Chapter Text
Jigen is never, ever late to things.
No gunman worth his hat can afford to be, honestly, especially not one working with someone like Lupin the Third: every little aspect of one of the master thief's plans are so meticulously outlined that being even one minute too early or too late to something can be the difference between a boatload of treasure and a lifelong jail sentence. Over the years they've worked together, they've learned each other's tactics down to the moment, and Lupin knows that Jigen is never late.
So why is he late?
The tension in the hideout is nearly palpable. It hadn't been a complicated gig, really—get in, grab the jewels, evade Zenigata, and get out. Jigen's job had been to watch their backs from a nearby building, as is usually his duty when the heist doesn’t require him to do something more involved, and he was supposed to have gone straight back to the hideout after Lupin had made his getaway and Goemon covered their retreat. It’s a role Jigen’s settled into well at this point, and he knows how it goes. If ever he delays, chances are Zenigata or one of his lackeys will be able to catch sight of and follow him, and while Pops is easy enough to evade, it would be annoying to have to pack everything up and go out on the run again. Jigen doesn’t compromise things like that. Maybe he’d just gone back out after the getaway for cigs or a drink.
Even so, it leaves a nasty taste in Lupin’s mouth. Sure, the gunman’s his own guy, but they’re the kind of their-own-guys that let other their-own-guys know when they’re about to vanish. Life’s too dangerous in this line of work otherwise, no matter how much of the strong and silent type Jigen likes to be. Not to mention that leaving the hideout again now is about as helpful as pulling out a giant siren and a megaphone and shouting ‘HERE WE ARE! COME ARREST US!’, which will probably just make Jigen want to kill him more than usual. If Goemon doesn’t get to him first.
There’s a rattle at the doorknob and before Lupin can move, Goemon’s already on his feet with his sword at the ready. They both relax again, though, when the figure who pushes it ajar is the devil they’ve been speaking of.
Jigen looks tired, and Lupin scoots over on the sofa expectantly. There’s a celebratory glass of cold bourbon on the coffee table for him, but Jigen doesn’t take it; he just steps in, shuts the door, turns the lock, and leans back against the wall. He pushes his hat lower on his head, crosses one ankle, reaches into his jacket for a box of cigarettes. Mechanical actions, one after the other. Lupin’s brow furrows again. “Hey, Jigen. You feeling all right there?”
Jigen doesn’t say a word, just grunts and picks out a cigarette. Lupin watches him for a moment more before giving up on it and picking up Jigen’s bourbon, taking a sip. He was probably just having one hell of a bad day. Maybe some pretty person slighted him again or something—wouldn’t be the first time. “All right, then. You snooze, you lose. Mmm, twenty-year straight bourbon, delicious and only for Lupin the Third.”
Nothing. Not even a roll of the heavily hatted eyes. Even Goemon’s cracked an eye open to glare at Lupin loudly interrupting his tranquility, but Jigen—who never fails to either play along or wrestle him into submission, whichever option the situation best calls for—is focusing single-mindedly on the cigarette now held between his middle and trigger fingers. He reaches back into his jacket, feels around, extracts a lighter. He tries to strike it once, twice, three times. Every time, his thumb slips.
That’s when Lupin notices his hands are shaking.
Lupin has seen Jigen’s hands shaking once before. They’d been somewhere in Belarus and some assassin or another had slipped poison into his drink. They’d found the antidote, of course, or Jigen wouldn’t be here right now, but ever since then Lupin had had the faint recurring terror that one day he’d see those steady hands, those hands that could strike a man through the heart from half a mile away, that could shoot a bullet clean out of its path in the air, shaking again.
They’re shaking.
Lupin is on his feet in a heartbeat, but he’s already too slow. Jigen folds like he’s made of paper, legs giving out under him and dropping him to the carpeted floor with a whumf that’s far too quiet for the cataclysmic weight the gesture carries. Like the world isn’t caring enough about the fact that Jigen Daisuke is on the floor, and that Jigen Daisuke is still doing his best to get back on his feet, and that now Lupin’s rushed over to him to cradle his head and lie him on his back he can see the blood starting to drip from beneath his jacket.
