Chapter Text
It’s the eighteenth of June and Makoto is a live wire, bouncing on the balls of her feet and staring up at the hideous, sealed-over edifice of Junya Kaneshiro’s mind, rolling her shoulders to get used to the weight of her costume; the others are chatting around her. They’re speculating about the Palace, mostly, casual as anything like this is normal to them, and— she guesses it probably is, which is its own kind of unsettling. They’ve done this at least twice before.
(What are other Palaces like, she wonders, still tingling from her furtive personal use of the Nav last night— what were Kamoshida and Madarame’s minds like? Did they, too, see people as things, disposable and less than human? (Does her sister?))
She’s tempted to ask Joker, but he’s drifted off a little ways away from the team and is gazing out at Kaneshiro’s cognitive Tokyo with a distant look on his face she’s hesitant to crack, his hands in his pockets as a breeze drags at his coat. He’s still quiet, as Joker— if she’d had any expectations of him opening up in his mask they’ve been dashed, or at least warped. He’s confident, here, steady, but he still doesn’t say much.
That’s okay, though. What little does come out means the world.
Makoto is turning over the idea that people can change their whole demeanors the second they change clothes in her mind, examining it from as many angles as she can, when suddenly Joker straightens— turns— looks up, back at the roof of the bank, his dark eyes flaring red for a flickering instant, and then-
And then—
Makoto only doesn’t move to try and protect him because the motion caught everyone else’s attention, too, and before she can Yusuke has grabbed her forearm and pulled her away. She can’t process why, though, not at first, because what happens is that something bright-dark and terrible slams into the ground at Joker’s feet, a pillar of swirling hate erupting all around him so powerfully the pavement scorches and shatters.
As the smoke starts to clear she can’t quite tell what’s happening— there are figures, fast and violent, blades clashing hard enough to spark, a flash of red and black and wings here, stripes and madness there, and someone is laughing but she can’t tell who or if they’re even human, and—
“Ugh, I hate it when they do this,” says Morgana. He doesn’t sound afraid, or even confused— just irritated, maybe, and vaguely bored. “We have stuff to do!”
“Aw, don’t be mean about their weird mating ritual,” Ann replies, not missing a beat.
“I agree with Panther,” Yusuke says, and the dreaminess in his tone makes her wrinkle her nose. He’s framing the fight in his fingers.
“Wait, hold on-”
“It is always heartening when you, too, can see the beauty in their ecstasy,” he continues, plowing over her. She makes a grossed-out sort of squawking noise. “Such passion! Such fervor! Truly-”
“You’re making it weird again, Fox!”
“They’re makin’ it weird,” says Ryuji. He gestures to the fight; it’s clear, now, that Joker is fighting someone dark-clad and deadly, that his opponent is human but only barely, that this is nothing at all like the fights they’ve had with the low-status shadows before now.
Crow, Makoto realizes. It’s Crow attacking him, Crow slicing across his chest in a sickening bloody arc and sweeping his legs out from beneath him, Crow following him down to wrap a clawed hand around his throat, press a gun to his temple—
She can’t speak. Can’t breathe. For a frozen, unspeakable second, she genuinely thinks she is about to watch her first-ever friend die.
And then:
“Better,” Crow says, holstering his gun and sitting back on Joker’s thighs. His voice is bright and pleased. “Your reaction time could still use work, but you’re getting there.”
“I almost had you for a second,” replies Joker breathlessly. He’s— grinning, wide and wild, eyes bright behind his mask even as blood drips down his chest.
“No you didn’t,” says Crow; fond, indulgent. He’s bleeding too. “You were closer than you’ve been in a while, though.” He stands up, brushes himself off, offers Joker a hand. Joker takes it. “You keep misjudging your own force and then overcorrecting. It would be fine against the insignificant vermin in this place, but you won’t stand a chance against me until you get it together.”
Joker grimaces. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder. I expect you to keep up with me.” A pause. “And stop using your personas’ resistances as a crutch. I saw you switch to Girimehkala there— I’m not an idiot, Joker.”
“You use physical and curse a lot!”
