Disclaimer/Note: I do not own the Phoenix Wright games, or any of the characters mentioned in this story. They belong to the series' creator and Capcom. I am not making any money from this, so please do not sue me. This story was written solely for my own amusement and that of anyone choosing to read it. The fic takes place during the last case of Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney, contains spoilers for that case, and is unbeta'd. This is my attempt to patch up what I saw as holes in Apollo's character and interactions with others, specifically Gavin. Enjoy.

The Devil Is All In

". . .And that's everything I've found out about that case from seven years ago," Phoenix was still talking as he pressed the additional files into Apollo's unsteady hands. The young attorney stared at the man, mouth slightly agape in shock as he tried to soak in all the new information. Phoenix gave the young man a soft, concerned little smile. "There's still a few minutes left before the trial restarts. Any questions?"

"Are you sure?" it would have seemed like a pointless, ludicrous question if it had not been paired with that desperate pleading look, with the tremble of dry lips. Phoenix would have laughed it off if it had not been so serious a plea.

"About?"

"Gavin."

"Positive," there was no pause, no brief or thoughtful hesitation before Phoenix answered. He put his hands back into the front pocket of his old gray sweater, rolling his dark eyes up towards the ceiling so he would not have to see that crestfallen look on Apollo's face. "There's just one thing that I've never understood. . ."

"What's that?" Apollo asked miserably, opening his court record to review the many files, photos, and papers for the case at hand.

"When Vera was little, and the client visited her, she said that she 'saw the Devil' in him. But no matter how I look at it, there's nothing about Kristoph Gavin that would make some one think of the Devil."

Apollo steadied Phoenix with a dark glare, a strange look that seemed out-of-place on his expressive face. The helpless sadness fell away like a broken mask, the previously heartbroken emotion replaced with cold anger. Phoenix was taken aback; what was this about? Had he touched a raw nerve somewhere, hit upon some forbidden subject? The piano man touched the Magatama in his pocket, and was even more thoroughly surprised when row after row of chains appeared from behind Apollo. They wrapped around the young lawyer, darkening Phoenix's view of the courtroom lobby. The chains were soon followed by several red and gold Psyche-Locks; Phoenix counted three of them, and narrowed his own gaze thoughtfully at the implication. That was some secret Apollo was harboring but for—or about—whom?

"The Devil is all in the hands, Mr. Wright. Even yours, sometimes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a case to prepare for."

Apollo turned sharply on his heel and left the lobby before Phoenix had a chance to question him any further.

Kristoph Gavin had always come across as a very soft-spoken, amiable young man. He had a gentle smile and a no-nonsense attitude that Apollo had found refreshing when he started interning at Gavin Law Offices. His job as Mr. Gavin's assistant was often filled with boring and tedious work, but Mr. Gavin never asked him to stay late or tried to work him too hard. This is not to say that, when working on several different cases or with uncooperative clients, Apollo did not occasionally work overtime; on the contrary, he practically lived in that office while interning. He would arrive as early as he could and leave many hours after Mr. Gavin had touched his shoulder lightly and told him that they should both call it a night. Apollo chose to work those long days primarily because he liked Mr. Gavin and wanted to do everything he could to make the attorney's job easier.

In short, Apollo thought that Mr. Gavin was the best boss he had ever had, and after only one month of interning, he had already decided that this was the office where he wanted to work once he passed the Bar Exam and received his own attorney's badge. He even told Mr. Gavin about this plan, and the news was met with that quiet, closed-eye smile and equally muted enthusiasm:

"That's wonderful, Justice, but you may want to lighten up on your morning training. It's difficult to understand you when it sounds like you forced your voice box through a paper shredder."

Although Mr. Gavin could not understand Apollo's obsession with vocal training or where he had picked up the idea that he needed "Chords of Steel" in order to be a successful attorney, Mr. Gavin did not pry into Apollo's personal life. He did not ask about Apollo's home life or childhood, did not question the young man's distaste for tasks that required his carefully concentrated attention for more than the span of a few minutes. When Apollo suffered from intense migraines after staring at files for too long or—more frequently—from glaring at the computer monitor while checking for typing errors, Mr. Gavin would fix him a cup of tea and tell him to relax.

"It is important to concentrate on the task at hand in order to find and correct any discrepancies, Justice, but not at the expense of your ability to perceive the world around you."

Apollo trusted Mr. Gavin more than anyone he had trusted in a very long time. Although he did not confide his fears of failure or inadequacy, did not mention that he thought there might be something wrong with him that could prevent him from being a good attorney, Apollo felt as though Mr. Gavin knew all of these things and accepted him warmly in spite of those insecurities. Much of their communication was done in silence, body language and kind glances from across the room. Mr. Gavin was his mentor, and filled a role of companionship that Apollo had felt lacking for much of his life: perhaps this was what it was like to have an affectionate older brother or compassionate father.

