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“Jiji~, Gogo~,” sang a voice from another room. Jigen rolled his eyes and if Goemon had deemed the call to be worthy of a response, he would have too. An announcement was going to be made. Jigen folded the newspaper and set it on the coffee table next to his snifter of scotch. Goemon maintained his seated meditation and missed the inquiring look Jigen threw his way.
Jigen sighed and leaned back against the couch, folding his hands behind his head. “No.”
“No?” Lupin repeated, making his entrance. “Why, Jigen, whatever do you mean?”
“I don’t wanna go wherever you’re going with Fujiko.”
“Hey! Who said I was going anywhere with Fujiko?” The thief straightened his posture began smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his jacket and patting away imaginary dust. “I take offense at the implication that just because I happen to be in a great mood that you somehow assume it means I’m gonna get the luckiest of lucky with Fuji-“
“Just spit it out, man,” Jigen interrupted. “Where’re you going? And with who?”
“Whom,” Goemon corrected quietly.
The gunman pursed his lips in frustration and gave a mild glare. It was the first thing Goemon had said to him all day.
“I’mmmm…goingouttothatlittleItalianbistrowesawtodaywithFujiko,” Lupin confessed.
“Whatta surprise,” Jigen grumbled.
Lupin was quick to interject: “BUT, and you’ll like this bit, I happen to have it on good authority that we’re going to get a table riiiight next to the museum head of security-“
Well, that gripped Jigen’s attention. Even Goemon deigned to open one of his eyes briefly.
“-and the museum director, AND the curator. I’m sure they have a lot of important things to discuss!” Lupin practically twirled his way to the door. “SO, you two are in charge until I get back.”
“Hey!” Jigen yelled after him. “Just make sure you get the intel. We don’t need you getting so doe-eyed and desperate that it screws us over when we make the big move.”
“Jigeeeeeen,” Lupin whined. “Have some faith in me. How long have we been working together? Ciao!” And with one final flourish, Lupin was out the door. The lock on the other side turned – an action Jigen found endearing, despite what had just transpired. He sighed. Lupin had a point: he hadn’t ever really let anyone down when there was a job to be done.
But now the apartment was quiet. Goemon had not roused himself from the meditative state he was in.
The marksman caught himself entertaining daydreams of lazy mornings in bed with the samurai, warm and drowsy. Or drinking and smoking late into the night. Almost childish things you imagined with your special someone when you were 25 years old. Jigen is not the sort of partner to spoil or dote, but he wouldn’t be opposed to buying the dinner or cigarettes. But, almost as quickly as the mental images were conjured up, Jigen would catch himself again and think that a pretty young thing like Goemon wouldn’t even be remotely interested. Not in a selfish or haughty sort of way, just…Goemon seemed like he had other things on his mind. Jigen should too, but he doesn’t.
Jigen furrowed his brow and tried to remember the last time he had a crush on a man. Or a crush at all, come to think of it. He was in his 40s and that sort of thing just seemed to be more of a young person’s game.
So I should confess, right?
He liked Lupin a lot, sure, but that was a bit different. Besides, the thief seemed a bit…excitable, a little high maintenance. Goemon was like a stone pillar, and that was much more Jigen’s speed.
The samurai and the dynamic duo (and sometimes trio) had been working together for about a year and a half now. There was something undeniably compelling about the thief - he managed to reel Goemon in just like Jigen had been himself. Goemon had proven himself an invaluable ally, and it’s not like Jigen and Lupin were going to say no to good help. Jigen didn’t really have a lot of concerns about working with Goemon, outside of the normal ones involving trust and conflicts of interest and I-killed-all-of-your-former-coworkers-but-only-because-they-shot-me-several-times.
He could keep a crush to himself.
But, to Jigen’s vague surprise, the team as a threesome worked well together. It was always risky adding one more body, one more personality. But the young man was a professional. Jigen wondered, for the millionth time, just what tasks and exercises specifically made up Goemon’s training. Lupin had clarified that Goemon had come from a clan of ninjas, not samurai, but all Jigen really knew about Goemon could be summed up as such: beautiful, deadly, ninja.
Jigen knew very little about his new co-worker, even after all this time. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, trying to do what he could to look as intensely at Goemon as possible, trying to get him to feel the stare that would wake him from meditation. When the situation didn’t change after about 90 seconds, Jigen gave up. He sighed, much more quietly and without Lupin-inspired exasperation, and took his hat off.
Goemon opened one of his eyes.