“And almighty, and bless, dumbass,” he laughs. “If I’d hit you with a kouga…”
Joker sighs theatrically and sticks his tongue out, then smiles. “If you hit me with a kouga I’d be too busy being delighted to die.”
Crow doesn’t address whatever the hell that means. He just chuckles, neatening Joker’s lapels, and says, “Moron.”
“Yeah,” Joker agrees happily. He pulls a thermos from somewhere in the infinite pockets of his coat, passing it to Crow, and casts a healing spell; as Crow swigs the coffee soothing light washes over them both. He hands it back after and Joker throws back the rest— it feels habitual, practiced. “Ready to head in?”
“Sure,” says Crow. He stretches and glances over at the rest of the team. “You weaklings all set?”
Ryuji flips him off. Ann gives him a thumbs-up. Apparently they think this is normal.
“Uh,” says Makoto, fully aware that no it isn’t, “What— what just happened?”
Crow turns his gaze to her. Tilts his head. Blinks.
“Was it not obvious,” he says.
“I— you attacked Joker!”
A brisk nod. “Precisely. Come on, I don’t have all day.”
He turns on his heel, striding towards the entry, and— what?
“You don’t?” asks Yusuke, like that’s the thing that matters. Crow sighs.
“He’s scheduled me to do a bunch of time-sensitive shit without asking if I was busy again,” he says, waving a vague hand. As he falls back into step with the other thieves he does seem… a little more human, but he still— he just—
Who the hell is he?
“What, for real? Man, that sucks. You got school, too, right?” says Ryuji.
“School is a lot less daunting for me than it is for you, given I am in possession of an entire brain.” Crow sighs and kicks the pig statue they’re using as an entrance. “But… yes. So.”
“If you don’t have time I’m sure Mona wouldn’t mind navigating,” says Joker, frowning.
Crow waves him off. “It’s fine. It’s no worse than anything I’ve handled in the past.”
Joker raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Right. As I recall, the amount of work you did last year had no impact whatsoever on your mental health,” he says, dry as desert sand, “You handled it all really well. I never saw you do anything unreasonable.”
“Extenuating circumstances,” Crow says snippily. Then, turning: “Queen.”
His eyes bore into her, intense behind their vivid glass. She inhales sharply.
“Yes?”
“Keep up. You may be new to this, but if you’re half as good as Joker thinks you are I expect you not to slow us down.”
And that’s—
Huh.
They make their way through the palace slowly, not worrying too much about subterfuge; Joker’s explained that the area they’re in is fairly light on enemies, and the ones that are there aren’t that strong, so while it’s a decent area for Makoto to get the hang of moving around there’s not a lot of pressure to stay under the radar.
This is nice, inasmuch as they don’t have to be anxious; it’s also significantly less so inasmuch as the rest of the group has taken it as an excuse to start gossiping like— well, like high schoolers, Makoto guesses. She wouldn’t really know. Ann, Ryuji and Morgana have been chattering back and forth for a while now, occasionally looping Yusuke in to say something odd and vaguely poetic, on the subject of people they know and their opinions on the Thieves. Crow and Joker are at the head of the party, both focused and silent on their feet, taking out all the enemies they don’t throw at Makoto before they can pose a threat. Something about efficiency, allegedly, although it really feels more like a competition.
Makoto would join them instead, except for how the energy between them is… weird, and she doesn’t really care to try and insert herself into it. It’s not electric anymore— it doesn’t feel like they’ve formed a psychic link for the sole purpose of arguing and ended up a hair’s breadth from either getting into another firefight or making out about it— but she would still feel like a third wheel.
So it is that she’s with everyone else when the subject turns to her sister’s wretched intern.
It’s Ryuji who starts it, because apparently he’s been furious about the whole situation since the tenth— someone makes some offhanded comment about popularity, and there’s perhaps three-quarters of a second of dead air before he says, “God, can you believe that detective guy’s actually popular?”
“Yes,” Ann says, like it’s a rote argument, at the same time as Yusuke hums and Makoto grimaces reflexively; Ryuji groans.
