Archive of Our Own ^beta

At the end of Trucy’s shows, the only other person left in the house is Apollo.  He will wave and she will wave back and together, they will pack up her props.  He’s learned the organization factor well.  After all, Apollo is quick on the uptake.  Working so many odd jobs and spaces necessitates it.  Trucy can focus on her thoughts of the next show, the planning, the meetings, the business arrangements.  When they are done, Apollo wakes her from her reverie and the two begin a quiet walk to the train back to her home.

It is only once the two of them are on the train that Apollo says anything.

“Has your father checked in?”

Trucy fiddles with her phone.  “Mmm.”  She smiles, bright and easy.  “Of course!”

He watches her closely.  He tries not to pry.  It’s disrespectful.  But Trucy can see one of his hands tightening around his bracelet, strained and alert.  She pats him on the head.

“It’ll be fine.  Daddy always checks in.  He’s got a secret mission to handle!  So don’t worry about it so much.”  When he looks away, she leans over, her hair falling to the side as she stares him down.  When her hat begins to slip off her head,  Apollo puts a hand in place to stop it.  “If you’re so worried, why don’t you try and call him?”

That gets a wry smile.  “I’m pretty sure all he carries are burner phones, Truce.”

“Yeah.  I know.”

The rest of the ride is quiet.  Trucy would normally feel the need to fill that space.  However, Apollo’s tension goes away when she sits with her hand over his.  Her presence … She alone could do that.  She didn’t need to do anything else.

After the train comes the bus - Apollo will take the ride back to her home before retrieving his bike from the agency and cycling home.  She knows that to be the case.  

Trucy says, “Are you hungry?”

Apollo answers, “You could have asked that before we got on the train.”

She smiles at him.  Always playing the beleaguered big brother.  “Well, we can’t eat out all the time …”

“Don’t I know it.”  He sighs.  She notes the dark circles around his eyes.  “I’ll probably pull something together once I get home.”

No you won’t.  Batting her eyes, Trucy taps her cheek.  “So you’re saying you don’t want any Wright Family Home Cooking?” 

“Heh.”  He taps her shoulder with a knuckle.  “What was it you just said?  Oh, right - I can’t eat out all the time.”  Apollo stretches and leans back into the bench.  “You don’t need to worry about me, alright?”

But she did.  Of course she did.  If she didn’t worry about this one, didn’t try to take charge, manage, maintain -   “Hmph.”  Trucy folds her arms and pouts, staring at the street.  She does have to be careful.  If she doesn’t move perfectly, he might notice.  And if he notices, then it wouldn’t work.  “I guess that’s what I get for trying to be nice, huh.”  

“T-Trucy …”  His hands are already up, nervous, self-conscious.  “I didn’t mean it like that…”

She glances over.  “Do you prommy?”

Apollo stares.  “Do I what?”

“Do you prommy?” she repeats, turning to stare him directly in the eye.  “Prommy, Polly.”

“...uh.  I … promise?  That’s it, right?”

Trucy gives him a dramatic sigh.  “It’s not the same!  If you don’t!  Prommy!  Polly!”

“Fine!”  His head hangs in defeat.  “Fine, fine, fine, I …Trucy, I prommy.” 

“Yay!”  She throws her arms around him.  “Then to make it up to me, you’ll come over, right?”

His brow furrows.  She knows that look.  It’s late.  The moment he says yes is the moment he’s staying the night again, sleeping on the couch, on the floor, under the table, or wherever else he’s able to pass out.  He’ll be stuck in his clothes and miserable because he can’t change.  There’s eggs in the fridge at the box he calls a home that will go bad and you can’t just do something like waste food.  Letters (Bills) are being slotted into his mailbox and he has to be the one to pick them up and put them into the trash without looking at them, anxious and sick.  There’s so much to do.  There’s so little time.  It’s overwhelming.  She knows, god she knows, so used to taking the mail before her father could come home and burning it to nothing.

