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“I can take care of myself,” Simon tells everyone after his release, hand hovering above his blade just long enough to get the message across. Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth drops him off outside the building to his new apartment. Simon has a crisp copy of the bus timetable and a set of house keys.
“I will see you on Monday,” Edgeworth says before driving away.
He will not see Simon on Monday. He will not see Simon on Tuesday or Wednesday, either. Somehow between Sunday evening and the next dawn, Simon crumbles apart. The lights stay on no matter how long he waits. No one directs him to showers or tells him when to sleep. The food in the fridge remains always, to be consumed or ignored. Faced with such endless autonomy, Simon balks. He has lost pieces of himself, in prison and in the courtroom fight for freedom. They have been discarded along the path when he had to account for the burden of their weight. Whatever little core of him remains is sentient and breathing, but not much else. He is likely losing his mind. He has certainly lost his job.
There are phone calls, the first few days, until the phone dies a scant three feet from its charger. Knocks sound at the door after that, paired with voices calling tentatively through the cracks. These too leave him alone, in the end. Simon sits in the dark of his kitchen at the table with his eyes closed, miserably at peace.
Then Athena breaks the window.
“Hey, Simon,” she says casually, climbing through the frame. Her left palm leaves a smear of blood on the windowsill.
“What are you doing? Why are you bleeding?” Simon demands. He ignores the lightheadedness of rising too quickly. Athena stands on her own two feet on his cheap oatmeal colored carpet, surrounded by glittering glass.
“Am I?” Athena looks down at her hand, surprised. “Oh, here it is.” She pulls out an inch long sliver of glass from her palm and tosses it onto the table. Her upturned palm fills with fresh flowing blood.
“Stop!” Simon casts around for a clean cloth - a dishrag - a tissue. Athena overlooks his panic to set down a carry-out bag full of Chinese food on the counter.
“Oop,” she says cheerfully, fishing out a handful of the cheap white paper napkins. “Got a little on the outside. I promise the food is Athena-blood-free, though.”
Simon snatches the napkins and presses them hard against her palm. She winces.
“Miiiiight be a little more glass in there,” she admits sheepishly. Simon swears, putting the napkins aside and dragging her over to the sink by the wrist. He runs the water and sticks her hand underneath. He locates two more slivers of glass and removes them before pressing the napkins back to the wound.
“You foolish girl,” Simon says darkly. “Look what you’ve done. Who is going to replace that glass?”
“You make more money than I do,” Athena answers cheekily.
“You don’t know what I make,” Simon points out.
“Doesn’t matter,” Athena sighs. “I know what I make. Anyway, quit fussing. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“All wounds begin with the flesh.”
“Not ones in the heart!” Athena says, impassioned.
Your heart is hurty! Widget adds helpfully.
“If you’ve come to force behavioral therapy on me like some kind of rescue dog, I swear-”
Athena kisses him. It’s easy to do, since he’s bent over her injured hand. It’s a brief, impulsive, dry little press of mouth on mouth.
“What was that?” Simon asks, shaken.
“A greeting. Like bonjour!” Athena grins. “Just a friendly little kiss, nothing to worry about. I do it all the time, you’ll get used to it.”
“All the time? Not at work.” Athena hums a little in response. “You kiss Justice with that mouth?” Simon asks, outraged.
“Not regularly,” Athena shrugs. “Why, did you want to start? He doesn’t like it. He gets all flustered. Trucy and Klavier don’t mind, if you wanted to work your way up.”
“Stop kissing people,” Simon orders. “Myself included.”
“You don’t mean that,” Athena says archly, and she kisses him again. She sort of misses this time because he’s straightened up; it lands somewhere along his jawline. He shivers involuntarily.
“Wait,” he says, and finds himself a little breathless. It has been a long time since he has had a soft touch.
“No thanks,” Athena says, and licks a stripe up the side of his throat. “Salty,” is her evaluation. “You need a shower, I think.”
Simon lets go; he moves so that the table is between them, a hand to his neck, pressing his palm to the memory of her little pink tongue. “You cannot just… barge in here and…”
Athena steps past him to open a cabinet door. It is empty, of course, as is the next one. “Not even a single glass for water? I’m parched! It’s thirsty work to shimmy up four stories in this heat.”
“No one asked you to,” Simon snarls. “Get out!”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Athena says, heading back to the window.
“What are you doing?” Simon cries as she reaches toward the bloodied frame again.
“Going to the corner store for drinks? I’ll only be a minute, you can shower in the meantime.” Athena tilts her head and her ponytail swishes, like a puppy’s ears. A terrifying, disturbing puppy. It occurs to Simon that the little girl with the blood spattered grin hadn’t changed quite as much as he thought, after all these years. She still scares the shit out of him.
“Use the door,” Simon orders.
“No can do,” Athena shakes her head, hands on her hips. “You’ll just lock it on me! The window is tried and true.”
“You could at least leave that way,” he insists. He should have enough time to block the window with the furniture, if he’s quick about it.
“No way,” Athena points at him accusingly. “If you see me struggling and bleeding and climbing up and down four stories in the rain-”
“It isn’t raining,” Simon protests.
