Disclaimer: Here's a random fact: Heero is not Toast. Here's another random fact: I don't own the creative rights to the Ace Attorney series, or any of the characters. :)
Rating: PG?
Warnings: Very, very, very mild swearing, smoking
Summary: AJ:AA. A little character piece-type-thing. Even Kristoph Gavin isn't perfect.
Author's notes: What's this? A fic that isn't Prince of Tennis?! :o -Stabs self with spoon-
I'd, um, like to point out that I've never been to LA, or indeed to America. n.n;; Don't shoot meh? (Despite the fact I just stabbed myself with a spoon, I am happily very much alive and would like to stay that way.)
Takes place sometime shortly before the start of the Apollo Justice game (the fourth in the Ace Attorney series). No plot spoilers. Or, indeed, plot. :D
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Damnit. Damnit. Not again.
Kristoph shut his eyes, trying to regain control of his rapidly fraying temper.
It was the eighth time that morning he'd caught himself holding a pen to his mouth. Well, twice it had been a pencil, but it was all the same thing really. His mouth had even tried to smoke one of his fingers a couple of hours ago. Now that had been embarrassing. Highly amusing, yes, because Apollo had almost fallen over himself staring at the shocking sight of his mentor absently suckling the end of a finger. But still embarrassing. Kristoph prided himself on two things; control, and control of Klavier. Which ultimately came under the same heading.
He glanced up at the clock without moving his head. It wasn't even eleven o'clock yet. Verdamnt.
'It's my only vice,' he told the clock silently, watching the second hand tick round in its neverending quest for the next number. 'Well, alright; that and occasional bouts of sadism.'
Satisfied that the clock was no longer judging him, Kristoph placed his hands flat on his heavy mahogany desk and stood in a single smooth motion.
"Justice," he said - no louder that he would if the young man had been in the office with him. Apollo always seemed to hear him.
Sure enough, Apollo's dismembered head peered round the doorframe a few seconds later. "Mr. Gavin?"
"Do me a favour," said Kristoph, smile gentle and serene. "Run along and see if you can't get some notes from the Prosecution's Office on my case this Monday, would you?"
Apollo blinked. "Um, yessir! But... I don't think they'd listen to me, to be honest. I mean, even you have trouble getting any extra evidence and stuff, so..." He trailed off. Kristoph's expression hadn't changed, but Apollo had worked under the man for just about long enough to work out that if he got even the remotest feeling that Kristoph was moving from pleasant to tolerant, then he should do his damn best to ensure tolerant didn't go to irritated.
"I'll, um, go then," he said, giving Kristoph a toothy grin that was supposed to appease his boss. "When do you want me back?"
"I think if you haven't gotten anything within half an hour, it's probably not worth pursuing," Kristoph replied smoothly.
"Yes, Mr. Gavin." Apollo disappeared again. Kristoph waited to hear the sound of the young man clumping down the stairs (Kristoph wasn't much of a believer in elevators) before he moved, walking briskly out of his office and down the little hallway, where there was a window overlooking the street. He wasn't worried about anyone seeing him - they were on the fourth floor, and no-one looked up that high in a city where buildings with less than three stories were an oddity.
His left hand slid into his inside-breast pocket - it was on the right-hand side of his jacket, as opposed to the usual left - and pulled out a thin blue packet of cigarettes. He took one out and slid the packet back in place; he didn't know what brand they were, and nor did he much care. They were Klavier's - props, of course, because Kristoph would be furious with him if he actually did smoke, rockstar image or no - and so they were good enough for him.
Kristoph had to pat his trouser pockets, forgetting where he'd put his lighter for a moment, before finally finding it. He opened the window, holding the cigarette in his mouth, and lit the damn thing with a sense of sinful satisfaction.
He held the first inhale in his lungs for a few seconds, feeling it seep into his chest before letting it go with a long exhale that chased the smoke out of the window where it twisted in the air for a moment before being lost to the breeze. Kristoph raised the cigarette to his lips again, sharp blue eyes half-lidding as he smoked the rest of it down to the filter, the glowing end heating a little circle on his slender fingers.
It was a highly introspective-style moment, but Kristoph was enjoying the Now - the taste, the smell, the unique warmth in his throat - too much to take advantage. There was always time for introspection, after all, with a mind like his.
He reached out of the window and stubbed out the filter on the outside wall, letting it fall down to the street below without caring much where it landed. It wasn't as though it could do anyone serious damage, after all, unless they were idiotic enough to walk the streets of LA with their faces upturned and mouths open.
A little hesitantly, Kristoph brushed back his sleeve to look at his watch.
Apollo wouldn't be back for at least another half hour.
The defense attorney took out the blue packet again, turning it between his fingers as though he was about to perform a magic trick with it.
Nodding his head suddenly, decisively, Kristoph took out two more and put the packet back. He laid one cigarette on the windowsill and placed one between his lips, fishing out his lighter again.
"It's my only vice," he said to the world in general. The world chose not to disagree.
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Sandy: Review…? Please? Constructive criticism warms me like a warm thing on toast.
Also, this was originally written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme in about fifteen minutes, hence the utter lack of anything resembling a point. xD But, um, yeah; I tries?