He watched Jigen knock back the rest of his scotch before opening both of his eyes and finally switching his posture to something a bit more relaxing. Or relaxed-looking, at least. The sudden movement took Jigen by surprise, and he coughed on the fiery liquid.
“Good evening, Jigen.”
“You’re always makin’ me choke, man,” Jigen said, once his distress had gone. If he had been more poetic, it would have come out as something a bit more like, I remember the last time you made me choke...it was the night of a beautiful full moon when you held your sword to my throat, threatening to take my life…it was happiest night of my life.
Goemon smirked, like he had heard Jigen’s thoughts somehow.
“So,” the samurai began, “What are your plans for the evening?”
Jigen almost did a double take. Don’t read into that, Jigen. He’s just bored. The gunman shrugged. “Eh, I dunno. There’s more scotch. We should probably eat, too.”
The samurai tilted his head just a little bit, just enough to shift his dark hair; loose strands delicately stroked his cheeks and chin. Delicate tendrils that curled near his ears. He regarded Jigen, as all things, with a degree of seriousness. Deep, dark eyes. They glinted a bit, like volcanic glass, and just as sharp. “What do you like to eat?”
“Uh.” Jigen paused. What’s going on here? “Um. Anything? Heavy stuff.” The gunman didn’t know for sure, but he had a very strong feeling that this conversation was going to end if he said American food.
“Very well, then,” Goemon said, standing up, effectively ending the exchange. Well, so much for that! That was probably as close to getting acquainted as he was going to get with Goemon. When Jigen exhaled a split second later, he noticed his heart was making to ram its way through his chest. Jesus.
The gunman lit up a cigarette and walked into the kitchen to grab more scotch. It was a modest get, this apartment unit, but it came with all the basic essentials. Jigen didn’t skimp on the second snifter, and leisurely walked back into the common room. It occurred to him that, for the good of the household, he should smoke out on the balcony.
But it looked like Goemon had beat him there. He stood against the sunset, hakama blowing in the breeze.
Jigen took one more step and, in a flash, Goemon had jumped over the balcony.
With a sharp inhale and an immediate coughing fit (another one, really?), Jigen ran forward. The cigarette fell from his mouth but, miraculously, the snifter didn’t spill a drop of its golden nectar. “GOEMON!” he shouted, leaning over the railing. He saw that the samurai had safely landed, 4 stories down, on the sidewalk. Goemon turned at the sound of Jigen’s voice and gave him a respectful nod. Then he turned back around and proceeded on his merry way, the clack of his sandals forming a relaxed and steady pace.
That man is going to kill me, Jigen thought to himself. “Jesus Christ,” he sighed. Then he smelled smoke. “JESUS CHRIST!” The gunman ran back in, and stomped out the cigarette that had been lying forgotten on the carpet. He looked at the fresh char mark with dismay, and downed his entire glass of scotch in one go.
-------
Goemon came back maybe 40 minutes after Jigen succumbed to an alcohol-induced snooze on the couch. An elegant eyebrow lifted when he spotted a dark mark on the carpet. Goemon shrugged it off and took his numerous bags into the kitchen, the rustling drowning out Jigen’s snores that sang out from somewhere under the brim of his hat.
Sword skills are not limited to battlefield applications.
Foreign grocery stores are hit or miss, but Goemon had managed to find a farmer’s market that was on the verge of closing down for the night. He got to chopping up fresh vegetables and measuring out different seasonings. The pots and pans that came with the apartment unit were meager, but he didn’t need anything fancy. He was not a chef.
But he could do this.
Cucumber miso don for a small side salad. Niku udon for main. Drink some of the leftover sake. Easy.
The small apartment was eventually filled with delicious smells. Savory, sweet, refreshing. The burners were humming, water was boiling. The sizzle of fresh beef hitting a hot skillet.
The sharp hiss woke Jigen from his slumber. The smell of garlic and onions hung in the air, and it was excellent. When was the last time he had something that was cooked in a home, as opposed to a restaurant? He wasn’t really drunk anymore, but a pleasant buzz rang through his body. “Goemon?” No answer. Jigen did a star stretch from his place on the couch before getting up. He yawned his way into the kitchen. “Errything alright?” he mumbled.
“Of course,” came Goemon’s formal reply.
“Def’nitly smells good,” Jigen agreed, rubbing his eye of sleep.
“Would you like to join me?” the samurai offered.
