#sending the captain off to fight crime midway through

[newsiegirlscout]

Nerdsitting

Tagging time! As well as explaining what the heck I’m doing with this mess of a fanfiction! Yeah!

@vizivoir, Special delivery! (They asked to be tagged so as not to miss it, and tagged they will be!) 

@sugarandmemories, I may or may not have borrowed your Melvin’s insomnia, neglectful parents ((Yeah, guys. In the books, they actually were there, they just didn’t pay much attention to him. He even switches off the “Dramatic Effects” on the Combine-o-Tron so as not to wake them up.)), and slight eating disorder. Ahaha..the chance was too good to pass up.  Please don't sue. :) ;)

As for what I’m doing, I don’t really know. It’s fluff. It has George and Harold subliminally taking care of Melvin...you know, making him eat something, cheering him up when he’s down, getting him off that good ol’ polyphastic sleep schedule. Ergo, Nerdsitting. Enjoy!

Melvin Sneedly had just wanted to pick up the latest issue of Scientific American at the Hobnobs Comix Shop downtown before the quality deteriorated or the magazines sold out. Was that so hard to ask?

Apparently, according to the universe, it was.

When a bald, portly man wearing nothing but his underwear and a red polka-dotted cape fell out of the sky and dropped to one knee, Melvin completely lost his train of thought and instead decided to take a tentative step back. On the man’s back, two of the more mischievous students in his class beamed back at him, giving a polite wave.

“Hey, Melvin!” George chimed.

“Do you always greet people this way?” He wheezed, slamming one hand to his chest in shock.

“What, ‘Hey’ and then his name? Dude, is this a trick question?” Harold said softly, tugging George’s shirt.

“I think he means on the back of a superhero wearing nothing but his underwear and a polka-dotted red cape.” the boy responded. Climbing off, he gestured regally to the caped crusader, followed closely by his best friend.

“Melvin, this is Captain Underpants. You may remember him from that time you tried to rid the entire school of laughter.” George said. Captain Underpants stood up and gave a happy “thumbs-up” at his cue.

“Anyway. We thought we’d stop by. Didn’t think we’d see you at the comic store! What’cha getting?” Harold added.

Taking another step back, Melvin clutched the strap of his backpack instinctively before responding.

“I was just going to see if I could acquire the latest copy of Scientific American before it sold out...but now, I think I’ll go home and take my chances tomorrow.”

“Ah, that’s a shame, young nemesis,” Captain Underpants chimed in, “For my amiable sidekicks and I might provide delightful company in your education! Why, they themselves have documented several episodes of my life in this praiseworthy format!”

“You mean the comic books they sell on the playground, in which I tend to be frequently incriminated as some sort of nerdy villain against laughter?”

“Sidekicks! You didn’t tell me that you knew the one and only Anti-Humor boy personally!” he gasped excitedly. “Will you sign my cape?” he said to Melvin with a slight bounce.

Melvin shrugged and produced a black Sharpie from his pocket, much to the delight of the hero. Walking around him, he wrote out “Anti-Humor boy” in his careful cursive, then patted the delighted captain on his back.

“Now, off to Dumb Stupid Nerd Jail for you!” he cheered, hooking his fingers into the startled scientist’s neckband.

“Captain Underpants! Melvin...received time off for good behavior! He’s totally cool now!” George blurted in a panic, pressing the side of his sneaker into his ample stomach as if he were trying to stop a wild colt. To Melvin, he added, “Sorry, man. You..wanna come hang out with us for a while? We have a tree house!”

“It’s a pretty cool tree house.” Harold added, cracking a grin.

“Ummm...yeah, I still think I’ll pass. Call me again when I’m in the mood for getting made fun of for a full hour or two.” he said, walking off.

“Aww, Melvin, don’t be like that! Isn’t your house like, two miles away, anyway? We can totally give you a ride to the amazing Tree House Comix Inc., you can chill with us, spend a few hours playing Tetris or drawing nerd comics or something, and then we could take you back home!” Harold explained, hastily putting brown, white, and light orange button-eyed socks on his hands and right foot respectively to illustrate his vision. (The tangerine sock, Melvin noted, even sported a sported a tiny black bow tie and ginger woolen hair.)

