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“Hey, Pops?” Lupin pipes up, from his spot in the back of Zenigata’s old police cruiser. “Don’tcha think it’s a little rude to arrest a guy on Christmas?”
Languid and lazy, his feet propped up against the dip just below the window; Lupin makes no effort to shimmy out of his handcuffs. He looks right at home in the little space, despite the fact that his shoulders are boxed in tight behind the passenger seat.
Zenigata had been adamant that Lupin wasn’t to sit in said passenger seat tonight, stuttering out crudely that Yata would have it, should he be joining them- and that if Lupin were to exit the car to let Yata in, it would surely be an opening for escape. Lupin, of course, bit back that the proposition was entirely ridiculous, not only because if he wanted to escape, he would- no matter where he was sat- but because it was Christmas, and Yata surely had better things to be doing than listening to two fated rivals bickering.
The chilled winter air seeps into the space between the two men occupying the car; a comfortable silence settling around them like the sheets of tempered snow outside. Zenigata’s measly budget doesn’t allow for much in the way of technology, and so his car isn’t heated in the way it probably should be. As Lupin shivers, however, the inspector not-so-subtly slides a blanket under his seat and backwards- willing the thief to wrap up without words.
With a subtle, smug little smile, Lupin keeps his eyes fixed on the sprawling French fields drifting by just outside the window as he lifts the blanket from the ground. It smells of smoke and hair product and Lupin’s expensive aftershave. Zenigata obviously doesn’t use it himself. The thief tucks the fabric around his shoulders, trying his very hardest not to peer too often at his stoic driver. The knowledge that Zenigata keeps things in his car just for him is sweet, comforting, homely. It speaks to how often the two of them dance this silly little dance of theirs, and Lupin would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him want to stay in the cruiser longer than he really intended to.
He’s silent for a long while, lost in quiet, contemplative, Lupin-esque thought, but when there’s no eventual response from the drivers seat, he resumes his chattering- if only to hear his own voice.
“I mean- even for you, Pops, this is real low. What’s the punchline, huh? You gonna send me off to the gallows with eggnog as a final meal?” Zenigata huffs in response this time, but still doesn’t speak. Lupin, naturally, sees this as an indication that he should keep his mouth wide open. He tuts lightly and continues. “I haven’t even given Fujiko her present yet- you’re talkative today, aren’t you, Pops?- and I’ll bet she’ll be in a stinking mood with me later. Can’t even let a guy get lucky… on Christmas! Christmas!” He whines out his final few words, face distorted in a mockery of what he supposes pleading looks like. “That’s cruel, Inspector! Really. You should know better than anyone that—“
Eyebrow cocked, Zenigata swerves the car, hitting a pothole that feels like it must be a metre deep. This successfully cuts Lupin off. A miracle, really.
The thief wails pathetically at he’s thrown upwards, jolted out of his seat and into the roof. Zenigata, heavier than Lupin and wearing his seatbelt as all law-abiding citizens should, barely moves bar the subtle shake of his shoulders.
As Lupin nurses a rising, unsightly bump on his forehead, Zenigata finally speaks.
“Christmas is still a work day,” He points out. He’s holding back a boisterous, self-satisfied laugh, Lupin can tell- and it makes him want to pick his cuffs and shimmy into the front seat just to one-up the smug inspector. “I’m no retail worker, Lupin. I don’t get the day off. I can’t write ‘too busy making merry’ in the margins of my reports. I have a job to do.”
Lupin thinks this is almost just as stupid as anything else Zenigata has said to him today.
“Why not?” He asks, like a child.
“Because.” Zenigata replies, short and sharp and obviously verging on the edge of annoyance.
“Well?” Lupin prods. “It’s not like you don’t have enough holiday in the bank. I’m pretty sure you could cash in a year off if you needed to, Pops. It’s not like anyone else is stupid enough to fill your shoes. Besides, we both know they respect you enough back at the office to let you take the time off. So? Why can’t you ‘make merry’? Sounds to me like you just didn’t want to spend Christmas without me.”
The inspector turns red in the face, stutters for a moment, and then retorts, half-choked.