“…really?” The gunman didn’t want to look for signs of false hope, but it seemed like so many little things happened tonight that could be interpreted in some sort of desperate, carnal way. Like a bad porno, or whatever sort of porno this was. The anti-porno.
Courtship.
Goemon shrugged. “I cannot claim to be an expert cook, but there’s enough to share. You said yourself that we should eat."
"That...what?"
"Earlier tonight, shortly after Lupin left."
"Oh. I didn't mean, like. That. Us." Jesus, how was he supposed to get out of this one?
Goemon gave him an out, like any good partner in crime. "But please, do not feel obligated.”
“I ain’t gonna say no to free food, and you know it,” Jigen said, finally waking up.
He let Goemon dish up. Jigen wouldn’t have been able to accept the conditions of a free meal if Goemon somehow ended up with the smaller portion. Niku udon was something he was very familiar with, but the cucumber dish was new. Not a single bowl or plate matched each other, and every single one had at least 1 chip in it. The cutlery was similarly unmatched in style, but clean. Jigen noticed that Goemon ate with a disposable pair of chopsticks.
The food came out just fine, but Jigen wondered if it had more to do with the quality of the ingredients. This was a slightly-higher grade beef than was really needed for a comfort food. And the miso and dashi brands couldn’t have been easy to find in Belgium. The sake bottle was extravagant. And who didn’t enjoy fresh veggies? Jigen, sort of.
After 547 days, Jigen finally found Goemon’s first flaw: it seemed he made some bad financial choices. What was the logic in buying bulk ingredients when they were likely going to be on their way within 5 or 6 days? Or buying Asian goods in Belgium? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just find a sushi restaurant? It’d be expensive for a one-off meal, sure, but they would probably have to ditch the fresh stuff Goemon bought.
They ate largely in silence. Jigen complimented the chef, expressed even more gratitude, and made promises to get the next one. Goemon answered with as few syllables as possible, but made it known that he was content to contribute.
“Shall I make some tea?” he offered.
“Nah, man. You did everything else,” Jigen said, rising from his chair. “I’ll get it going.” He even began collecting the dishes to wash up in the sink.
“Jigen,” Goemon was smirking as he spoke, “You may start the tea, or wash the dishes. There’s two of us.”
“Why stop at tea? There’s more scotch. And it looks like you bought sake, too.” Jigen draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair and began rolling up his sleeves. When he didn’t receive an answer, he turned around. Goemon was at the sink, scrubbing out a pot so he could boil some water. He had apparently used everything to make dinner.
The gunman contemplated the back that was turned to him. The past few hours had been...well, something he would never forget. This was a win. As good as it could get.
Jigen smiled to himself and, with far too much anxiety to go with this amount of confidence, he approached Goemon from behind. “Thank you, Gogo~,” he said, imitating Lupin’s affect from earlier. He threw his arms around Goemon’s shoulders in a tight hug, and nuzzled his temple against the samurai’s. “Dinner was excellent.”
“Jigen!” Goemon snapped, turning around. “I’m not some woman!”
“Nah,” Jigen agreed, framing himself squarely in front of Goemon. His hands were on the rim of the counter, near the samurai’s hips. “You’re a man.” He grinned big and wide and confident, tipping his hat brim up with his thumb, to make just a little bit of room to lean in and kiss Goemon on the lips, just softly. At first contact, Goemon huffed out a small breath of laughter – the rough hair of Jigen’s beard tickled. Jigen did not linger. It seemed like Goemon, at best, was not going to react. At worst? He was fuming with anger. Jigen pulled away, making quick eye contact with the samurai before moving his gaze down to Goemon’s lips, and whispered, “Sorry.”
“Jigen…” Goemon similarly spoke softy, but the sound of his voice still came through. Still deep and incredibly masculine. Jigen loved the way it sounded.
“I. Uh. I just.” It was funny, the gunman thought to himself. If he had been drunk (or bleeding profusely), there would have been a mile-long explanation. But now that he was in his right mind, safe, and sober, he had nothing better than I wanted to do that. I always have. He straightened up. “Sorry,” he repeated, his apology sincere. He had barely moved, but he found he was almost gasping for air, like he had just finished a sprint.
It took a little bit for the samurai to come back to reality. “Nn. N-no, do not apologize.” Goemon’s cheeks were turning pink, and he hadn’t even been able to touch the sake yet. “It…i-it was…nice.” He tucked a few errant strands of hair behind his ear, while still looking at the floor.
Jigen wished Goemon wasn’t so damn endearing.