“Or,” he continued as George gave Melvin a look that seemed to reveal that Harold had drawn out points with improvised sock puppetry before, “You could get your magazine and go back home.” The light orange sock puppet, to Melvin’s amusement, switched places with Harold, tucked a tiny bubblegum comic that he supposed was supposed to be the four hundred and fifty-third issue of Scientific American under his cotton arm and left, leaving sock puppet George and Harold giving each other blank expressions.

“You’d want to read it as soon as possible, but put it in your bag so you wouldn’t walk in front of a bus or something, and then you’d walk two sad endless miles without a friend, sadly listening to-you were listening to music, right?-sad music as you trudged home. Sadly.”

To emphasize this point, Harold took an extra few steps away from Captain Underpants for some unknown reason, then poured a miniature watering can over a dejected sock puppet Melvin, accompanied by a melancholy classical tune from his phone.

“And then you’d get home,”

The music stopped and the watering can was thrown to the side.

“Read the magazine, and die of sadness and boredom, and that’s why you need to hang out with us and have a ton of fun today!”

Melvin smiled slightly and shook his sock puppet counterpart’s hand.

“Deal.”

“To the Underwear Cave!” Captain Underpants cheered, kneeling down again.

“He means to our tree house.” Harold whispered, swinging back onto the superhero’s back and offering his hand to Melvin, who took it gratefully. 

On the ride back, George and Harold filled him in on everything. 

“Okay, so..Captain Underpants can’t get water on his head. Don’t ask.”

“He’s also a total goofball and wants to fight crime whenever possible. As in, if you have five extra minutes, he’ll be convinced that there’s some sort of crime going on somewhere. And there usually is...it’s kinda like how the little kid summoned all the demons to the hotel with his sixth sense in that one movie? Yeah, like that.”

“You okay, Melvin? You look a little freaked out...I know, the first ride is always a bit weird. You ever jumped out a window and slid down a lamppost before?”

“Why would I ever have done that? I mean...Oh no. Don’t tell me that you two have done that. Scratch my last question, how many times did you do that?”

“Um...a lot?” Harold laughed nervously, “Uh...do you wanna text your parents, let ‘em know you’re at our place?”

“They’re working late at the lab all week. Ciana and I are left to fend for ourselves, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh. I see. Well, that’s great, because we’re already here!” Harold said, giving another flourish to the tree house. Several mechanisms were affixed to various places, presumably meant to help one scale the tree in a much more complicated way than necessary. 

“How fast does Captain Underwear fly, exactly? Because this seems less like coincidence that we landed right now, and more like lazy writing on the author’s part.” Melvin said, adjusting his bow tie.

“Yeah...she does that. Consider your flight twice as fast with the right dialogue!” Harold said, ably climbing up the wooden steps, followed closely by George, then Melvin. Once inside, Harold excitedly pointed out the sleeping bags, mini fridge, comic gallery, television, and gaming system. 

“Oh...wow.” Melvin responded, his hazel eyes flashing with jubilee.

“So...what’cha wanna do?” 

“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have a deck of cards around, would you?”

George cocked his head, surprised by the ginger’s simple request. “Um..yeah, we have cards!” he said, withdrawing a deck from his pocket, “I should warn you though, I hold a pretty tight spot as Go Fish champion.”

“Oooh, Billy’s pretty good at Concentration, too.” Harold added. 

“Do either of you know how to play poker? I mean, not necessarily for gambling reasons, but...” he paused to withdraw a small drawstring sack from his bag, pulling the cord and tipping it over the floor to reveal a shimmering stream of chocolate coins, a small confectionery fortune by his feet, “for chocolate coins?”

“Awww, bro! This is probably the best thing you’ve ever done! No offense, I just...didn’t think you’d go for gambling and stuff. Even fake gambling. Or chocolate. Orrrr fun.” Harold said, his voice dropping off as he twisted his hands against his shirt.