“Don’t kid yourself, Lupin. I’m saving that holiday for when you decide to go somewhere inhospitable.”
He’s lying. They both know it. He’d follow Lupin to the ends of the earth before he so much as dreamt of taking a day off.
Lupin, ever the gentleman, humours him anyway.
“Oh yeah? Where would that be, Pops?” The thief settles again, this time crossing his arms behind his head as he cosies under the blanket. “I’d like to go somewhere you won’t follow. Just once. I think it would make me appreciate all that effort you put in. What’s the saying? Something about a ball without a chain?”
Zenigata cracks a tired smile. Lupin watches, elated and eagle-eyed, through the rearview mirror. It takes everything in him not to giddily kick his legs out at the sight.
“Prison.” The inspector suggests, Half-joking.
He expects Lupin to laugh. To double over in the back seat, seized by fits of giggles. To crow ‘Tough luck, inspector! Maybe next time, huh?’ And kick out the door- to tumble out into the snowy night without another word. When he doesn’t, Zenigata casts a worried look backwards.
Lupin meets his gaze in silence.
There’s yet another pause, where Lupin is clearly thinking. Zenigata knows him well enough to almost be able to hear the cogs as they turn. He also knows that to interrupt this process is to entirely negate the chances of an answer. So he forces himself to turn back to the road and stare out the windshield instead.
It’s snowing heavily, now. Big, perfect snowflakes that fall down in clumps and stick in armies to the road. Hundreds upon hundreds of little white soldiers, parachuting down from on high to grace the countryside with their ranks. Zenigata wants suddenly, like a child, to pull over and stand under the shower of powdered ice. He represses the idea with a roll of his shoulders. He shouldn’t act on impulse. That’s Lupin’s gimmick.
“Prison it is!” Lupin concludes, jovially, from behind the inspector, before he has a chance to wrap up the implications of his previous thought.
Zenigata, naturally, pinches himself.
“Prison?” He echoes, almost beside himself. “Really?”
“Prison!” Lupin replies, giddily. He’s leaning forwards, over the lip of the seat, smile almost manic with excitement.
Lupin assumes this will be the end of the discussion, as if agreeing to arrest will have placated Zenigata just enough to assure a relatively quiet trip to his cold, dark cell. Because that’s where he’ll be going, he’s sure. Zenigata has long since given up trying to haul him to a station beforehand.
Instead, he’s met with a defiant retaliation.
“What are you playing at, Lupin?”
Huh. Inconvenient, but not the end of the road, by any means. Lupin is a master at on-the-spot improvisation.
“Who says I’m playing?”
Zenigata turns in his seat once again- he’s starting to feel a little like a pepper grinder- and shoots Lupin a sceptical glare. The inspector knows better than to take anything Lupin says at face value. Lupin is always playing, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. There’s always a game. He squints, trying his very hardest to read the thief.
“I’ll go to prison. Just for you.” Said thief affirms, holding a hand up, as if he’s taking some kind of scout’s oath. “Only if you…” he trails off, leaning sideways- out of Zenigata’s glare- so that he’s looking through the windshield.
“You should probably focus on driving.” He points out casually, and then he resumes talking as Zenigata grapples with the wheel in a sudden fit of panic. “Only if you share a cigarette with me. In the snow! Just one last time. Before I waste away in a cell. There’s a lay-by up ahead, I’m sure you can stop there, huh?”
“Stop?” Zenigata repeats, dumbly; as if stopping the car would be sacrilege. He has a job to do, after all.
“Sure!” Lupin chirps, trying his very hardest not to sound upset that Zenigata is as one-track-minded as ever.
“Why would I do that?” The inspector pries, voice hard and booming as he starts to get a little angry. He’s defensive now, walls up. “So you can trick me? I’m not stupid, Lupin. I know your game, and I know how to play it. You’re up to something.”
Lupin fakes a yawn, unaffected and amused by Zenigata’s anger. “If you knew my game, you’d know I always keep my promises. Especially the ones on scout’s honour.” He speaks smoothly and with his usual easy confidence, though every word is a bold-faced lie. He never did become a scout. He figures Zenigata doesn’t know that, though. For all he does know about Lupin, his childhood is entirely off the table.