“I …”

“Apollo.”  Trucy decides.  This time she will fix it.  This is something she can fix.  “When I ask if you’ll come over … this isn’t just for tonight.”  Her voice is deadly serious.  “I mean … I’m still a kid and … if someone comes around and my dad isn’t there.  Well.”  She acts out a carefree shrug.  “You get it, right?  If you’re working for me.  And if you’re already traveling so much about it.  … just come over permanently.”

There are a hundred reasons why he should insist otherwise and she knows that.  He thinks too much.  She knows this because she does as well.  

However.  He’s not really capable of saying no.

Not to her.

So Apollo says, “Okay.”

“When?”

He’s clearly out of his depth but he smiles at her nonetheless.  “No time like the present, right?”

The time from the bus stop to Wright Anything Agency and the so-named Wright Family Sleeping Quarters is noticeably shorter than the time from that same stop to Apollo’s 1DK apartment.  He fills the echo of night with whispered explanations of building ‘quiet time’, which Trucy interprets to mean the walls are so thin you could hear anything through them.  Early on, when Daddy and her had first moved in together to their new home, she could hear the rhythmic thumps through the neighbor’s walls and learned too quickly the usefulness of headphones.  Those days had since passed as her father had gained his reputation in the dungeons with her aid and since she had earned a regular spot at the Wonder Bar, but she knows.  

She knows.

The building itself is not dilapidated, of course.  The external appearance is rather brutalist, she notes, but the space around it is clean.  The walls around the entrance hall are covered in flyers.  A flicker of her sharp eyes shows the notations begging for roommates, giving away broken furniture, notes of lost pets, announcements about the nearby food banks seeking out donations, reminders of plasma donation and how much money it can bring in.  Her smile never fades, but it thins, and Trucy is grateful that Apollo is not looking at her.  

There is no internal building to enter.  Rather, Apollo turns, pausing at the staircase before looking back to Trucy.  The fluorescent overhead flickers.  Shadow casts itself over his expression as if to hide from her eyes.  

“Let’s take the elevator,” he says.

The elevator takes a full minute to reach the ground floor.  Trucy doubts it was due to any specific person as the door hitches while trying to open.  Apollo pushes it open the rest of the way and, with a sheepish smile, gestures for Trucy to enter.  She gives him a grin.  It is all she can do to help his quickly sinking confidence.  Hopping over the small gap between ground and hanging box, her shawl spins out around her as she turns back to him.  Apollo huffs something like a laugh.  His entrance is less elegant than hers.  Doors clamber shut with a speed Trucy fails to expect and he snickers, now, delighted by her genuine surprise.

She elbows him – “You could have warned me.”

The smile on his face is only half-shaken by her smart jab.  Apollo says, “I knew I could make it.  Don’t worry.”

Once again, she pouts, both of them knowing she does worry and would always worry.  He moves back to the panel to the side of the elevator doors, punching his thumb into the number fifteen with particular familiarity.  The smile on his face shifts to that of a frown as he clicks the button once, twice, thrice more in quick succession.  Trucy reaches out and taps his shoulder.

“Let a magician handle this, Polly.”

“No,” he grunts.  “I got this.  Alright?”

Let me handle this, he says to her, and though it annoys her, she silently concedes.  He could try a different nearby floor.  Or the two of them could take the stairs.  It’s no matter of pride on his part.

Rather.

He is doing the same for her as she does for him.

“Well,” he says, pulling her from her reverie.  “When all else fails …”  He pulls his bracelet down over his knuckles and slams his fist into the panel, just above the top buttons.  There is a click and above them, the small indicator flashes with what is almost the number 15 – the top portion of the five missing.  

Apollo sighs and Trucy gives him a polite applause.

“This is why you should be in my shows more often!”  She hops in front of him, leaning forward in an approximation of Prosecutor Gavin’s teasing pose.  “You’ve got a real charm with that earnest way you approach problems!”

He slides the bracelet back to his wrist and it is only for a moment that she sees the way he has split the skin on his knuckles before Apollo shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“I think I’m good,” he answers.  “I’m definitely more of the backstage kind, Trucy.”