A week before his third-grade graduation, Melvin looked up from his book to see a group of children in the cafeteria trading candy cigarettes. “Hey! You four are violating Rule #7,438: Section Five: ‘Smoking of cigarettes on campus is strongly prohibited! Note: Even if they aren’t lit! Note: Even if they’re candy cigarettes!’ I’m telling!”

“Awww, man.” They said, tucking the packs into their lunchboxes dejectedly. 

*****

“Well, I’m up for it in any case.” Harold responded, “I’m also about to go get a sandwich-either of you two want one?”

“I’ll take one!” George said, fanning out the deck, “I’m starving!”

Melvin politely declined, earning a look of confusion from both of the troublemakers. The truth was, in fact, that he had been so caught up with his studies that he hadn’t eaten in days; even when he and his sister ordered dinner, he would take a slice of pizza up to his room, then generally put it on top of a bookshelf, forget about it, and leave it for Danderella. At school, he never so much forgot his lunch as the desire to eat it; every time since Monday, he had felt a peculiar weight in his stomach, telling him to stuff it in his locker, to give it to somebody else, just to continue with his extra-credit assignments. That was the important thing, most of all-the extra credit was worth it, worth the fatigue and distorted rhythm of his perfected order to life, worth the trembling in his legs, all for the extra plus on his A’s, the smiles on his teachers’ faces, the extra cache he relied on when he stuttered during an oral report or rushed his penmanship in a five-page essay, earning him a docked half-point or so. 

Besides, eating was a waste of time that could be better dedicated to his research.

Still, Harold came back a few minutes later carrying an extra dish between the two in his hands, the rim meticulously balanced on the edges of the other two. Propping one knee under the paper plates, he passed out the sandwiches to all three of them in turn. 

“For Monsieur George”, he said, faking a French accent, “Your peanut butter and gummy worm sandvich, vith cold can of ze finest Mountain Dew, as well as light side of chips.” 

“Why, Mr. Hutchins, this is a rather delightful spread.” George said, feigning the voice of a luxuriously wealthy diner in a black-and-white film.

“And for Monsieur Melvin, ve have ze freshly pressed grilled cheese sandvich vith Dr. Pepper and chips. How do you like?” 

Melvin took the tray and aligned the neatly cut sandwich to a more aesthetically pleasing angle relative to the soda and Doritos bag. “Oh, uh..thanks for the sandwich I didn’t actually ask for?”

Harold broke out of his waiter impression for a moment. “Sorry, I didn’t explain this one. It’s a goofy tradition we have- you have to respond in a fancy accent.”

Melvin nodded slightly, then replied in a Russian voice, “Okay, I get it now. But my waitering friend, I have not placed an order!”

“Ah, vell, I fear ve have made an extra sandvich anyhow. So..you might as well take it, compliments of ze Tree House Gahden-Gahdens.” 

He grinned and sat down at his place, carefully arranging his hand of cards and setting down his own tuna salad-chocolate chip-miniature marshmallow sandwich with Sprite and Fritos. 

Melvin took a bite of the sandwich, and it tasted like...well, like a regular grilled cheese sandwich, but like something more at the same time. Something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

“Did you use oregano in this?”

Harold winked, swallowing a bite of his own lunch before speaking. “Original Hutchins recipe.”

#########

“So, Melvin...do you have a hobby besides Science-y stuff and card games?” George asked.

“I make papercraft modules, play World of Warcraft, collect little tin cars, alphabetize everything, sort laundry by color in rainbow order, lightest to darkest...lots of stuff. Why?” he asked. 

“Eh. Just seeing if you do anything cool. Which you don’t.”

“What?”

George shrugged. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“O-kay...so, what do you two do for fun, besides card games, getting into trouble, and making comics?”

“Not much. Mostly just laugh at silly stuff and hang out in the club house. Skateboarding. Watching TV. Playing video games. That sort of thing.”

“How did you hook a television up to your club house?”

