollo's pain-fogged senses. "Nurse, sofort, or I swear—"

There is an IV in his arm. Apollo realizes this because something other than standard IV fluids must have been shoved into it, burning a tingling, buzzing trail up his arm and into his chest.

Whatever it is, it makes the nausea stop, lets Apollo move his head away from the dish that has mostly been filled with a combination of spit and bile and lie gasping on his back.

Light flares bright in his eyes, and he flinches back.

"Are you in pain?" The woman in the green scrubs enunciates each word clearly, with a precision Apollo usually hears reserved for children and the very old.

"Yes." The hissed word contains only a fraction of the agony and shame flushing his face.

"All right, I'm going to turn the fentanyl drip back on. I need you to tell me when the pain gets better. Speak or nod, which would you like?"

"Speak." The idea of moving his head right now is distinctly unappealing, and even though his throat feels raw and tastes horrible speaking is by far the better option.

Within thirty seconds of the woman disappearing from his sight the pain fades back, though, letting Apollo think again for the first time in what feels like a long time. "Good. That's good."

"Wonderful." The woman is smiling as she comes back into view. "Sorry about that, Mr. Justice. The doctor was just concerned that the pain medication might have been contributing to your... difficulty with coherence last time."

"So you stopped it entirely?" Klavier steps into view, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a deep frown on his face as he studies the woman. "That seems quite irresponsible."

"He was on other pain medications, we just stopped the opiates. And we have now restarted them. Nice thing about fentanyl is how quickly it acts." The woman turns away from Klavier, holding up a hand with two fingers raised.

Apollo doesn't wait for her to ask the question. "Two fingers. My name's Apollo Justice. I'm twenty-four years old. I'm a lawyer who works for the Wright Anything Agency. Other than a splitting headache and having just embarrassed myself severely, I'm fine."

A bemused expression crosses the woman's face. "Do you remember what happened, Mr. Justice?"

"I..." Apollo frowns. "There was a... bomb? In the courtroom?"

Something about that feels off, though—feels familiar, as though he has had this conversation before.

"That was yesterday, Herr Justice." Klavier has come around to the other side of the bed, the better to stare intimidatingly at the nurse. "Today was a different injury. Really, mein freund, we are going to have to work on your self-preservation instinct."

"I've got a just fine self preservation instinct." Frowning hurts too much to keep up for any length of time. "I've just... had a run of bad luck."

The nurse has been busy checking a cadre of monitors that are, Apollo notes unhappily, all hooked up to him. "You were struck over the head with a blunt object and sustained concussive trauma to your brain."

"Apparently there are things harder than your head." Klavier is leaning against the bed railing, and he reaches one finger out and runs it idly over Apollo's forehead.

"Shut up, Gavin." Apollo turns his head away from Klavier's touch. "So I ended up with a concussion?"

"You certainly had trauma; whether your symptoms classify as a true concussion, the doctor will have to say. But you didn't have any skull fractures—"

"So perhaps there isn't something harder than your head, it's just that your skull is harder than your brain."

"Gavin..."

The nurse continues on, studying Gavin surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. "You didn't have any bleeding into your brain, your vital signs are all fantastic..." The woman straightens with a smile. "And given your coherence right now, I suspect you're going to recover just fine. Don't quote me on that, though. I might get in trouble with the real doctor. Who I will be going to see now, to inform them that you're awake. I'm sure he'll be in later."

"Good. Thanks. For the magic shot." Apollo points towards the collection of gadgets attached to his IV, assuming one of them holds whatever fentanyl is. "And for making the pain stop."

"That's our job. Yell or press this button if you need anything." The nurse points to a red button on the side of the bed.

Klavier smiles. "His yell will be far more powerful than any alarm."

"Gavin..." Apollo sighs in exasperation, and the nurse apparently takes that as her cue to retreat to the door and leave, thankfully taking the tub of vomit with her. "Why are you here?"