Goemon moves to help. The samurai doesn’t waste time trying to wrestle the jacket from Jigen’s shoulders—there’s a pale flash and the jacket is a nest of fabric beneath him, revealing the deep, ugly knife wound right below his ribs that’s already thoroughly stained his shirtfront an ugly red.
“Jesus, Jig,” Lupin breathes, in horror. “How did you get here?”
“Adrenaline,” Jigen manages between slow gasps. “I didn’t- agh- didn’t think it was that bad.”
“You were stabbed, you idiot!” Lupin tries to force the shakiness from his voice, tries to switch it with the casual confidence that is his hallmark. It’s second nature, but even so, it’s hard to find when Jigen, a man important enough that no word does him justice, is bleeding all over the floor. “Why didn’t you…”
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence for Jigen to know what he means. “Woulda gotten us all caught. Pops woulda picked up on the hospital records right away. I’m tired of gettin’ caught, man.”
Jigen. Tired. Jigen’s always tired, but for some reason, this time he really sounds it. Like he means it. Against his will, Lupin’s throat seizes up on him, and for once in his life he can’t think of what to say.
“How’d it happen?” he settles on eventually. It isn’t the right thing to ask, not for this time or this place, but he needs to know which house he needs to burn to the ground, if nothing else.
Jigen opens his mouth, then shuts it again, and wonders how to explain things.
In his mind’s eye, it happens again. Lupin’s stupid little Fiat is revving its engine and Jigen’s just climbed down from the rooftop upon which he was stationed, smirking at another job well done. He turns the corner, and Lupin’s leapt into the driver’s seat and is yelling for Goemon to get in while Goemon sits on top instead and they don’t have the time to argue about it, but Lupin’s grinning with the thrill and that alone is enough to reassure Jigen from where he stands in the nearby alley. Nothing goes wrong when Lupin lets himself grin.
That’s when Jigen steps further from the alley, and sees the owner’s bodyguard barely five steps away, taking aim straight through the Fiat’s window at Lupin’s skull.
Jigen has scant seconds to react. It’s not enough time to think straight, but it’s enough time for the fastest draw in the country to bring the Magnum up and fire.
He’s not standing at the right angle, and the bodyguard is in military armour. He howls and spins to face him, clutching his side, but it hasn’t punched through the kevlar and it’s not close enough to his vitals and God damn it , that was the last bullet in the round. Jigen fumbles in his jacket for more, and he knows there’s more, but his fingers keep missing them and the bodyguard is recovering fast and Lupin isn’t out of the zone of danger yet and he has to think of some way to delay him, there has to be something, what can he do?
The bodyguard sees him hesitating, and takes the opportunity to aim his big ugly semiautomatic back at the Fiat, and Jigen may be panicking but he’s also fast and smart.
His hand closes around two more bullets in his pocket.
The gun is loaded in a matter of milliseconds and Jigen shoots again, with intent. This time, he doesn’t make the same mistake. The bodyguard’s weapon is blasted from his grip, spinning, and it flies skywards, spinning, in slow motion, spinning.
It clatters to the ground at the same moment the Fiat finally skids around the corner and out of sight, safe and sound. Lupin will get back to the hideout, and he’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. It rings like a mantra. They’ll all be fine.
Until the bodyguard throws himself at him with a knife.
Thank God he had the foresight to have put two bullets in; a habit born from his years of work, and it serves him well. He fires the second one then, flying as straight and as true as his bullets always have, and at this new and closer range Jigen has a better angle and the metal slices clean through his jugular. It’s a remarkably symmetrical shot, and even Jigen is impressed with himself. Perfect red. Right beneath his chin, right through his throat.
It takes a couple of long seconds for the man to die, and it takes those same long seconds for Jigen to realize that his bullet has not been the only thing to strike home.
The bodyguard’s limp arm has buried its jagged hunting knife hilt-deep in his stomach, and the longer Jigen looks at it the more he feels it. He’s going lightheaded by the time he (foolishly) wrenches it free, and the wave of nausea that follows as he does his best to tear ribbons off his dead foe’s shirt and packs them over the wound makes it hard to stand.
He can’t walk to a hospital, he’s never been in this city before, doesn’t know where they are. Calling an ambulance would be as good as arresting himself, as he’s still on a fresh crime scene, next to a body he’s gunned down with his own hand. There is one place on the planet where he will be safe.
He needs to get back.
He starts walking.