“Oh, it’s pretty interesting, actually!” Harold interjected, “You see, Mr. Beard built the basic layout, but one summer we actually earned so much money from odd jobs that we bought a second-hand television from somewhere, screwed a power outlet to the underside of the house, and hooked it up ourselves! Creative thinking, huh?”

“Mm-hmm..” Melvin said distractedly. “You two realize we’ve spent four and a half hours playing card games, video games, and goofing off?”

“Welcome to summer vacation, genius!” he said, nudging the scientist in the shoulder.

“Yeah..but it’s a two-hour walk back to my house, and given the time-” he paused to gesture to the hands on his watch cocked at 10:28-”I should probably start heading back. So, if you’ll excuse me-” he started to climb down the wooded steps of the tree house- “I’ll go. Thanks for having me over.” 

“Hang on!” Harold said, jumping off the top platform, grabbing one of the sturdier branches, and gently sliding down to the grass, “I’ll ask my dad to give you a ride! We’ve never seen your house anyway-is it like, a mansion or something?”

George straddled the rope of the tire swing and slid down, remaining on top of the tire. “Yeah, maybe it’s a science lab! Or an apartment!”

Harold looked at his black-haired friend peculiarly. 

“How is an apartment interesting?”

“It could be a nice apartment!” he retorted. “Or maybe one with a ton of secret passageways and a chocolate chandelier!” 

“I live in a pretty boring house, you two.” Melvin chuckled softly, “Though of course, I wouldn’t decline a ride, if it wouldn’t bother your parents too much.”

“Oh yeah, no! Not at all!” George responded, running inside and reemerging with his father, who ruffled Melvin’s hair with only a slight bit of annoyance not directed at him, but rather, at being interrupted while he was reading his favorite novel. (And he’d just gotten to the good part, too.)

“So, you’re the Sneedly kid who needs a ride, right?”

“Yes, sir. I apologize for bothering you this late, just-”

“Well, there’s no need to apologize, little fella! My son says you live way out of this neighborhood, is this true?”

“Well, yes, you could say that.” he responded, fingering the edge of his pressed sweater.

“May I ask for your address?”

“It’s 1123 Wilson Way, sir.”

“Oh, okay! Well then, you boys buckle up for the Beardmobile! Harold, do you want a ride home too?”

The blond giggled slightly at the question, almost involuntarily. “Yes, Mr. Beard. Thank you!”

############

He had expected the trip to be awkward, that he’d be staring at his hands the whole way until George’s father let him off, but after forty-five minutes of conversation, Melvin found that he didn’t mind it so much after all.

When they finally stopped at the address, the mischief-making duo stepped out after him, each giving some sort of salute to their chauffeur.

“Are you two planning to move in?” Melvin asked bemusedly, “ Because I’m not sure you quite fit the...atmosphere.”

In unison, George and Harold both bowed deeply to the ginger, acting the part of a high-class attendant. 

“Vy, Mr. Sneedly, ve came as escorts to see your fancy house!” George said, faking the second faux French accent and hooking his arm in Melvin’s.

“It is the least ve could do for a friend in need at-” Harold said, taking the boy’s skinny wrist gently in his hands and glancing at his watch-”11:15 at night!”

Melvin rolled his eyes and smiled. 

“ Vous êtes deux fous. Je suis honoré d'être considéré comme votre ami.”

“...I have no idea what you just said.”

#########

Up in his bedroom, the boys dropped their arms and simultaneously dropped to one knee, giving an over-dramatic grand sweeping gesture.

“Your room, Mr. Sneedly?” Harold said, cracking a grin.

“Yes, yes, you have both been fine escorts. Now please, leave so I may continue research.” he said, in imitation of a wealthy person while struggling not to smile.

“Ah, but school starts at like, 6:00 AM! Surely, you’d want to get more than forty minutes of sleep tonight?”

“I’m not even going to ask how you got my polyphastic sleep schedule down.”

“Tough luck, sport.” George said, doing a bad impersonation of his father, “The, um, school code or something says that even crazy mad scientists with flammable chemicals and miniature robots have to sleep longer than the car ride it took to get here.”