“That’s what they all say,” she states, sing-song.  “But I’ve got a perfect eye for this kind of thing and you would happen to be the apple of it all.”

The embarrassment on his face makes her grin all the more.  He’s so easy to tease and so genuine – it means something to him.  She means something to him.  Though she is concerned for how he hides his gently bleeding fist, though she is concerned for the way that he buries himself behind insignificance and stagework, Trucy is content to lean back against the handrail that encircles them both.

One fluorescent tube above them colors the metal space dull yellow.  The one above the entrance has died – or something close to it, she thinks.  There is a terribly dim flicker, only bright enough to show the silhouettes of insects who found their ways within to die.  Her eyes flicker to Apollo – he stares only at the screen reflecting the slow rise of the elevator.  So to say he is long since inured to this space.  So to say she is, yet still, she lingers because this is a space within which he resides.  A place that, ostensibly, owns him, in its way.

When the elevator pauses, the door opens far more smoothly than it had before.  Yet with it comes cool night air and it is only as it leaves that Trucy recognizes the warmth that had formed in that small space, shared between them.  Apollo claps his hands against his face.

“Alright, let’s get going!”

The two trace the railing.  Trucy looks down across the city, streets still filled with cars of people going home late, going to work early, staying away from responsibilities.  Absorbed in her own thoughts, she gives an undignified grunt as she walks straight into Apollo, whose steady feet are the only reason she doesn’t fall over.

“Are you okay?” he asks.  “I mean, I can take you back home now, we can do this later.”

“Apollo.”  Her hands go to her hips.  “Who signs your paychecks?”

She goes down the list – he gives a beleaguered yes to each bullet.

“Fine,” is the final decision.  

The lock does not give into the key at first – or maybe it is simply that the knob refuses to turn in a rude rebellion against humanity.  Apollo grumbles, knocking his knee into the door, rocking it until he succeeds and the door opens.  It takes him with it and this time he does trip over the boundary.  Trucy hops over him and kneels to his side.

“Do you do this every day or are you still auditioning for my show?” she asks.

“No,” he says, “And no.”

Apollo is far more tired than she, yet he drags himself up to close and lock the door once again.

“Well.  Welcome, I guess.”  He gestures to the living space.  It’s only just barely not a studio, she thinks to herself, as the kitchen is separated from the ‘living’ room by an island that is more akin to a thin wall cut through with a knife.  “Home sweet home,” he says, sardonic.

“Nice!” Trucy lies.  “You wanna show me around?”

“Uh.  Not much to show.”  Apollo glances and jerks his head in the direction of the ceiling.  “Bed’s just up there, over the door.  Kitchen is where you see it.  This is my … office … dining … living whatever.  There’s a bathroom down the hall.  Just a shower, but …”  He shrugs.  “Let me make you something before we go through it, though.  You did say you were hungry.”

Trucy holds up a hand.  “I asked if you were hungry.  I said no such thing of myself!”  In truth, she was and is.  However, she has plans to execute first.  “But I could get a drink!”

Apollo rolls his eyes and moves to the kitchen, but she stops him, again.

“I’ll take care of this.  My assistant does deserve a break sometimes.  I’ll get you something too!”  Trucy points to the coffee table at the center of the room.  “Sit.”  Apollo raises an eyebrow so she says, more incessantly, “Sit!”

“Fine, fine … whatever you want, boss.”  He slumps over the table and starts clicking through his phone, to which Trucy gives a pert nod.

There are a total of two cupboards hanging over the counter and one beneath the sink.  They’re barren.  It takes her a moment and standing on tiptoe to see the only two cups inside - one ceramic mug and a plastic cup.  Both are placed on the counter as she pulls open the small refrigerator.  Inside are energy drinks, mostly.  Peering around, there’s a loaf of bread carefully stored, that box of eggs she had envisioned with such ease, and finally, a small bottle of apple juice.  It makes her giggle.  Reading the label shows it’s Never from Concentrate!  That would do - hosting a guest and giving them water was a real faux pas.  Trucy is pouring juice into the two glasses before it occurs to her this is the first time she has been someone else’s guest.  