“-gen!” Somebody’s shaking him, and God, that’s agonizing. He pushes at the hands on his shoulders feebly, and an angry quiet voice says something too far away to discern through the ringing in his ears, and they release him. A face comes back into focus above his own, and it’s Lupin again. “Listen, buddy, just hang in there. Goemon’s doing bandages. It’ll only take a minute, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time, okay? Just hold on. Can’t have you dipping out on us now, right? Okay. Just hold on.”
It’s words. It’s all words. They make sense theoretically, but Jigen isn’t really following them. He blinks a couple of times, hard, to keep Lupin there.
Christ, his lungs hurt. The knife must have punctured one, if not both. At least smoking wasn’t what destroyed them, in the end—that brings him some small, petty satisfaction, although he isn’t sure why. It certainly shouldn’t have brought him any satisfaction at all, seeing Lupin clutch at his shirt collar like a drowning man, like Jigen was going under and there wasn’t anything he could do but watch and plead for him to stay afloat.
Jigen starts to say something, but he coughs, and his lips suddenly taste metallic. He hears Goemon make a choked noise and press his hands tighter over the wound, struggling to keep the blood where it was supposed to be.
“Jigen, please,” Lupin pleads, and his voice is so small, so desperate.
It takes everything he has, but Jigen slowly raises one hand and brings it around to bury his fingers in Lupin’s hair. It feels nice. Not so short as to be prickly. Just kind of soft.
It’s an admission of defeat. Both of his partners staunchly resist it. “You will be fine, Jigen,” Goemon is saying over and over from where he’s working at Jigen’s abdomen, like a promise he’s too scared to let go of for the fear it won’t be true. “Don’t… you will be fine.” It’s a nice promise, but Jigen is starting to realize just how tired he’s been for longer than he can remember. The fuzzy grey feeling nudging gently behind his eyes is threatening to crawl in front of them regardless of how tightly Lupin’s clinging to him, trying to keep it at bay.
Despite the pain, despite everything, despite how hard it’s getting to keep breathing, Jigen feels the corners of his lips turn upwards. So he does care, a part of his brain says snidely, although for the past few years there’s never been any doubt.
There’s a dark line in his vision he can’t see over, and a part of Lupin’s face is obscured as a result, and although Jigen’s well used to its presence, he feels as though he should be able to see all of him at a time like this. He struggles to form the words for a moment, but Lupin understands, and carefully lifts his hat from his head, laying it aside with a reverence Jigen appreciates. In thanks, Jigen gently strokes the soft wispy hairs at the back of Lupin’s neck and feels a spot of something cold and wet fall onto his shoulder. It hurts more than the knife did, not because of the impact, but because of what it means.
“Don’t… cry,” he whispers with everything he has, and brings his hand around to hold the side of Lupin’s face. It’s screwed up in a mix of desperate emotions he can’t quite name, and he realizes, not for the first time, that he doesn’t want Lupin to suffer. He wants to see Lupin’s face next to his when they’ve all grown old, fond in that reckless way he always is. He doesn’t want to see Lupin crying over him. Nothing else can drag Lupin to tears—he doesn’t want to be that solitary break in Lupin’s judgement.
Lupin just shakes his head, gritting his teeth.
Suddenly, Jigen’s scared. He’s wondered how he was going to die for years, but never once did he imagine something like this. A renowned gunman, the fastest draw on this side of the ocean, going down to a stab wound taken to save his boss. His partner. His friend. His. All three? More?
He must let it show on his face, because Lupin lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh and holds Jigen’s scruffy face in his palms. Neither of them say a word.
Goemon shakily whispers something to Lupin, and although Jigen can’t hear it, he can tell by the way Lupin swallows that it’s not good. The carpet is rough against his elbows. The blood is damp and sticky on his abdomen. The air conditioning is turned up a little too high. There’s a tiny gravel pebble in his right shoe.
The samurai shifts to sit next to his head and leans down, brushing hair off his forehead with a worn thumb, and Jigen appreciates it. His throat tries to work, but his tongue catches the words before they come out.
“Please,” Lupin begs, “please,” and Jigen feels it more than he hears it.
He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to tell Lupin in return, but deep down, he feels like Lupin knows it anyway.
He doesn’t close his eyes. He can’t bear to let either of them go.