“Yeah, and if you don’t, then...uh..we’re going to hypnotize you!” Harold said, his thumb rubbing his bare index finger instinctively.

“What? Bro, we might accidentally turn him into Doctor Octopus or something!” George whispered.

“Yeah, he already did that. Remember that Octopus-robot thing he had a while back? Good point, though.” Harold whispered back.

“Sooooo you’re both going to stay..in my room...while your dad waits outside...until I go to sleep?” Melvin asked.

“Yup! We can even give you a mild dose of sleeping powder if you’re going to be all stubborn and stuff!” Harold chuckled.

“Either you broke into the White House or the stuff you have doesn’t work. And I’m going to guess you-”

Harold tore open a waxy paper packet, shook the contents into his palm, and blew it gently towards the boy, who stood his ground rambling about the homeostatic process and cytokines while visibly becoming more exhausted as he spoke. Before long, he fell asleep on the spot, and the ten-year-old bit his lower lip and pressed his hand against his heart. 

“Awww, he looks so adorable when he’s asleep!” he murmured softly.

“Did you just drug Melvin? Because, I know this is a bit hippo-critic-y, but we could probably get in a lot of trouble for that.”

“Nah, it’s corn starch. But since we told him it was sleeping powder, it actually worked-I think that’s called the Placenta effect.’’

 Turning to George, he rattled off instruction with surprising authority.

“Alright. You, get his shoulders, and I’ll get his feet. We’ll lift on three..” 

Together, they tucked him under the oddly-unwrinkled sheets, George taking off his glasses and propping them up on his nightstand as an afterthought before they ran downstairs beaming and jumped into the “Beardmobile”.

“Did we just nerd-sit?” Harold laughed.

“Yeah...I think we did!” George responded, holding out his fist expectantly.

“Nerdsitting.” The two said once more, fingers dancing in the cool night air as they pulled apart.

FIN!

Haha, sorry for another Author’s Note down here. Just wanted to point out, that, if anyone was wondering, Melvin’s French translates roughly to “You’re both fools. I’m honored to be considered your friend.” 

Pandafish!

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

"the way you flirt is shameful." Klavier (klapollo) and ema ?

"short fics," I said, like a liar.

anyway please enjoy almost 2k of Klapollo Nonsense.

Send me a random line of dialogue and some characters, and I'll write a short fic!

---

Another grey morning, another lukewarm cup of coffee. Apollo pulls his coat a little tighter around him, scowling at nothing in particular. It’s just his luck, isn’t it, that this week’s defendant is a fisherman, accused of murdering their boat’s captain out on the docks.

It’s also just his luck that it’s March, and he hadn’t even thought anyone would be out on the water this early in the year. Shows how much he knows about the fishing industry.

He jumps when an arm lands around his shoulders, and has to fight to keep his awful beverage from sloshing entirely out of its styrofoam cup. With an irritated huff, Apollo turns to reprimand his unexpected company, but the words die in his throat when he looks over to see Klavier Gavin—and, more specifically, the woolly hat perched on his head. It appears to be lovingly hand-knitted, in a shade of purple he’d swear he’d seen in scraps of wool lying around the office in previous weeks. It also happens to be emblazoned with Gavin’s ridiculous logo, the angular G as distinctive as ever.

“Uh…” he says instead, eyebrow raised in what he hopes is a skeptical, yet bewildered expression. He’s not sure he succeeds with that, though, considering the way Gavin’s casual smile crooks up at the edges into a more genuine grin.

“Ja, Herr Forehead? How goes the investigation?” Lazy curls of steam rise from the stainless steel travel mug clasped in his hand, dissipating into the pervasive fog that’s blanketing the docks. Typical. Apollo considers asking him if he’d like to swap drinks.

“Cold. Damp. And is this a good time to mention that I’m allergic to shellfish? I think that’s probably an important detail, considering….this.” he replies, poking an errant mussel with the point of his dress shoe. His dress shoe that he’s for some reason wearing to a crime scene out by the harbour, because Apollo has misplaced ideas of professionalism, apparently.