"Ach..." Klavier sighs, smile faltering slightly. "You sound so upset. If you wish me to leave, Herr Justice, I shall. Mr. Wright and Trucy should be just about done with their meal now. They will be happy to know that you're doing well."

"I didn't mean—I just—" Apollo pauses, taking a deep breath and trying to sort his thoughts into order. Though it's nice to not be in incapacitating agony, the medication does give a certain fuzzy distance to his comprehension. "I just don't understand why you're here."

Klavier studies his hands for a moment and shrugs. "You have tried to die twice in as many days. I was concerned."

"Oh." When it's put like that, Apollo could understand someone being upset. "I didn't try to die. Just got a little banged up in the explosion. Nothing time and some antibiotics won't fix."

"So I hear. And it sounds like this is not quite so threatening an injury as rumor had it, either." Tension seems to fade from Klavier's shoulders, and his smile is small but fond and genuine as he gazes down at Apollo. "I am very glad."

"Me, too." Apollo licks a dry tongue over drier lips. "Are there ice chips? Mr. Wright—"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the request, Klavier seeming to teleport to the other side of the bed and grab the glass of ice chips. He pours the melted water out onto a towel, and then holds the glass for Apollo to fish from.

"Thanks." Apollo sighs, the cold water melting like a comforting stream over his mouth. "And... sorry about earlier. About the whole... yeah. Not quite what you want to be doing for your rival, I'm sure."

"I have heard rumor that Apollo Justice thinks it is not accurate to call prosecutors and defense attorneys rivals." Klavier doesn't have to be asked to hold out the cup for Apollo a second time; as soon as Apollo goes to open his mouth, Klavier acts. "And there is nothing awkward about helping to care for a friend when he is sick or has been injured."

"Yeah, well... I appreciate it."

Silence descends between them, though it isn't allowed to last very long. After only a few seconds Klavier starts humming again, the same series of notes that Apollo had woken to.

A series that Apollo likes, and he just barely catches himself before he starts singing along again. The last thing he needs is for Gavin to start thinking he likes his music. "New song you're writing?"

"No. An old song. A very old song." Klavier smiles, but there's a bit of a self-conscious look to it.

"What's it mean?"

"Who knows?" Klavier shrugs. "The meaning of old songs tends to get lost, ja? They survive as bits of folk memory, passed down rotely."

"I guess." Apollo narrows his eyes, suspecting evasion. Wracking his memory for the first few moments after he woke, Apollo tries to pull out some of the words from the German phrases. "So what's heilen mean? And don't lie to me, if I don't catch you immediately, Athena will tell me."

"Because I lie to you so frequently, Herr Justice." Klavier sighs, and his eyes don't quite meet Apollo's as his arms cross in front of his chest. "It means heal. The song is... mothers will often sing it for their sick children. It is a prayer for healing and health."

"Oh." Apollo blinks, not certain what to say, feeling his cheeks flush.

"I... the last eighteen months have not been easy for me. And I know the last few days have not been easy for you." Sympathy shines from Klavier's expression, and for a moment his shoulders slump and he looks tired. "It is a silly song, a little superstitious thing, but if it could bring you a bit of strength or peace..."

"Thanks." Apollo draws a deep breath. "But we don't need a song for that. Us, we've got enough strength already to handle everything."

It is at least partly bravado. It is at least partly the medication talking, because Apollo suspects as soon as it is turned off he's going to find it much harder to believe that—suspects that the drug is dulling the emotional pain as well as the physical pain.

But it's what he wants to believe, what Clay would want him to believe, and he draws another breath and continues. "Someone important and famous once said that we're all star-stuff. We're all stars, and you and me and the rest of our crew, we've got fire enough to keep shining through everything."

"I believe that is supposed to be my line to you. Or something as poetic as that, if I could manage. We are all star-stuff..." Klavier smiles as he turns the phrase over, repeating it in German and then again in English. "I may have to steal that, Herr Justice."