It should make her feel a little bad, then, as she reaches into her bag.  It doesn’t.  This is the best way.  She takes a pill and crushes it with a spoon with a practiced ease before stirring it into the ceramic mug.

“Jus de pomme!” she announces.  “Bone apple tea, Apollo.”

He glances up and smiles.  “I should have figured.”

“I’ve got high standards for my employees and that includes their beverage choices.  It’s pretty fancy to shell out for the real apple juice!  I’m pleased to call you my assistant.”  She slides the mug toward him. 
“Thanks,” he says.

She watches carefully as he drinks, as his throat bobs, as she berates him about not drinking enough water.  Apollo pauses to insist he did and that sometimes he’s so busy he forgets, to which she shakes her head, as there’s never enough water in the day.

“Well, not all of us have infinite voids in our bags.”

“You mean my panties,” she teases.

Apollo groans and finishes his drink.  “Your magic prop.  You know, I’d really prefer if you retired that one, right?

“Ah,” she intones.  “Well, Daddy’s always been fine with it.”

“Yeah, and he’s also the one that’s currently MIA and leaving the business to you.”

“Well, you’re here too, now!” she says.

“Well … then my vote’s to retire the panties.”

“Hmmm … maybe when you have enough shares.  Currently, me and Daddy hold the majority on that, so your vote doesn’t count for much.  Sorry!”  She bonks her head, sticking out her tongue.

To that, he groans, mumbling to himself as she gauges the room.

"I mean, you're 15 and it's just ... that guy who stole them, it's scary to think that someone could try that again, but in a worse way?  Trucy - hey, are you listening to me?  ... Truce ..."

Her eyes follow the line of the ceiling to the ladder that leads to his bed to the middling overhang that supposedly separates the living area from the hall to the bathroom.  While she studies the room, she finally hears the tell-tale sound of rhythmic breathing.  She glances at Apollo.  His head has sunken down, leaning harshly against his palm.   He’s barely kept up and she can already see that his elbow is beginning to slide out.  Trucy jumps out from under the table and catches him before he can fall and hit his head.  She smiles.

“Get some sleep, Polly.  I’ll handle this.”

After she’s laid him out with a pillow and blanket, Trucy can begin her work.

The first thing to do is carefully clean the cups they drank from.  It is unlikely any of the residue would be found in Apollo’s cup, but she is fastidious to a fault.  Better to let him think he fell asleep of his own accord.  

He was right to say it wouldn’t be hard to move.  A quick check of his sparse furniture tells her that.  There is no heater built into the bottom of the table.  Two cups, two spoons, two plates, a metal can full of chopsticks of varying quality and size.  A kettle sat on a double burner which was installed awkwardly beside the sink.  The small refrigerator lacks a connected freezer and it is only when she checks under the sink that she finds an icebox that serves as the closest thing.

She finds his spare suit hanging carefully on the inside of the bathroom.  His casual clothes fill up all of a single box.  It is unsettling.  A little.  To think about the tight quarters and sparse belongings he has here when she has filled the Wright Agency with her memories and reasons to hang on.

She climbs the ladder to his sleeping space and pauses.  Three succulents have been placed against the wall to the opposite side of a simple sleeping bag.  And at the end of what should have been a bed sits a cardboard box.  Trucy crawls to it and lays down on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air.  The box isn’t taped shut - all Apollo did was put a law book on top of it to keep it closed.  She lazily throws the heavy book behind her with a loud noise.  Below, she hears Apollo mumble something about hiding.  She giggles.

She dumps the box open unceremoniously.  Unfortunately, it is mostly papers and old postings.  Spreading them out along the bed without order, Trucy notices.  Headlines.  Printouts from a black and white printer.  Detailed notations of public court records.  Her smile fades.

Along the walls, unobservant eyes would find nothing.  Observant ones would notice the tape residue left after something had been removed.  Torn down.  In her hand is one of several newspapers.  The front page features the results of a major case and a photograph of the defendant, nervously waving as he leaves the courthouse with his exuberant wife.  Several sentences have been underlined - highlighted - with handwritten text scrawled alongside any empty space the paper had.  