“Ach, it’s not that bad! For one, you have my company to brighten up your day! And for another thing...I have news for you about the case.”

“Really. And it’s not just going to be something that you’ll immediately rescind in court tomorrow?”

“HerrForehead, what kind of prosecutor do you take me for? We’re on the same side, you know—both seeking the truth.”

“That’s cheesy as anything.”

“But correct! Anyway. FräuleinSkye has just uncovered something tangled around one of the fishing lines on the boat, and she’s attempting to piece it back together. If you hurry, you might get a glimpse before it goes straight into the evidence dossier.”

Apollo hmms, considering. He’s not sure he wants to just take Klavier’s tip-off; it could be seen as collusion under some circumstances. But he’s really not accomplishing anything on his own, and any new evidence could help him prove Annette Sloop’s innocence.

He also realizes, belatedly, that Klavier still has his arm around his shoulders, and that he’s been unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the taller man’s down jacket.

“Okay, sure—it’s gotta be better than anything I can find here,” Apollo decides, and tries to subtly extricate himself from Klavier’s grasp without drawing attention to the fact that he’s actually found some kind of comfort in their proximity, that he’s really not particularly enthusiastic about losing his human space-heater.

Luckily, Klavier realizes that he’ll have to grant Apollo his freedom if he wants the shorter man to be able to take advantage of his newly-gained intel, and drops his arm back to his own side. Apollo stifles a shiver as the cool, damp air rushes back against him, clinging to his skin with a pervasive chill.

He’d assumed that Klavier had business to take care of on the dock, so the fact that the prosecutor follows him as he boards the fishing boat takes him by surprise. What also takes him by surprise is the intensity of the fishy aroma around the vessel, something that Apollo really should have considered as a factor beforehand. He wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe shallowly—and when that doesn’t work out, he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket.

And that brings with it its own set of problems, because somehow the short amount of time his jacket was in contact with Klavier’s own was enough to allow the other man’s sandalwood cologne to seep into the thin fabric. Apollo wishes this wasn’t his life. Isn’t this the kind of stuff teenagers write about?

Luckily, his panicking is cut short by Ema Skye clearing her throat from the other end of the deck, midway through spreading fabric scraps onto a plastic folding table. She appears decidedly unimpressed, but waves them over.

“Justice. I take it you were informed of the recent developments by the fop here?” she remarks, as disinterestedly as possible for someone who’s practically vibrating with the excitement of being able to do something actually forensically significant.

“Er...yeah, Klavier told me that you’d found something?” Apollo replies, trying to look as though he understands more of the situation than he actually does. He thinks he pulls it off. If not, Ema doesn’t comment on it.

Klavier, however, smiles impossibly wide at Apollo’s words, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because he’d called the man by his first name, as opposed to his more professional title. A slip of the tongue, nothing more! And yet…

If it’d get a reaction like that, Apollo might start using Klavier’s first name significantly more often.

“Oh, come on, do neither of you actually care about this T-shirt I found? This apparently-bloodstainedT-shirt?” Ema taps her foot against the plank wood of the ship’s deck. Apollo breaks out of his thoughts with just about enough time to look marginally interested in the new evidence—which he hopes is convincing.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to solve the murder! It’s really just that—well, Klavier is just there, being distracting, like he always is—except it’s worse, recently, somehow. Apollo swears he used to be able to spend time focusing on other things, that he wasn’t always this preoccupied with what the prosecutor was doing, where he was standing, if he was looking at--

“Oh, for God’s sake. The way you flirt is shameful,” Ema says, entirely exasperated. She also seems to be looking at Apollo, for some reason.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, confused. The detective rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, visibly resisting the urge to throw up her hands.

“You, him, both of you! This used to be almost funny, you know, watching Gavin be all glimmerous in your direction and seeing you shut him down. But recently you’ve been playing into it and—you know what? I’m done! You don’t get to listen to my stunning forensic breakthroughs until you’ve sorted your shit out, because I just can’t be doing with this. It’s ridiculous. Why can’t you just act like adults?”