Zenigata is quiet, then. He stares off into space, through the windshield and the snow and the clouds, and then he pulls the car over without another word.
Score.
Lupin tallies off a mental chart. Lupin… ten thousand or so? Pops… none.
—-
“Tell me you’ve got some Gitanes.” Lupin frowns, leaning forward- hands still cuffed- as he pops open Zenigata’s glove box and begins picking around for his chosen smokes. He rifles through papers and mint wrappers and loose tobacco, but comes up almost entirely empty. He does- however- manage to pilfer a small caramel, that he tucks into his pocket for later.
Zenigata, already out of the car and watching intently as Lupin wriggles, looks unamused as the thief helps himself to a sweet.
“Why should I?” The inspector asks, incredulous. “It’s not as if I smoke them.”
Lupin looks hurt. Zenigata never has been one for thinking romantically, but the revelation stings nonetheless.
“Well, I do.”
“I know.” Zenigata squints his eyes and digs into his coat pocket, producing a single, long cigarette. He blows a little dust from the end, sheepishly, and then hands it to Lupin with frost-reddened hands.
“You know? But you don’t keep them in here? For me?” Lupin leans further forward and grabs the smoke between his teeth, chuckling to himself as Zenigata pulls his hand away quicker than any composed person ought to. It’s like he thinks he’ll catch a case of terrible morals if he so much as brushes Lupin’s jacket.
The cigarette feels a little too thin, clearly rolled by hand, and Lupin holds back a rather obviously disappointed grimace at the feeling.
“No.” Zenigata answers, simply. He shuffles backwards as he rummages around for his own tobacco-filled vice, and then coughs, awkwardly. “Are you getting out?”
Lupin frowns at Zenigata’s bluntness. “Jeez, Pops. You’re not messing around, huh?” He whispers, under his breath. So much for a nice, calm, pre-jail-cell smoke.
Before he can speak louder, strong hands land on top of the car and Lupin figures it’s best to pick up the pace- if only out of fear of Zenigata changing his mind. He opens the passenger door and crawls through the front seat and out into the cold evening air, blanket still tight around his shoulders.
In long, languid, bow-legged steps, Lupin circles around to join the inspector. He can sense Zenigata’s sharp eye, trained on his every movement. Just in case he runs, probably.
He doesn’t plan on it. Not tonight, at least. Even so, he takes his time walking, just until he can feel that little spark of dread in the air. He relishes the tension.
“See something you like, Inspector?” The thief teases, as he comes to rest against the car door beside his rival. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t rush yourself.” There’s a scoff beside him, and he smiles gleefully at the reaction.
“In your dreams, Lupin. You look stupid in that blanket, anyway.” Zenigata replies, muffled around his cigarette. “I’m making sure you don’t bolt.”
Pushing his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he reaches over and pulls at Lupin’s cuffs- checking them in a practised routine. The thief is patient as he watches, uncharacteristically tolerant of the invasive poking and prodding.
It’s Lupin’s turn to roll his eyes, now. Though it’s harder to bury the urge to shimmy his wrists out of the cuffs than he anticipated it would be, he plasters on a placid grin for Zenigata’s sake.
“You got a light?” He urges, after a while, if only to drag Zenigata away from the exceedingly long time he’s taking to inspect the cuffs. He figures he could probably just take Zenigata’s, if he clicked his wrists just-so, but that would almost certainly ruin the moment.
Zenigata seems to pick up on this too. He looks confused when he meets Lupin’s eyes, and pats his pocket down just in case. There’s a second where he just stands there, wide-eyed at the realisation Lupin hasn’t pick-pocketed him; and then he fishes his lighter into his palm, holding out a flame to the thief with a careful hand.
True to form, Lupin doesn’t bother with a ‘thank-you’. He simply shuffles forward and lights his cigarette as he pleases.
He falls back on his heels and the pair are met, like always, with silence.
It’s not comfortable, but it’s certainly not hostile. Which, really, is… rare, for them. Though, of course, that’s not to say that it’s impossible. Lupin can recall plenty of times that he and Zenigata have teamed up. Those times- the ones where there’s some kind of bigger, more threatening or morally corrupt evil to go against- are filled with silences like these. And yet, while they’re cat and mouse, there are hardly any.