-> Double jeopardy issues
-> Can’t be tried again?  I guess it’s fine … 
-> it’s not like mr. wright went into it meaning for that to happen
-> intimidation tactics?  Prosecutor hid a lot of information huh?
-> doesn’t mention sentencing info for the identified culprit … look into future trial for suspect?
-> really thought this one would be impossible but i guess it worked out
-> note to self: 

Under that is a jumbled scribble of ink.  It is a different color than the previous notes - ink less faded as well.  Though her brow furrows, she places it gently to the side and continues her careful excavation.

Cutout newspaper advertisements for Wright and Co Law Offices.  Magazine interviews with famous celebrities like Will Powers.  She has seen many of these before.  Trucy knows a terrible amount about her father’s legacy, his deeds, his successes, and most of all – his failures.  Yet, somehow, there is something Apollo has that she does not know.

Shadi Smith - no records found.

Trucy pauses.  

-> blue v red thats fine i get that that’s a contradiction but
-> necklace only in one of the two photos
-> when did he lose the locket
-> did smith wear the locket at the moment of his attack
-> “Smith was uncontrollable.”  Why’d you leave him there with Orly then?
-> “I picked his hat up off the floor and put it on his head … that’s the only thing I touched at the crime scene.”  The locket - the locket - the locket.  You did lie.  You can’t just tell me it was omission every time so.  Why.
-> “The victim wore that hat all night, never once taking it off, except for that one time.”  With this in mind… isn’t it strange?  Is this the truth?  Can I trust any of his testimony?

And she stares.

Beneath all the scribbles, so many her eyes begin to lose focus – there is a picture of Shadi Smith, badly printed off one of the outdated computers at the police department, stapled to the case transcript.  

There is a picture of Zak Gramarye, badly printed off an outdated computer, stapled to papers her new employee keeps at his bedside, detailed and fixated and – 

Trucy swallows and neatly places the papers back in the box.

Answers to questions were not helpful in her business.  Nor were they in her father’s current career path.

She hops down from the bedspace with Apollo’s belongings and neatly tapes it together.  

She had not asked her father about the card.  She had not questioned her father about the drop of blood.  He would not have explained.  It was important.  That was the answer.  The urgency in his voice when he had called her that night told her all she needed to know.  It needed to be real blood, of course, in case it was examined.  But if it was examined, then she would need the blood type.  She could manage something with that, probably, but when she asked –

“It’s fine,” her father had said.  “You can use a drop of your blood.”

She spoke as though she smiled.

“Okay, Daddy!”

She had not.

She is not.

Trucy looks at Apollo’s sleeping form.  Shouldn’t he recognize that man?  Zak Gramarye’s portrait hangs over the Agency, every day, endlessly watching over her as she had waited years for him to keep his promise.  But she can see him.  When Apollo had asked who that man was, he had been genuine.  Her father, though – more and more, she saw so little of him.  He hid his face from her.  His hands stayed hidden within his hoodie’s pockets.  He knows her well enough.  He knows the true identity of Shadi Smith.  He knows she’s type O.

Trucy may not be in high school, but doing the math of inheritance is no difficult feat.

She puts the box down.

She is so tired.

Trucy pulls up the blanket to curl up behind Apollo.  The t-shirt he wore to the show is soft and thin from overwashing.  She buries her face against his back.  The slight damp spots against cloth will be gone by the time he wakes up.  For now, it is proof enough, and she wraps her arms around him.  He is on her side.  Even if he is not on her father’s, he is on hers.  Trucy’s eyes close.  For that, she does not mind falling asleep on the ground.  Once upon a time, she had done the same with her father.  But he didn’t need to do that anymore.  Trucy forces herself to breathe.  It would be okay.  Daddy might disappear but she had Apollo now.  He wouldn’t say no.  He wouldn’t leave.  Clinging to that hope, she allows the warmth and the beat of his heart to lull her into sleep.