But, despite all those things, there was something strange about Mr. Gavin, something dark that Apollo did not want to admit. It showed itself in condescending smirks and angry twitches at the corners of his eyes and mouth while on the phone with his younger brother, in the particular way that he squared his shoulders when talking to clients he knew to be guilty but was defending anyway. Apollo tried hard not to notice those dark looks. He would turn his head, would glance down at his watch or refocus his powerful gaze on pictures or paperwork until his wrist hurt and head throbbed with the familiar pain of an oncoming migraine.

Mr. Gavin was at his worst when he came back to the office late at nights after visiting an old friend.

Apollo did not know who the old friend was or where the two would meet. He only knew that he did not like the man for what he did to Mr. Gavin. Mr. Gavin would come back quiet and angry, with a tight jaw and fidgety mannerisms. He would continually reach up to adjust his glasses. For some reason, that act bothered Apollo. It was not that Mr. Gavin never touched his glasses when he was not agitated, but when he did it at these times it was unsettling. There was something about his hands that felt jarring to Apollo, some tiny detail his sharp eyes would pick up but that his mind was slow to register.

It was on one of these strange nights that Mr. Gavin asked his young intern to play a game with him.

"What game?" Apollo had asked with an odd feeling of anxiousness, a sinking feeling that settled low in his stomach. Mr. Gavin opened his desk drawer and motioned for Apollo to approach. He held up a deck of cards when Apollo took a seat across from him.

"Poker. You know how to play, I assume?"

"I'm not very good."

"You don't have to be, Justice," the attorney had replied, taking the cards from their case and beginning to shuffle them together carefully. Apollo squirmed in his chair, quickly snatching up his four cards when they were dealt to him. His face fell immediately as he looked at them: the eight of spades, three of diamonds, and the six and king of hearts. Not a good place to start. He placed three of them face down on the desk top and hoped for a something better to come up when Mr. Gavin dealt him the next set.

". . .Shouldn't we be playing for something?"

"Gambling is illegal in this state, Justice. I hope you're not suggesting we break the law," an amused quirk of the mouth followed this statement, and Apollo felt himself flush with embarrassment. He hid behind his remaining card, watching as Mr. Gavin calmly looked over his own hand. It was impossible to tell whether the attorney was disappointed with the hand or not, but when he only dropped one card, Apollo knew that he was doomed. The young intern chewed his lip thoughtfully as the cards were collected from the table and they each received new ones.

"Uhm, but doesn't the game require us to bet something, even if it's not money?"

"Then we can bet information, if you like."

Apollo's stomach gave an unexpected lurch. His throat closed around a protest, and he snapped his mouth shut quickly. Suddenly, he did not want to play anymore.

"If you win this hand, Apollo, you can ask me one question, which I will have to answer honestly, regardless of the topic. Likewise, if I win, you must forfeit a truthful response to my inquiries. Does that sound fair?"

"Y-yeah," he knew that he did not sound convincing, that he sounded scared and unnerved by the passive tone that his boss was using. Apollo found himself staring at the back of Mr. Gavin's hands, but quickly dropped his eyes to his own cards before he could focus in too closely. "Sounds fine. What happens if I fold instead of challenging?"

"You have the option of not answering."

"In that case, I fold." Apollo dropped his cards face down on the desk, as though touching them had somehow tainted his hands. Mr. Gavin arched a brow curiously.

"You didn't even look."

"I don't want to answer."

"Are you always this scared of being found out? A good lawyer knows when to take risks, after all."

Apollo swallowed hard, and picked his cards back up to play out the hand. This time, he had a pair of sevens—clubs and hearts—and the four of diamonds. His uneasiness lifted slightly at this prospect: it was not too bad.

"Call?" Mr. Gavin asked, his voice tinged with amusement. Apollo shook his head.

"I'll. . .raise you one question?"

"Not like that you won't. If you're going to challenge me, Justice, you need to do it with strength and conviction. This is a trial, like any other: act like you have all the evidence on your side."

"RAISE!"

Mr. Gavin winced a little.

". . .But you don't need to yell."—Apollo grinned sheepishly at this—"I'll call. Show time."

They laid their cards out on the table. Apollo grimaced at the results of the hand: Mr. Gavin had won. How was the man lucky enough to get three jacks out of so few cards? And what had he thrown away to get such a hand?

"Collection time," Mr. Gavin gathered up the cards, shuffling quietly for a moment before asking his question. "Why do you want to be a lawyer?"