"It's a good phrase." Apollo smiles, though the expression fades as he remembers that he will not hear Clay talking about the stars and the other people who have loved them ever again.

Klavier's hand lands gently on his shoulder. "You really remember nothing of the attack?"

Apollo shakes his head. "Nothing. I... think I'm starting to get flashes of this morning... Juniper in the lobby... but nothing coherent. Nothing helpful."

Klavier nods, pulling his hand away. "I will tell the Chief Prosecutor. You be sure to tell your boss everything you know. We will get to the bottom of this, Apollo."

"I know." Sleep is pulling at Apollo's eyes again, which is silly, because he's pretty sure he hasn't been awake for that long yet. "We always get to the truth, no matter how deep we have to dig."

"Ja, little groundhog." Fingers brush against Apollo's forehead again. "Rest. Your family will be back soon."

He would protest Klavier's use of family, point out that he doesn't have any, but his eyelids are too heavy to force open, his body too comfortable where it lies.

He thinks he hears singing again, as he drifts off, but that could just be a trick of his imagination.

XXX

Apollo is twenty-four, and he is sitting with Clay's head cradled in his lap, running his fingers through Clay's mass of curls.

Clay has been drinking. Not a ton, but enough that he's somewhere past tipsy and into truly drunk. Enough that he's willing to talk, at least a little bit, about whatever's been weighing down his shoulders for the last week.

"He's still so scared." Clay sighs, wriggling closer to Apollo. "We're supposed to all be excited, all be eager, and he's trying, but he's terrified out of his head."

"Well... he did go through a lot with the HAT-1." Apollo rubs at his neck, continuing to stroke Clay's head with his other hand. "I'm not surprised that he's still a little nervous."

"This isn't a little nervous. I'm a little nervous." Clay points unsteadily at himself, his expression exceedingly earnest even when looked at upside-down. "We're going to be getting into a rocket and be shot up into space using combustibles that are more... combustible than anything most people can imagine. It's awesome, it's bloody fucking fantastic science, but it's also enough to make any sane person a little nervous. But Mr. Starbuck... Mr. Starbuck is terrified."

Apollo nods, thinking about Clay's words for a minute. "But he wants to do this still?"

"Yeah." Clay smiles, a lopsided, almost sad expression. "He's terrified, but he also really wants to get back up into space."

"Well, then... it's our job to help him get there." Apollo smooths Clay's hair down with both hands. "If he wants to go, it doesn't matter how scared he is. If someone's scared, you help them get over it. Unless you think he'll be a danger to you on the mission?"

Clay thinks for a moment before giving his head a miniscule shake. "No. He got himself down after HAT-1 went FUBAR; if I need him, I'm sure he'll be able to do whatever's needed."

"Then trust him. Trust yourself." Apollo stares down into Clay's eyes, trying to share his confidence. "We're all star-stuff, right? Going up into space, you're just going home. Once you're up in space, Mr. Starbuck will settle down, and you'll have the whole universe spread out around you. You'll both be absolutely fine."

Clay smiles, a slow-growing, honest grin of joy, and he reaches up to pull Apollo down into the most awkward, uncoordinated hug ever. "You're the best, 'Pollo. What would I do without you, Justice?"

Apollo disentangles himself from Clay's arms with difficulty. "Be sad and forget how strong you are."

"True. True, true." Clay sits up, swaying a bit and blinking. "Hey, want to go stargazing?"

Apollo rolls his eyes. "Do you ever think of anything except space?"

"Do you ever think of anything except justice?" Clay clambers his way to his feet. "Come on, firebird. Let me show you your siblings."

They go up to the roof of Apollo's apartment, crash out side by side on a blanket. They can't see the stars terribly well, not really, but that doesn't seem to inhibit Clay from telling Apollo all about the stars that should be there, the miracles that are hidden by clouds and light pollution.