The idea that the two of them can fall so easily into those different roles keeps Lupin invested. Excited.
He’d have gotten bored a long time ago, otherwise.
The sky is slowly getting murkier; still webbed by clouds and littered with little white snowflakes. Lupin sets his gaze on the horizon; if only for the sake of avoiding eye contact with the man beside him. He likes the view, anyway. Might as well drink it while he’s still a free man.
It’s quiet where they’re stopped. Down a little country lane in the middle of what might as well be nowhere. Nowhere that Lupin would usually be caught, at least. He’s usually gunning for the high life; robbing casinos blind and sandwiching himself between pretty girls- blinding himself with the sparkle and excitement of big cities and sleazy high-roller attractions.
Then again, there’s a love of open space inside him, too. This greedy, persistent longing for open air and layered fields, just like the ones he frequented as a child. He doesn’t feed it quite so often, despite how often it bubbles up inside him. Maybe because it doesn’t quite fit his carefully crafted image. Maybe because such an open space makes him a little uncomfortable when there’s no one for him to share it with.
He takes a deep, calming breath. The crisp air dances alongside cigarette smoke and warms him from the inside out.
He is sharing it, isn’t he? Zenigata’s here. And though Lupin might find more comfort in the sight with Jigen by his side, he’s not alone by a long shot.
As if sensing Lupin’s train of thought, there’s the tentative rustling of a stiff coat beside him as Zenigata uncomfortably shifts his weight. His boots crunch against the snow as if he’s desperate to leave.
“They didn’t have any.” Zenigata confesses, breaking the silence seemingly out of nowhere. The rustling stops, like he can relax, now that he’s finally said something.
Lupin doesn’t catch on. Instead, he tilts his head towards the inspector, confused.
“What?”
“Gitanes.” Says Zenigata, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “They didn’t have any. You know, when I…” He shrugs. "Tried to pick them up. At a corner store in Chartres.”
Lupin still looks lost. Zenigata can’t understand why. He’s smart enough to know exactly what is being admitted.
Flustered, he keeps talking.
“I didn’t have much time, but I thought… Just in case. I…Well, it’s not like you’ve been laying low here for long.” The inspector chews his lip. “And before that, in London? Obviously they didn’t sell them. And I don’t earn enough to order them, Lupin. Not with the strikes, and the shipping, and definitely not while I’m paying out-of-pocket for a hotel room. I’m not you. I don’t…” He flaps his hand around, the right word lost on him. “Y’know. Do that.”
“…Order stuff online?” Lupin asks, casually turning his head back to the countryside in an attempt to hide how giddy he is.
He loves attention at the best of times, but knowing the Zenigata looked- just for him- feeds his ego tenfold.
“Sure.” Zenigata shrugs, accepting the answer despite it not quite being the one he’d have given. “It’s not like I’m ever home to sign for anything. And even if I could sign for them, Yata would… if he saw them, he’d think…”
The snow chills Lupin’s neck and he shrugs his blazer upright in a half-gesture. He hates how genuinely concerned Zenigata sounds, especially in relation to his co-worker. Isn’t Lupin the more important partner in this situation, anyway?
“Why’d you care what Yata thinks?” Lupin hears himself and cringes. Defensive. Jealous, maybe. He deludes himself that it’s because he cares about Zenigata’s confidence.
Zenigata doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders.
Lupin scoffs, taking offence in the inspector’s stead.
“Seriously, Pops. For someone who’s devoted his life to a race he’ll never win, you sure do care what other people think of you, huh?” The words slip out, as they so often do when Lupin is irritated, and he can’t quite catch them as he realises what he’s saying. “I mean, that kid musta had you on his wall growing up, and you still worry he’ll- what?- turn on you?”
Zenigata inhales one last string of smoke, pulling a quickly-cooling, almost non-existent stub from his mouth. His movements are clumsy, and he coats his fingers in ash as he leans back through the window of the car and pushes the stub into his ashtray; ever the complete moral opposite of Lupin, who had discarded his cigarette on the snowy ground when it was still only half-smoked, ever one for taking liberties.
