Hello, all! I started on this little story quite a while ago, but never got around to finishing it until now. It takes place after (during…?) 4-4. Think if it as…an alternate ending to Apollo Justice, or at the very least, an interpretation of the actual ending. Kind of.

This was not intended to be romantic whatsoever, but feel free to see it that way if you wish. I will certainly have no objections, as I am a fan of the pairing…*AHEM*!

Reviews are loved!

The low city din of traffic and sirens emanated from a distance. A few birds on the rooftops cawed before spreading their wings and taking flight. But he didn't hear any of it.

Phoenix, panting, stood still while clutching the heavy pistol with both hands. The blast still resounded in his ears, but he still couldn't fully comprehend what had just happened. He could do nothing but stare….

…at the wounded body of Kristoph Gavin slumped against the wall.

The gun was not the only weapon used that night. Phoenix had come prepared, and brought with him a large dagger, now lying at his feet, which he had used on Kristoph only a few moments before he'd, in sheer desperation and panic, fired the gun.

He wasn't dead just yet. Despite his clouding mind Phoenix could clearly see a smirk forming around the other man's lips. Kristoph's drooped head suddenly lifted as he let out a thick laugh that cut through the silence of the dim alley. His glasses, flecked with blood, caught a glint of moonlight at that moment. Phoenix cringed.

Kristoph took a deep, wheezing breath before speaking. "So…" he chuckled. "This…is how you end it." A thin line of blood streamed down his chin. "Unpredictable…as always…."

Phoenix swallowed. "Don't lie to me," he murmured roughly. He could barely hold onto the gun, his hands were sweating so much. But he managed to keep it aimed at Kristoph's face. For what purpose he did not know; the man was obviously not going to recover. "You knew this would happen. You had it planned from the beginning." His gaze met the ground. "Every step I took…every attempt I made at uncovering the truth…all those years…you were leading me on the whole time."

The dark splotches were seeping slowly across Kristoph's lapel. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted quietly, still smiling. "Why can't you accept it…? You've won. You've found your truth; I'm evil. You're good. Though…" he snorted quietly. "I have to admit, you firing that gun just now is making me reconsider…."

"Stop joking." Phoenix had a sudden, frustrated urge to shoot the man again, straight through the head. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Why did you let me do it…?"

"I'm…afraid I still…don't understand what you're saying…" His voice came out in rough gasps now. His pained breathing grew louder. But his voice, however thin it sounded, was still airy, mocking in a way.

Phoenix furrowed his brows. For some unfathomable reason he found himself fighting back tears. "You knew I had the gun….I gave you a chance to escape….Why didn't you…?" His voice suddenly failed him. A heavy lump in his throat cut him off mid-sentence. Strange. He certainly didn't feel any remorse for him.

Kristoph gently tilted his head and leaned it against the wall. His eyes were half-lidded as he gazed upward. A very contemplative expression replaced his playful smirk. "Now, of all times…" the mocking tone in his voice was gradually fading. "you ask me…why…?"

Phoenix blinked, struggling to grasp his words. "What…?"

"You've had this chance…" his words were low and rumbled from his throat. "to prove what I'd done…for seven years. And you have the nerve to ask me, at this moment, why I let you shoot…?"

"Gavin, what are you…?"

"Tell me, Wright." He tilted his head forward once more, properly facing Phoenix. "Why didn't you call my brother out that fateful day…?"

"You…" Phoenix closed his eyes again, registering his words. "You're talking about Zak's trial….And the special witness…." He muttered blindly, unsure of where this was going.

Kristoph coughed, spraying a thin shower of blood on the ground near Phoenix's feet. "You…were immediately suspicious. About Klavier's little 'trap.' You knew it as soon as Drew Misham took the stand. So why didn't you implicate him…?"

Phoenix opened his mouth to object, but he couldn't still couldn't form a proper statement. "I…I was…."

"It was because you weren't satisfied," Kristoph finished for him. "You knew it was too perfect. Too simple. You, somehow, knew that Klavier was not the man behind it all. And after that, when we first met…." He chuckled dryly. "…as soon as you laid eyes on me, you knew that it was I who had framed you. Isn't that right?"

Phoenix swallowed, trying to decide whether or not Kristoph was telling the truth.

"It's so like you!" Kristoph laughed suddenly, loudly enough to startle the other man into dropping the gun. It clattered away from him, toward Kristoph's side. Close to his hand. "…to know the true perpetrator. To know who the criminal was. But not to act!" Another spine-chilling laugh. "You and your ridiculous desire to know absolutely everything about the damn case…!"

"You're wrong!" Phoenix was trembling now, but from what? Anger? Fear? He chose the former. "I didn't act…because I believed in you. I wanted to hear it all from your point of view. I wanted…." He couldn't hold back a miserable sigh. "I wanted to forgive you."

"Well," Kristoph's thick, sarcastic chuckles seemed to echo endlessly through the alley. "I'm afraid you're too late for that, my dear friend." He coughed once more, and suddenly clutched his left side, where he'd been stabbed. "I find that in this predicament you've put me in, it will be quite difficult for me to find the resolve to apologize…."

"I…d-don't…." Phoenix could barely see– his eyes were welling uncontrollably at this point. He couldn't even think clearly.

This wasn't what he wanted. Seven years ago he would have killed to witness this moment – when Kristoph at last confessed, and been punished for his crime. Seven years ago, revenge, so far away, had smelled so sweet. But now he felt disgusted. Horrified. Obsession had driven him to madness, and now he was, by his own hand, responsible for the death of a friend.

Overwhelmed by sheer despondency and confusion, he slumped to the ground, soaking his knees in blood, and sobbed. "I didn't want to kill you!"

Kristoph slowly moved his hand to the gun lying at his side. He wrapped his bloodied fingers around it, feeling the smooth, warm metal. Lifting it so that it was aimed at his old friend's face, he at last uttered his final words.

"Neither did I."