"I think you've got more star in you than most people." Clay studies Apollo with wide eyes and the most serious expression on his face. "That's why you're always so hot. So fiery. Why you've made it through so much. You're a class of your own, way off the Hertzsprung-Russel sequence. A white dwarf with the luminosity of a supergiant."

"Or maybe I'm just a planet, and I seem really bright because I'm close to you." Apollo can feel his cheeks flushing, and he pulls Clay in closer to him, hopefully stemming the tide of half-comprehensible compliments. "Come on, Terran. Tell me the story of that star."

Apollo points in a random direction, but it doesn't matter, because Clay knows stories about the whole sky, it seems.

They stay on the roof for over an hour, until Apollo is starting to shiver from cold and Clay is starting to fall asleep with his head pillowed on Apollo's shoulder. At that point Apollo figures it's safe to drag Clay back downstairs, roll him into bed, and let him sleep off the rest of his fears and drink.

Clay isn't quite as exhausted as Apollo thought, though, and when Apollo crawls into bed next to him, Clay's arms wrap around him, hug him tight.

"You're the best star, Justice." Clay's breath is warm on Apollo's neck. "Absolute best stardust."

Apollo pats Clay's head. "That's nice. Now go to sleep."

Clay does, and they both rest comfortably until Apollo's alarm wakes them the next morning.

XXX

Apollo is picking morosely at his dinner when Athena sidles her way into his hospital room.

"Hi there!" Her wave is just as perky as ever, but there is something... off about the way she stands. About the way she watches him—a wariness, as though he knows something that she doesn't want him to.

Or he is being paranoid, and there is nothing strange about the way she is acting. He wants that to be true, he wants it so badly that the desire is like a knife stabbing through his chest with each breath he takes, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do.

"Apollo?" Athena takes a step closer to the bed, concern furrowing her brow. She waves a hand in front of his face.

Apollo bats at the hand, resisting the urge to give his head a shake. He knows he would regret that move the moment he did it. "Sorry. I'm fine."

Athena's eyes move from the bed to his bandaged arms to his bandaged head, and she raises one eyebrow in a silent question.

"No, really, I'm fine." Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest, the bandages pulling at half-scabbed lacerations. "My arms are apparently healing remarkably quickly. No brain damage, so far as they can tell—or at least nothing important and lasting. Other than a little bit of a headache, I'm doing good."

"That's good." Athena smiles, and Apollo's bracelet stays quiescent on his arm.

It had been the first thing he did, when he was able to stay awake for more than twenty minutes at a time. Funny, how dependent he's become on being able to tell when someone's telling him the truth or not—how obsessive he's become about it, almost. Though he supposes, twisting the band around on his wrist, that he has always had a problem with people lying to him—always been more sensitive than most. Perhaps he hadn't been able to direct his gift as well until Trucy taught him, but he suspects he's always used it.

Athena pulls a chair up beside the bed. "Boss said something about you having a bad reaction to one of your pain medications?"

"Eh, depends on your definition of bad." Apollo shrugs. "It made the pain go away very quickly, but it also tended to send me right to sleep. Given how bad my head hurt after I first woke up, I'll take it. But I'm doing better now. No pain meds for the last... hour and six minutes, and still awake."

"That's great. There're a lot of people who were really worried. Me, included." Athena reaches up to touch her earring.

Apollo glances down at his bracelet, but it refuses to budge.

"So..." Athena glances at the clock. "Do you think you'd be up to speaking into a computer for a few minutes? Like, chatting over the Internet with someone?"

"Uh... I guess." Apollo frowns. "Why?"

"Because if you don't mind and feel up to it, Junie wants to tell you that she's sorry you got hurt." Athena sighs. "I keep telling her it's not her fault, but I think she'd feel a whole lot better if she got to see you. Detective Skye said she'll help make it happen."

"Ema agreed to help you?" Apollo blinks. "What kind of bribery did you use?"