“He’s so annoying,” he says. “Goin’ on about how we’re outside the law or whatever. The people we’re taking down are outside the law! They’re the ones doing bad shit, not us—”
“I agree, but one cannot help seeing where the concern comes from, particularly given the general public knows little of our goals,” Yusuke says. “Besides, what does that have to do with him being popular?”
“Well, he’s wrong. Doesn’t make sense people like him,” Ryuji grumbles.
“Being right about things doesn’t make you popular,” Makoto points out, visions of perfect scores and empty contact lists dancing through her mind. To think about anything else, she says, “My sister works with him, actually. He’s kind of a jerk in real life.”
Ryuji looks delighted. “For real? He’s got that vibe, but what do you mean?”
He’s condescending. Petty. Faker than a knock-off Barbie. Two points above Makoto on their last cram school exam and closer to her sister than she is. The worst.
She doesn’t say that, though. She says, “Oh, um— He’s just always seemed a bit disingenuous to me.”
“A lot of celebrities are,” Ann says, sighing. “I think it’s, like, kind of a defensive thing. You gotta always be on, you know? Not that I like Akechi necessarily, but…” she shrugs. “I think I get it.”
“He comes by Leblanc sometimes,” says Morgana absently, “I don’t usually stick around since I’m not supposed to be down in the café when customers are there, but he seems…okay. I don’t love that he’s so close by when he’s investigating us, but he and Joker get along, anyway.”
Ahead of them Joker shifts, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of his name. “Who do I get along with?”
“Every shady piece of shit in Tokyo,” mutters Crow. When Joker flicks his eyes back to him he continues, “Disreputable doctors, fallen politicians, the yakuza-”
What.
Makoto looks to Joker as he cuts him off, hoping he’ll deny it, but—
“-Ex-yakuza!”
No luck.
“No, not them,” Morgana says. He flaps a dismissive paw like nothing they just said was at all concerning. “We’re talking about Goro Akechi.”
Crow stops dead in the middle of the hall, spinning on his heel to give them a baffled, “Why?”
“He’s popular! We were trying to figure out why.”
They get a long look before Crow rolls his eyes and turns around, focusing back on navigating the bank with a disgusted little scoff.
Ann laughs. “Aw, Crow, c’mon— what do you think of the detective prince?”
“Haven’t we been over this?” he asks, hopping up a ledge without looking their way. He sounds bored and vaguely disdainful more than anything; if he cares, he’s not showing it. “I think he’s an obnoxious blowhard and his whole cutesy schtick makes me want to puke.”
“He’s not that bad,” Joker says mildly. “I like him.”
“You like everyone,” Crow snaps. He looks away, trailing his hand along the wall like it’s fascinating. “You collect freaks like trading cards.”
“He’s cute!” Joker insists, “Have you seen his hair?”
“His hair’s dumb, though,” Ryuji says. Joker makes a wounded noise.
“Okay then, ignoring how Skull is wrong and breaking my heart: second trait, he also has a phenomenal ass,” he announces. He spins around to face them fully as he says it, throwing his hands out with showmanlike flair and a grin on his face. Makoto almost trips over her own feet.
Crow must feel similarly, because he makes a choked wheezing sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a growl, his claws screeching as they tear into the wall. “What?”
“None of you have ever played pool with him,” Joker doubles down. “He bends like ninety degrees. It’s great. Also he’s smart and fun and I like him, but, more importantly-”
“He wants to arrest us!” Makoto interrupts, her face scarlet. She doesn’t want to think about Goro Akechi’s ass. She doesn’t want to think about her friend thinking about Goro Akechi’s ass. Joker, though, laughs loud enough it’s kind of shocking he hasn’t alerted the entire palace.
“Yeah, and god would I love for him to cuff me,” he says solemnly. He places one hand over his heart, laying on a pastiche of noble sacrifice. “But, alas, I only act in the best interests of the team.”
“Joker,” Crow hisses. It’s a shade off, something strangled and almost embarrassed wheedling its way into the possessive snarl in his voice. When Akira chuckles and bumps their shoulders together he twitches visibly.