Not important right now, really. Goemon was here, now, in front of him, and slightly dazed from a very simple kiss. A kiss that Jigen had bestowed. He was on top of the world right now. Jigen grinned again, “Well. Good. I’m glad.” And maybe that should be that for now. It was late. Time for bed. It would be difficult to sleep with the rush of emotion, but it was the last activity that Jigen could think to do just now, without ruining anything. He adjusted his hat, rolled back on to his heels, and used that to segue into stepping away from the kitchen, to leave poor Goemon alone.
The samurai’s eyes flew open in panic, and Goemon reached forward to catch Jigen’s tie, pulling him close. Eye to eye. No hesitation.
Whoa.
Goemon’s motions were gentle, but there was a hurriedness to them that could easily become rough if he ever lost the self-control. Jigen tried his best to read the samurai’s actions. He seemed a little apprehensive, but not scared or nervous. The desire overpowered any fear. Want, want, want! Jigen pushed his thumbs into Goemon’s hips, kneading gently through the fabric of his hakama. This next kiss was not as chaste as the first. He dove in, mouth open, happy to give, give give. Goemon, overwhelmed, responded by pulling the gunman’s tie even more, to get them closer. He gasped, finally giving Jigen an opportunity to get inside the samurai’s mouth. The savory taste, the velvet texture, the heat. The frustrated moan from Goemon shot straight to Jigen’s dick, just as accurate and deadly as he could be with a bullet.
Jigen, gaining confidence, pushed his tongue along Goemon’s, stroking it heavy and slow. His hands traveled from the samurai’s hips up to his neck, and eventually cupped the back of his head. He finally got to thread his fingers through that fine, silken hair. Jigen gripped tight and gently titled Goemon’s head to one side to get at the samurai’s neck. He latched on with a searing kiss, before it evolved into a nibble, and soon that became a bite. Jigen sucked and laved at the resulting mark.
Good god, and those sounds Goemon was making.
So…virginal.
He almost hated how much that thought turned him on.
He didn’t hate it enough to stop himself from inching his knee in between Goemon’s legs. Much to Jigen’s surprise, Goemon got to work, grinding his hips slowly, but free of hesitation. Instinctual. The young man was beginning to lose that finely tuned self-control that years and years of martial arts training had tried to perfect. And that was the strongest aphrodisiac that Jigen had ever come across. “Oh, fuck, babe,” Jigen breathed out before he could stop himself. His fedora had been pushed back on his head, almost falling off, exposing his face. A look of sincerity settled over his features.
“Hey, Goemon,” Jigen began.
Goemon, for all his bravery and steadfastness in battle, could not find it in himself to reply. But he did look up, giving Jigen a full view of his beautiful, blushing face.
The gunman smiled fondly, fire in his loins. A wave of protectiveness surged up from somewhere within him, even though he was fully aware Goemon didn’t need it. He brought his hands forward from where they were cupped behind Goemon’s head, sliding along the pale skin, until they came to rest over the samurai’s own, still knotted in Jigen’s tie. “You can let go. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ah!” Goemon exclaimed, as if that was somehow the strangest thing that had transpired. He let loose his grip, but Jigen’s hands remained, redirecting that deadly grasp to a more comfortable position around Jigen’s waist. The samurai drew even closer, a pained expression on his face. Oh no. Had Jigen gone too far? The last thing he wanted was for Goemon to be uncomfortable or hurt in any way, but he wouldn’t let Jigen retreat. He slid his hands up Jigen’s back, and gripped his shirt. “Jigen,” he whispered. The gunman put his forehead against the samurai’s, content to wait until he was ready to talk. “I,” Goemon swallowed. He was so quiet. The closest to afraid Jigen had ever seen. “I don’t. I don’t know how.” He tried again. “I don’t know how...to get closer.”
Oh, was that it? Jesus. Jigen was expecting to be rejected, or berated, or to (finally) get his throat cut. But if this was too fast or too unfamiliar, that was no problem. The gunman could be patient. Had to be, in his line of work. Jigen leaned in for one more kiss, something in between his first and his last: saccharine, but daring too. He nibbled and sucked at Goemon’s bottom lip for just a moment before pulling away. Fuck, he was hard. He was happy. “That’s all right, Goemon. I’m not going anywhere.”
Goemon seemed to wilt a little, canceling his (nearly negligible) height advantage to bury his face into Jigen’s neck. The gunman held him tight. Maybe the samurai did need protecting every now and then. Maybe they all did. “I’m not going anywhere, babe.”