"None." Surprise colors Athena's voice as she raises her head. "I believe her exact words were 'if you think it'll help make the kids feel better, sure'. She was on the phone with Klavier and Prosecutor Edgeworth half the afternoon, making sure you were all right."

"She doesn't get to call me kid. She's only three years older than me!" Apollo keeps his mind focused on just that one word, not quite able to process the rest of the sentence. Ema was worried? About him? And Klavier being in his hospital room maybe wasn't an opiate-induced nightmare?

"You've got a lot of people who were rooting for you to be all right." Athena is busy texting someone, not watching him, though a small, knowing smile flits across her face. "You'll just have to deal with being famous and well-liked, hero."

It shouldn't make him angry. There's no reason he should be upset that she properly read his confusion from his voice. (There's no reason it should make him furious, that she is currently trying to help her friend who is in jail feel better. Juniper Woods is an incredible young woman, and Apollo wants them to find the truth and keep her spirits up until they do, but it hurts. It hurts so much, watching Athena fuss over her best friend, when his best friend is dead, his best friend's mentor still languishing in the detention center because Apollo couldn't finish the trial fast enough.)

"Ready to go?" Athena grins brightly at him as she pulls a small laptop from her bag, though the expression falters when she sees his face. "If you don't want to—"

"I want to help Juniper." It's true, from the bottom of his heart. He wants to save the innocent, always. He wants to see that true justice is done, and he knows that Juniper Woods was not behind the courtroom bombing or his attack.

Athena nods, and a few moments later she is holding a screen in front of him, Juniper Woods' face framed awkwardly in the center.

"Oh..." Juniper makes a soft squeak as she stares into the screen—stares at him, and Apollo pulls out his brightest smile.

This is a client, after all, and you have to smile for your clients, no matter what else is happening in your life. "Hi, Juniper! How are you holding up?"

"I... I'm fine." Juniper's eyes are wide as she watches him, both her hands balled into fists in front of her chest. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I am absolutely fine!" Apollo widens his grin, raising one hand in a thumb's up. "It'll take more than a little bump on the head to slow me down. You know that, right? I'll still be there tomorrow, ready to defend you."

Athena's face twists into a mask of horror, and the screen wobbles a bit as she shakes her head.

"No!" Juniper is also waving her arms in frantic negation. "That's not what I meant to ask for, Mr. Justice. I mean—please don't do anything your doctors don't want you to do."

Apollo can feel his body drooping, forces energy back into his voice and straightens his back. "I promise, I'm doing just fine."

"You're so incredible." Juniper stares at him, her eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment Apollo thinks she is going to cry. Then she straightens, as well, confidence filling her voice. "And I'm going to be as tough as I can be, to try to make up for what's happened. I'm so sorry you got hurt twice because of me, Apollo."

"You didn't want the courtroom to blow up, and you certainly weren't responsible for me getting bashed in the head. Just keep your chin up, Ms. Woods. We're going to prove your innocence. Don't you worry."

"All right, folks." A disorienting moment of the camera flipping around, showing Apollo a view of a dingy cell, and then Ema Skye's face fills the screen. "Sorry to cut this short, but we're going to have to get going. Glad to see—and hear, you must be going deaf over there, Cykes—that you're doing well, Justice."

"I'm fine." Apollo tries not to fidget uncomfortably.

"Make sure he stays in that bed until it's true. Talk to you later, Justice. Cykes."

And the screen goes blank.

Athena places the small laptop back in her bag. "Thanks, Apollo. I know that's going to mean the world to Junie."

"No problem." Apollo leans back in his pillow nest, picking up his spoon and once more poking his dinner. It still doesn't seem quite ready to attack him, but he's not certain how quickly it's crawling up the evolutionary ladder.

Silence stretches between them, and it isn't the easy silence of coworkers who are comfortable with one another, like it has been in the past. The weight of the secrets Athena is keeping from him—secrets that Apollo needs to know—fills the silence.