“Relax, Crow, you know you’re my one true knight in shining armor,” he says. Ryuji wheezes at the same time as Crow tries valiantly to elbow Joker in the gut; he dances away, laughing, “I mean it! If I ever need justice-themed bondage, I’ll, uh.”
He makes a show of looking Crow’s outfit up and down.
“I know who to call, anyway,” he finishes, amused. Crow growls through his teeth. It’s hard to tell through the helmet, but Makoto thinks his face is pink.
—-
It’s the twenty-third of June, and there’s a lot about Futaba Sakura’s Palace that’s different, but the biggest change is not in fact an alteration or an addition but an absence.
“Where’s Crow?” asks Ryuji, looking around the dunes with a quizzical little tilt to his head. “He comin’ in after us for once?”
Joker hums. “Crow’s not joining us for this one. Mona, you’re on navigation.”
“What? Why? Is he okay?” Morgana asks, eyes wide. He looks up at Joker with earnest alarm; Joker rests a comforting hand on his head.
“Guys, look at us,” he says, amused. He gestures broadly at their outfits, at the glorious, maskless mundanity of them, and that’s, well, that’s— that’s fair, actually. Makoto adjusts her shirt uncomfortably, already overheated in the desert sun.
“Why are we like this?” she says. Joker blinks like he hadn’t anticipated the question, then blinks again and does that little flickery head-shake he does sometimes when he’s trying to clear his thoughts.
“We’re not a threat,” he says. “Futaba invited me in, and you’re all helping me. So…” He shifts his weight, tucking his hands into his pockets, and gazes out at the distant pyramid. “No masks, no disguises. She doesn’t think of us as thieves, really.”
“And that would make Crow’s continued anonymity quite difficult, wouldn’t it,” Yusuke murmurs, tapping his lip with one finger. “He hardly allows us even to see the shape of his face when he summons his Persona; I can’t imagine he would wish for us to witness him in any kind of day clothes, even a disguise.”
“Pretty much.” Joker nods, sighing. “It’s possible she might start to see us as a threat, but there’s no guarantee.”
Ann goes from devastated to hopeful in an instant, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “So maybe—”
Shaking his head, Joker offers her a gentle, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Even if that does happen, he doesn’t have a good point of entry. Yongen’s backstreets just...aren’t great, you know?”
And the thing is— the thing is—
It’s a good lie. It’s plausible, practical; more than that, he doesn’t have a single tell. His voice is easy and calm, his poker face utterly perfect.
But;
(But—)
But Crow could find a way to hide in an empty room.
(But it’s the fifteenth of June and it’s the first and only time she ever successfully follows the delinquent without him catching her eye and offering her a wry smile and a wave, and he’s leaned against a wall with his phone to his ear—)
But Crow would never, in a thousand years, miss a chance to drape himself over Joker, crackling out bloodlust and cruelty and backhanded encouragement while resting on his shoulder like his namesake, complications be damned.
(But his voice is low and soothing, coaxing-gentle-sad, an undercurrent of grief braided through his words as he says, “I know this is hard for you,” as he murmurs something too quiet to hear, as he laughs and says “Aw, they’ll be okay without you for one infiltration—”)
But Crow has another reason not to be here, and Joker is hiding it.
—-
It’s the twenty-seventh of June, and she’s realizing she does kind of like him, against her better judgment. She still absolutely doesn’t trust him— won’t trust him— but she can’t deny his approval feels good.
She knocks out an enemy in one hit and the sound of his serrated laugh behind her only adds to the glee of it, the pride.
“Hell yeah, Queen, that’s exactly what we need to see! Destroy them,” he croons, rich with bloodthirsty delight. She grins and shoves her hair out of her face, the pounding of her heart in her ears almost as loud as his voice, her attention still mostly focused forward as the warmth of the praise rushes through her.
They’re deep in the eerie, unnatural tunnels of Mementos, tangling with wild Shadows to train between changes of heart; the trip is mostly for Makoto’s benefit, she knows, and she wants nothing more than to make it worth it. Her training is far from done, but she’s stubborn and strong and she knows it, and the support on all sides is oddly helpful, really. Even Crow, although he’s harsh and unpleasant, is a boon; he’s startlingly encouraging, his viciousness turning outward and proud when she impresses him and cuttingly perceptive when she doesn’t.