The outburst is followed by Ema Skye whirling around, the sensible shoes she’s wearing clacking against the ship’s deck. Halfway to the door to the crew’s quarters, she remembers that she’s left all her forensic materials spread out next to where Klavier and Apollo are standing, and backtracks with increasingly evident frustration.

“You know what? I’m not leaving! You two—off my ship!Go figure yourselves out, and I won’t tell you about this case-changing evidence until you’ve stopped acting like this.”

Apollo’s a little taken-aback—not the least because he doesn’t think that he’s been doing any flirting, especially not with Klavier. He’s been hiding his feelings far too well for that—right?

Klavier looks at him and shrugs, motioning with his head that they should retreat the way they’d arrived. It’s not necessarily the most dignified thing, climbing off a boat in shame after being reprimanded by the detective on the case.

Once they’re back on “solid” ground (as solid as one can call a fishing boat’s dock, anyway), Apollo turns to Klavier.

“So, what was that about? I’ve never seen her that angry.”

Interestingly enough, color rises to Klavier’s cheeks. “Well...I think that, perhaps, she’s...misinterpreting the situation?”

And if Klavier’s strange statement hadn’t been enough to tip Apollo off that maybe something strange is going on here, there’s the familiar pinch of warm metal against his left wrist, his bracelet constricting at the taller man’s fib.

And—they know each other well enough, by this point, that all Apollo has to do is level an unimpressed stare in the prosecutor’s direction, and deadpan “Klavier” with all the air of a man who is taking no bullshit for an answer, for him to deflate and give up, shoving a hand in his back pocket awkwardly.

“Ugh. Okay. Erm. So, HerrForehead, this wasn’t...exactly...unprovoked. It’s possible that FräuleinSkye has been on the receiving end of many conversations about how I would like to….uh…”

It’s quite something, seeing Klavier at a loss for words. Apollo hadn’t thought that the former rockstar could look as awkward as he does now, the hand not trapped in his pocket fiddling with a loose strand of his hair.

He really, really tries not to think about how endearing it is.

Klavier seems to have reached a point, however, where he’s just decided to say things and worry about the consequences later. So Apollo’s contemplations are brought to a screeching halt when the man sighs, flips his hair, and stares at him straight-on, enunciating with perfect clarity:

“Apollo Justice, would you like to go out with me? On a date? Because I must say, I’ve been trying to find the best way to ask you for a while now, but unfortunately all I’ve succeeded in doing is, apparently, annoying the FräuleinDetective until not even Snackoos are a valid enough weapon.”

And—this isn’t the setting Apollo had pictured, in his often-hastily-repressed daydreams about Klavier asking him out. For one, he’d not quite imagined the quantity of fish, or the less-than-steady footing. But Klavier looks so earnest about his request, and Apollo can’t deny the way his heart’s skipped a beat, the way he’s almost petrified to say anything just in case this isn’t real—and so, he takes a deep breath, steps forward, and twines his fingers with Klavier’s.

“You know what? I’d love to. I’ll go anywhere you’d like—with the exception of a sushi restaurant” Apollo smiles, hesitantly at first, and then more genuinely as he sees the softly disbelieving expression on Klavier’s face.

“Really?” the prosecutor asks, and isn’t that incredible—that Klavier Gavin had been worried about being turned down. Apollo can’t quite believe it himself, yet.

“Yeah, really,” he says, smiling up at Klavier, who beams down at him in return. He feels the other man squeeze his hand briefly, and can’t quite contain the impulse to lean in closer to him, consciously this time, sharing both warmth and physical contact in a meaningful way.

When they return to the fishing vessel, Ema takes one look at the two of them and narrows her eyes, proceeding to mime nausea at the way they’re still holding hands.

However, she does follow through on her promise—and by the time they’re ready to leave the crime scene, both Klavier and Apollo are fairly certain of the next day’s trial’s outcome—as well as of the location of their post-trial dinner date.