"Because I believe in civil service."

"As a private attorney?" the question sounded dubious, was coupled with a wry smile that firmly said that Mr. Gavin was not buying the answer.

"There's no shame in getting paid," Apollo answered stiffly, lowering his head and tugging at his bracelet uncomfortably. "Besides, it was either this or the Police Academy."

"Why didn't you enter that career?"

"I thought you only got one question per hand?"

"Ah, but you raised instead of calling, remember?" Mr. Gavin dealt the next hand.

". . .My father said it would kill him if I joined a profession that could have people shooting at me. Also, I'm medically disqualified for any job that puts people's lives in my hands in the heat of the moment," Apollo's response was stiff, but it seemed to satisfy Mr. Gavin. He put all four cards down on the table to be taken away.

As he was watching Mr. Gavin check over his own cards, it occurred to Apollo that he could see very clearly. He could feel himself beginning to focus on the back of Mr. Gavin's well-manicured hands again, and he knew that in a few moments he would feel the routine pain of another oncoming migraine. Until then, he let himself stare and allowed time to trickle to a stop. Color drained away from the world, as though Apollo's brain would be overloaded by any sight more vivid.

Mr. Gavin had thin, not-quite delicate fingers. Although the attorney used nail polish and expensive skin crèmes to care for them, Apollo did not think that Mr. Gavin had effeminate hands. On the contrary, the older man's hands were strong and well-worn, as though—at some long passed point in time—Mr. Gavin had earned his living on their use. There were rough spots that Apollo could see along the edges of his index finger, and as he followed the small bones down to the back of the hand, the young intern noticed something alarming:

A pale mark that he had not allowed himself to see before, a scar that had been slashed into the back of his mentor's hand at a slight curve. There were tiny stitches along it, and when the muscles flexed, the skin above it darkened, coming inward in two spots. The scar appeared suddenly like a grinning mouth, the stitch marks like teeth and the shadows like the eyes of a demon. It was jarring, frightening, and altogether unexpected. Apollo jerked back in his seat, his trance-like concentration shattered as sweat dripped down his brow and into his wide eyes.

"Is something wrong, Justice?" Mr. Gavin had asked, but the voice and the hand did not match. The tone was smooth and honeyed, slightly concerned but mostly amused. Apollo was trembling when he picked up his next set of cards; three of a kind, queens. He took a gamble, and asked his own question early:

"Why do I feel like I'm playing poker with Satan?"

Mr. Gavin chuckled at that.

"The Devil is in every man's hands, Justice. Even yours, if you let him. But, this time," and here Mr. Gavin leaned forward in his seat, a cruel smirk on his mouth like he was hungry for the win and a dark look in his eyes. Apollo realized that Mr. Gavin was not playing him, per se, but was just using him to fill the space, the void that someone else had left. He was being used because Mr. Gavin knew that he could win; the questions were things he wanted to ask someone else but could not, because he could not beat that elusive someone else. Apollo raised his head and put his shoulders back determinedly. He would not allow himself to be toyed with like this. He would not lose this. "Call?"

". . .Raise."

"Raise." Apollo swallowed hard.

"I'll raise you again."

"In that case, my dear Justice, the Devil is all in tonight."

They turned their cards over, and Apollo lost, like he would lose every hand that night. He lost until there were no secrets left locked away, until Mr. Gavin had all the keys. Apollo talked about his strained relationship with his father, the mother that had abandoned him early in childhood, his desire to be a policeman, his choice to become an attorney. He talked until his throat was raw and he thought he would bleed out onto the office floor with honesty. He talked about feeling too small in a man's world where appearances were everything, his stint as an outcast in high school, the fact that he had been overmedicated and unaware of much of his adolescence. The migraines and his inability to concentrate came up; the way it hurt his wrist beneath the bracelet he never took off was mentioned.

Mr. Gavin kept asking, and each question was more personal than the last, until finally, Apollo thought that there was nothing left. He slumped back into his seat feeling drained of emotion and truth. He felt naked and vulnerable and like he never wanted to speak again. Mr. Gavin just picked up the cards and put them away. He bid Apollo a good night, put on his jacket, and headed for the door.

"You're the Devil, sir," Apollo said it with the numbness of an undeniable fact, clenching his teeth and staring at the desk top as he did so. He did not want to see anymore of Mr. Gavin tonight.

"Oh, but aren't we all, Justice? Aren't we all just devils in some great game? Don't take it too personally. One day, you'll be in my place, asking all the right questions and leaving nothing behind in your quest for the truth, and the kind of people who should be allowed to mold it."

Apollo prayed that was a lie.