“Wonder why.” Zenigata grumbles, stern as he pulls back from the window.
Lupin’s face contorts into an offended pout.
He understands inherently that Zenigata’s trepidation stems from him. How could it not, when Lupin spends so much time in disguise- pulling the wool over the inspector’s eyes without thinking twice about the consequences- but it still stings a little to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Not that he feels bad about it. Because he doesn’t. It’s part of the game, and they’ve both got pieces on the board.
“Pops, you’re the best detective I know. Better than Holmes!” He offers, trying and failing to grin. When Zenigata doesn’t respond, Lupin goes back to watching the clouds. “You don’t need INTERPOL to think so. Not if I think so.”
There’s a shiver from beside him- he catches it from the corner of his eye- and he tears his gaze away from the sky to look Zenigata up and down.
He looks a little pathetic in the snow, Lupin comes to realise.
Sure, he’s stocky- built for this kind of weather, in comparison to Lupin- but his uniform certainly isn’t made to last. Probably not all that expensive, either, considering the measly amount Zenigata actually takes home at the end of the day.
And yet, Lupin is the one standing in the cold air with the blanket. In his lavish, tailored blazer- wearing a watch that would probably cover poor Zenigata’s rent for a year or two. If he was a better man, he’d probably acknowledge that grating feeling as guilt.
“Here.” He offers, wrists still together as he grabs a corner of the blanket and offers half to Zenigata.
Lupin doesn’t give things up easily. He’s selfish. He revels in wealth and expense and luxury. He wants the world in the palm of his hand; despite how often he parades the idea that actually, he’s offering himself up to the world around him. He loves to plan elaborate gifts, to steal and plant sparkly treats in Fujiko’s pockets, to shower Jigen with fancy booze and smokes, to surprise Goemon with little pieces of home while they’re travelling. But sharing? That doesn’t come quite so naturally. Which makes it all the more surprising as he shuffles closer to Zenigata, blanket still tentatively grasped between a finger and thumb.
Zenigata looks mortified. First to be caught shivering to begin with, and then at the prospect of having to accept the blanket from Lupin.
Zenigata, ever Lupin’s opposite, shares easily. He’s always offering himself up, helping wherever he can and filling the world with a strong, resolute kind of reliability. He gives willingly, always happy to share his breakfast with Yata, to pick up extra paperwork in the office, to bail Lupin out of a tough spot against an even tougher foe. The issue, then, is that he doesn’t accept quite so easily. He fears the air of incompetency that comes with admitting defeat, Lupin assumes. He’s the same, though he’d never admit it.
“Oh, come on, Pops. Look, you can have the whole thing if you want. All of it. Just help me get it off, alright?” Lupin shakes his cuffs for emphasis and Zenigata scowls- obviously not a fan of the inevitable moral high-ground that might afford his rival.
Slowly, he reaches for the blanket and shuffles in, just as Lupin has.
“What are you doing?” He asks, as he pulls the blanket over his shoulder; lifting it a little from Lupin, who is ever so slightly shorter. Zenigata is suddenly very thankful for the heat radiating off of the body next to him as his cheeks flush at the sudden closeness.
“Sharing my blanket with you.” Comes the reply.
“No. No, I mean…” Zenigata fumbles for the right words, hand flying to the back of his neck again in the way it often does when he’s unsure of himself. “Why?”
Oh. Lupin swallows.
Zenigata keeps going when Lupin doesn’t immediately reply. “Why did you let me catch you? Why are you letting me haul you to prison?” He breathes, and Lupin watches it catch on the wind. “I don’t understand. You don’t have a motive. There’s nothing to steal.”
“‘Course there is! I distract you, and the others raid the Louvre.” Lupin tries to deflect through a forced laugh, uncomfortable now that he’s been caught out.
Zenigata looks as if he might pass out for a moment, and then seems to realise that Lupin is joking.
He glares at the thief, still looking for an acceptable response.
Lupin sighs. If he has to answer somewhat genuinely, he doesn’t plan on telling the whole truth.
“Holiday spirit, I guess.”