"You're really certain you don't remember anything about the attack?" Athena's fingers glance across Widget. "Even if it's jumbled, I might be able to help you sort something useful out."

"I don't remember a thing. I've got vague memories of being in the courthouse this morning, but none about looking through the bombed room... none about whatever I found." He has tried, since he woke the last time, to remember anything useful. He picked over every half-coherent memory that he has of the last twenty-four hours while Trucy did trick after trick, trying to get him to relax, and he has come up with absolutely nothing that can help Mr. Wright and Juniper.

"That's too bad." Athena sighs, though she perks up rather forcefully a moment later. "Don't worry, though. I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of this."

"I trust the three of you to do that." Apollo wonders what she hears in his voice—if she recognizes that though what he is saying is truthful, it isn't the whole of the truth. He trusts Athena to protect Juniper, trusts Phoenix Wright to dig for the truth no matter what, but Juniper's case is not the only trial currently in the hands of the Wright Anything Agency. "How about Mr. Starbuck's case? Have you found anything new?"

"No. Sorry." No tightening of his bracelet.

It isn't new information that he needs, anyway. It's old information. "Anything you've put together that I should know about? Anything you know that you maybe forgot to tell me?"

"Nothing." Athena shrugs, and Apollo's bracelet is so tight on his wrist it almost hurts. "But don't worry. As soon as Junie's trial's done, that's going to be our top priority."

Apollo rubs at his wrist. Not lying, with those last statements, and he doesn't know what to make of that. Does she mean that convicting Starbuck will be her top priority, maybe?

"I'm actually feeling kind of tired again, Athena." Apollo slumps back on his pillows. "Would you mind taking the mush fest away from the bed and letting me catch a bit more sleep?"

"Anything you need." Athena grabs the tray. "You rest and heal up, 'Pollo. We've got everything covered until you're back to a hundred percent."

Apollo nods, forcing his jaw to stay loose, though it wants to clench tight.

She shouldn't do that. She shouldn't call him 'Pollo, not when she might very well have killed Clay.

Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she is lying to him for another reason.

But why?

And what's he supposed to do about it?

Well, that much is obvious, at least. He's supposed to find the truth. That's what he always does—that's what Clay would expect him to do.

He waits until Athena has left, and then sets about doing what he needs to do.

His legs shake when he stands, more than they should, but he is able to totter to the cart tucked into the corner of his room. He is able to find gauze and bandages, to fashion another eyepatch for himself so that he will not do something foolish and punch Athena for lying to him when he sees her next.

As soon as he can walk without worrying about falling over.

As soon as he can trust himself to stay awake for several hours at a time.

As soon as he is even remotely physically capable of it, he's getting out of here. He's going to Gyaxa, and he's going to investigate on his own, without Athena there to distract him. He's going to ask questions, like he did when he worked for Kristoph Gavin, before he knew that there was anything special about himself. He's going to search and he's going to dig and he's going to get to the truth, no matter how hideous and painful it is.

"I'm sorry, Clay. Sorry I haven't freed Mr. Starbuck yet." He whispers the words to the empty air. He doesn't know if ghosts are real—doesn't know if soul are real, if there is anything left of Clay Terran or if he is gone, now, the spark that animated his stardust body blown out. And even if ghosts are real, he has no proof that Clay would stay near him. "But I'll get there. I'll protect him. And I'll make sure I catch whoever did this. I'll be your justice. As soon as I can. I promise."

They are all star-stuff, after all.

And stars don't die with a whimper. They die with a bang.

"You'll be a supernova." Apollo curls up, his knees held to his chest, trying to ignore the fact that his head is pounding harder the more upset he gets. "Spreading truth and light and more stardust to make into worlds and people and friends. I promise."

Even if it feels more like there is a black hole in his chest where Clay used to be, Apollo knows that Clay deserves something better, and that's exactly what he's going to give him.

No matter what it takes.