“The point! Being! That you’ll feel too sorry for me to leave me out there that way. I’ve got you all figured out, Prosecutor Blackquill!” Athena grins brightly with all her teeth.
“Do you now?” Simon sneers.
“God, I really hope so,” Athena says more quietly and Simon looks at her - really looks at her.
The yellow skirt is smudged in black, filthy from shimmying up the drainpipe; her tights are torn along one side. The blood is running a little down her fingers, dripping onto the carpet where it will surely stain. She has lines of care and little sleep around her bright blue eyes and she is looking at him like she wants to put him in her pocket and take him with her wherever she goes.
Simon looks away. “You can take the spare key from the hook near the door,” he mutters.
Simon slides the couch in front of the window over the worst of the mess. He only plans to sit for a moment, just to get his bearings… then he’s blinking awake as the key turns in the lock. Athena steps inside, plastic bags rustling on each arm. She sets them down on the kitchen table beside the blood smeared take out.
“Hey,” she says, holding out her hand. It’s the injured one, blood crusting the edges. If she’s not careful, it’ll get infected. She’s giving him this hand on purpose; they both know this. “Help me get cleaned up?”
“Very well,” he agrees, mouth dry.
In the bathroom, Athena runs the shower. When the temperature meets her approval, she faces him.
“Please?” she asks again, bloody hands outstretched. Simon does, at least, know how to do this. In theory. He slips off her jacket and hangs it on the back of the door. Her tie is next, then he kneels to roll her black stockings down, inch by inch. Several angry scrapes and bruises have blossomed from her silly stunt; they will turn dark in the next few hours. He puts the ruined tights aside for the trash. He tilts his head back and her skirt up. Simon kisses the junction of her legs, against the wiry curls. Then he withdraws, trembling. Eyes turned aside, Simon slips off her skirt, her shirt, her bra.
“On or off?” He asks, touching Widget.
“Off,” she says.
“Are you certain? You may need the advantage.” Simon tries to sound confident.
“I already have the advantage,” Athena says gently.
Simon powers Widget down and sets it on the sink. The last to go is the hair ribbon; with her long hair loose around her face she looks wholly a stranger. He holds her arm as she steps inside the shower. He stays where he is, just pushing the curtain to the side to reach her. The water gets everywhere, ricocheting off the curtain and onto walls and floor. His clothes are getting soaked; neither of them mention it.
He washes her body: feet, legs, elbows. He washes her hair, squeezing the excess moisture from the ends before adding conditioner, cleaning the pink interior shell of her ears. He cleans her wound again and wraps a washcloth around it. When he is finished, she does not get out of the shower. She looks at him from beneath her streaming wet hair. He pushes it aside and kisses her forehead.
“My turn,” she says.
Athena is clumsy with one hand so he helps her with this too. His clothes he treats with less care, letting them soak up the puddles gathering on the tile. His hair cascades down his naked back and she runs her fingers through it.
“Do you like it?” Simon asks in a low voice.
“I do,” Athena agrees easily. “I liked it short, too.”
“No preference, then.” Simon lets her guide him under the spray and close the curtain properly; the two of them in a tiny porcelain world.
“You can’t make me pick a favorite,” Athena tells him, adjusting his position to suit her. “They’re both you. You’re my favorite.”
It feels natural - chillingly natural when Athena’s gentle care turns to something else. First it is her hand trailing lightly against his erection and then, when she finishes his feet, she takes him into her mouth. It doesn’t take him long at all, the shower pressure at his back, his hands all over that soft bare skin.
Afterward, Athena has him dry her hair, brushing out the tangles. She leaves it loose and free, and she borrows a shirt that comes down to her knees like a dress.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Simon tells her as she reheats the Chinese leftovers in the microwave.
“Why’s that?” She sets out their drinks: unsweetened green tea for him, a pink sugary soda for herself.
“You’re a child,” Simon says, and he means it to be cutting but it comes out wistful. “You’re so young.”
“Simon,” Athena sighs. She climbs into his lap, crowding him until he has to push back from the dining room table to make room. ”You’re young. I know you don’t feel like it and what happened wasn’t fair but you are twenty eight. That’s so young. You’ve got so much life to live still.”
Slowly Simon brings his arms up around her, hugging her close to his chest. “I think I’m fired,” he says into her hair. She shakes her head.
“You’ve been through hell, Prosecutor Edgeworth knows that. It’s three of your seventy-three missed calls.”
“How many were you?”
“I’m hungry,” Athena says brightly, sitting up. “Aren’t you hungry?”
He is.
When Simon comes back in from running the trash downstairs, he notices the spare key is back on its hook.
“I thought for certain you’d have purloined this permanently,” Simon says, holding up the key. She glances up from where she’s wringing out the rag she used to wipe the table and more or less tackle the bloodstains.
“Why should I?” Athena asks, surprised. “It’s yours.”
“If you worried again, I thought you might want it. Perhaps that is an arrogant assumption.”
“I’ll always worry about you, Simon. But you’ve got three more windows, so.” Athena shuts off the faucet and turns around. Simon leans down to kiss her properly for once.
“Please leave my windows alone,” he requests, putting the key gently in her injured palm.