Zenigata sniffles for a moment- suddenly very emotional- and then quickly schools his face into a more determined expression. “I’m not going to let you out of my sight. You’re not getting out this time, Lupin. I’m locking you up for good.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He wouldn’t expect any less, really.
Lupin cracks a gentle, genuine little smile. He hopes it’s covered by Zenigata’s shoulder. The blanket is soft and warm.
“Ten more minutes. I want to see the sunset.”
—-
Zenigata stands, still drowsy as prison staff run to-and-fro in a panic around him, in the centre of what used to be a perfectly functioning prison cell.
Now, the wall is blown to pieces, there’s a dummy tucked haphazardly beneath the starched bunk sheets, and Lupin’s signature cartoon stares up from the floor with huge, mocking eyes.
‘Better luck next time, Pops!’ It taunts, a long cartoon hand pointing behind Zenigata- where an assortment of bottles lay either side of the cell bars, framing a chess board upon which only four turns have been taken.
Zenigata would be angry, usually. Barking orders and calling Yata in from his day off to chase his criminal adversaries down like a bloodhound on a scent. Instead, though, he looks… thoughtful. Grateful, even, as he tucks a neat, cursive note into his inner pocket.
“Happy birthday, Pops!” It reads, in Lupin’s distinctive handwriting. “Hope that sleeping gas helped you catch up on your eight hours. An evening off with me isn’t all bad, right? I knew you wouldn’t take one otherwise. Hoped you liked that sunset as much as I did. P.S. Remember that chess game for next time. I still have to beat you! -Lupin III”
Outside, Jigen’s already stubbing his cigarette out by the time Lupin makes his way to the fiat, parked a convenient distance from the prison itself- covered by the shelter of a darkened alleyway.
Goemon is silent in the backseat, looking a little upset that he wasn’t needed during Lupin’s daring escape. Lupin figures they probably heard the explosion if they didn’t bother to break in. It would explain Goemon’s furrowed brow and subtle pout, at least.
The gunman winds down the window, levels Lupin with a look that conveys a million questions he doesn’t really want answered, and then opens the door. Lupin slides in without a word.
It’s only when Jigen’s reversing, turned away from Lupin with an arm slung over the back of his seat, that they talk.
“Nice of you to tell me you planned on gettin’ your ass hauled to the clink.” Jigen grouses, manoeuvring cleanly back onto the road.
“I didn’t plan on anything.” Lupin retorts, as if it’s stupid of Jigen to even consider that he’d thought ahead, rather than flying by the seat of his pants. “Just worked out that way.”
His best friend sighs, long-suffering but affectionate nonetheless.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Goemon speaks, low and grounding, from behind. “Did you give Inspector Zenigata his gift?”
“Sure I did. I let him lock me up, didn’t I?” Lupin looks proud of himself as he reclines lazily in his seat. “I even stayed the night.”
Goemon raises an eyebrow.
“It’s not midnight yet.” He replies, slowly. Lupin can practically hear the smirk the samurai is talking through.
“And you stalled.” Jigen tacks on, through a scowl. “We watched the cruiser pull over.”
“…Most of the night, then.” The thief corrects himself, pinching a crumpled smoke from their shared ashtray as he makes a point of ignoring Jigen’s prodding. He takes a good, long look at it, and then shoves it between his teeth. He produces his lighter- previously confiscated- from his sleeve, and moves to light his smoke, hand cupped carefully in an attempt to keep the draft at bay.
Lupin puffs for a moment, savouring the taste. Obviously content enough with the intimacy of the act not to care too much that the cigarette is a Marlboro Red. He lets his eyes drift closed and yawns.
“Thanks, Ji-Ji.”
Jigen sniffles with the cold, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives.
“Don’t mention it.”
‘You owe me’ goes unspoken.
It’s still snowing, and Lupin can see, through his eyelids, the warm twinkle of fairy lights overhead. The car is cosy, and he can feel Goemon humming under his breath behind him- some old-fashioned Christmas song he’d be far too embarrassed to admit is stuck in his head if Lupin brought it up. He smiles, wide and content and genuine.
“…Merry Christmas.”
He feels Jigen shift in his seat.
“Yeah. You too, Lupin. Merry Christmas.”