It’s nice to get praised for what she’s good at without the tacked-on weight of an entire future. It’s nice to be good at it, and to have someone who’s better say so. It’s nice to clock monsters in the face and see them topple, and Crow’s hunger for violence is nothing if not contagious.
As the last of this batch of shadows dissolves into nothing she exhales, bouncing on the balls of her feet and shaking out her arms.
“This is kinda fun,” she says, turning to smile at the team. Joker’s not even fighting right now— he’s put himself on the backline and told her to figure it out, and it’s a rush and a half, even knowing he and Crow are both hovering close enough to cut in if anything goes wrong.
He smiles at her now, silently warm, and at the same time Crow detaches himself from whatever shadow it is he melts into when he’s navigating to sling an arm over his shoulder.
“Cathartic, right?” he says. “I mean, killing’s always fun, but there’s a special thrill to it when you’re making all the decisions.”
She’s never seen him fight anything but Joker. She really doesn’t like that he phrased it killing.
“Yeah,” she says, instead of that. “How come you two are letting me do this, anyway?”
“You need to be able to take care of yourself if you wind up on your own,” Crow says. He leans more heavily into Joker’s space; Joker makes room for him almost automatically, arm snaking out to hook around his waist in what could be helping him balance but is probably more just an excuse to touch him. “We make sure everybody can at least hold their own on their own, but Joker thinks— and I’m inclined to agree, mostly, although you still need…” A pause. “…work— that if for some reason neither of us can run tactics you’ve actually got the focus necessary to take point for the team, which will be a relief.”
“Brutal, dude,” says Ryuji. Crow flaps a hand at him.
“You couldn’t find your own dick if it had GPS tracking. Panther’s not much better, and Fox might as well live on the fucking moon. I’m not letting you space cadets accidentally get yourselves killed,” he says, “You’re remarkably skilled at physical combat, and with direction you’re goddamn exemplary at working in a team, but nobody is ever going to accuse you— or Panther, or Fox— of being the particular combination of tactically-minded and not distractable needed to lead one.”
“Well…”
“Plus you’d just make everybody do whatever looked coolest,” he adds, “…But I can’t really say shit there, because Joker also has that problem.”
Joker blinks. Then, mild: “It’s not a problem if I’m doing it on purpose.”
“Tell me that again next time you backflip directly into an Agialo,” Crow says, tugging a lock of messy black hair with idle affection. Turning back to Makoto, he adds, “You all are in the profoundly fortunate position of having backup and support, but it’s important that you have the capacity to function without it.”
She frowns. “Are you anticipating a scenario where we’re stranded without you?”
All that gets her is a shrug, blithe and uncaring. It makes her skin prickle.
“I’m not invincible,” Joker says, glancing at Crow with an unreadable expression on his face. Crow continues to be draped over him like a particularly pointy and emotionally stunted ferret, and says nothing. “It’s entirely possible you’ll find yourselves in a situation where one or both of us is incapacitated at some point, or one where it’s most practical to split up. It’s only reasonable to make sure you guys can still work together okay.”
“I…suppose,” she says, “Well, I appreciate your faith in me. I’ll do my best to deserve it.”
It’s hard to place how she feels about all this. Proud, that they think she has it in her; embarrassed, because she doesn’t want to upset the team; unsettled by the way they look at her, like they know something she doesn’t; and below it all, yawning and voracious, is ever-clawing hunger, a vast pit of desperation, the bottomless well that’s driven her to push farther and farther and harder and sharper for even a moment of recognition, even a breath of praise, even a second of trust of the kind they’re offering her so blithely. It’s a little dizzying. The sunless depths press down on her from all sides.
Crow’s eyes bore into her like glowing iron— like snapping chains and burning, like he can see the chasm, like he knows— and he says, “Don’t disappoint us,” bladed and dark, and for a single fragmented, eternal moment she can’t remember anything but wanting.