Chapter Text
To say that Makoto’s feelings about her most mysterious teammate have always been complicated would be something of an understatement.
When she first approached the Phantom Thieves it had been with what was, in hindsight, a cocky and unkind bravado and an obedient child’s understanding of rebellion, but she had done her research. She had known who she was approaching, known enough about Ryuji Sakamoto and Ann Takamaki and even Yusuke Kitagawa and Akira Kurusu to know— or at least feel comfortable standing— where she stood. Nothing on Earth could have prepared her for Morgana, of course, but given the circumstances she could hardly harbor any kind of hard feelings towards him for that.
Crow, though? Crow’s different. Look at it this way:
It’s the sixteenth of June, and Makoto is angry and terrified and freer than she’s ever been. There’s phantasmagorical concrete dust and very real blood under her nails, and her face and throat both feel flayed-bare and raw, and the words ringing through her skull from before Johanna called to her still won’t really leave, not entirely— they had ricocheted through her head until they settled into the bone somewhere beneath and between her eyes and made a home there, Sae and Kobayakawa and Goro god damn Akechi’s voices digging in deep as lead.
(And where did Akechi get off, anyway, giving her that pitying little grimace of a smile and telling her she’d never get anywhere playing catch-up— what the fuck did he know, what right did he have to laugh and tell her it was a bit sad watching someone like her follow orders like a good little girl—)
It’s the sixteenth of June. Makoto is angry and scared and bloody and she’s got a magical soul motorcycle and brass knuckles and she feels like she could burn the world to the fucking ground, and the delinquent transfer student— no, Akira— no, Joker— is smiling at her like she’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Like he’s proud of her. Her chest swells with it; it burns behind her eyes and in her throat almost to the point of tears. It feels good— powerful, undeniable— but as she’s considering doing something cool and dramatic like ramming the doors down to get away her attention is yanked violently to one side by a bizarre clanking noise.
For the moment before she spots its source Makoto is half-sure it’s another monster; she still kind of is, at first, because the boy relaxing languidly in one of the lobby chairs looks unequivocally terrifying and isn’t doing himself any favors in the entrance department. The sound of his claws against one another is jarring and unpleasant as he claps, shivers running down her spine— but nobody looks afraid.
Joker lights up, in fact, his smile shifting from the proud, warm thing he’d been pointing at Makoto to something eager and bright as he waves.
“Crow!” he says. The boy tilts his head as if in acknowledgment and swings his feet off the chair in front of him. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“You thought I’d miss this? Please,” the boy drawls. Makoto glances past him at the gathering shadows, uncomfortable. “I need to keep myself entertained somehow, Joker.”
He stalks up to the group, his motions liquid and menacing, and gives Makoto a telegraphed, obvious once-over. There’s something about him that immediately sets her teeth on edge; maybe it’s lingering adrenaline from her awakening, maybe it’s the way he moves, maybe it’s just how he’s dressed, hypocrite though that would make her— but something about him is off. There’s smug satisfaction in what’s visible of his expression, a lazy, condescending little smirk written under the jagged edges of his mask, and it makes her itch to test out the knuckle-dusters that have manifested on her hands. The look in his eye says he can see that impulse in hers; it says, loud and clear, that he thinks it’s hilarious.
“Not terrible,” is the first thing Crow ever says to her.
His voice is rough and unkind, his words blunt. She can feel her pulse in her ears. “Your accuracy could use work, and it’s hysterical that your Persona appears to be… is that Pope Joan? As a motorcycle?— but a pretty good effort, all things considered. Certainly better than most of these idiots were at first. It’ll be good to have another healer, too, I think.”
“I,” she says, and then, “Who,” and then, after swallowing, and blinking, and looking frantically at the rest of the group for guidance she does not find, “What?”
His smirk slashes into a grin, and despite the shadow his mask casts it’s easy to tell his teeth are uncomfortably sharp. “I’m Crow,” he tells her airily. “I play the team’s navigator and tactician. Hopefully it’ll be good rather than irritating to have someone else around with half a brain, which Joker assures me you do.”
He holds out a hand. It’s covered in a clawed metallic gauntlet, intimidating and sharp even as his wrist hangs just limp enough that, in combination with his too-relaxed contrapposto, it seems to telegraph an utter, calculated indifference to her regard. She takes it anyway, because she’s not sure what else to really do here, and he smiles thinly.
“Uh, Makoto Nijima,” she says. He squeezes her hand once in a way that’s about a thousand miles from comforting before he releases her, nodding sideways in what’s either acknowledgment or disdain.
“I know who you are.”
Great! Cool!
She hadn’t even been aware there was a fifth—sixth, counting Morgana— member of the Phantom Thieves. Her mind spins. It’s not like they’ve been subtle; Akira had seemed almost pleased when she approached him with her recording of Sakamoto and Takamaki talking, like he’d wanted her to catch on to them, but nothing she’d ever overheard had told her about— about-
She squints at Crow, trying to get a read on him. The helmet obscures his face and pretty much every inch of his skin is covered in leather and fabric and metal, so even though the his outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination she really can’t get a sense for what he would look like, on the outside. His voice feels vaguely familiar but not enough to place, his posture and attitude too harsh and devil-may-care to match anyone she’s ever met or seen talking to any of the Thieves. Even just on his own merits, thinking of him purely as… this, she can’t decide what to think.
Maybe she’s been reading too much manga, but she can’t shake that he looks like a villain. The cut of his mask, the red glass over his eyes, the claws and the belts and the ragged shadowy ends of his clothes— they all mix with the harsh scrape of his voice and the offhanded insults he throws into his speech to make him seem immediately, entirely untrustworthy, far moreso than Joker’s roguishly-dapper coat or Panther’s whips, even Skull’s aura of casual thuggishness. The rest of the Thieves, she thinks, give off the sense that they could be villains, that maybe they’ve been cast that way somehow.
This one feels like he’s earned it.
“We— um- we should get out of here,” she says, looking over his shoulder at the shadows gathering by the teller booths. He glances back to follow her gaze, snorts, and nods, although it seems placating.
“Yeah. You just awakened, after all. These wimps are probably gonna treat you with kid gloves for a bit-”
“Crow, man, c’mon,” laughs Skull, punching him lightly in the shoulder; he gets swatted at in return, yelping when claws rake across his forearm, but it… seems friendly?
Panther, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers, glances at Makoto and smiles. “That’s a good idea, senpai. We should go, but— um…”
“I’ve got it,” says Joker, voice soft but as unwavering as steel. He flicks a hand, and with a blinding flash of light one of his Personas blasts the door half off its hinges. Makoto goggles at him for a second; Crow rolls his eyes.
“Showoff.”
“Me? Never.” he vaults over a piece of rubble in a feat of gymnastics that makes Makoto’s back ache to look at. “I’m nothing but practical.”
Makoto follows him out as the rest of the team pitches in to mock him for being flashy, trying not to sway, and eventually finds herself leaning heavily against one of Kaneshiro’s ugly statues. There’s a moment where she’s overtaken by an uneasy feeling, a prickling under her skin— when she looks up Crow is there next to her, arms crossed and hip cocked, staring at her with an unreadable little scowl on his face.
“Hey,” she says, carefully.
“Hello. If you’re going to pass out, I’d recommend waiting until you’re not in the Metaverse anymore to do it,” he says bluntly. “Joker will baby you one way or another, but it’s safer out there.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” she tells him through gritted teeth, digging her fingers into her thighs in an effort to make it true. He purses his lips. “Who are you?”
“I told you,” he says. His voice is stunningly flat. “I’m Crow.”
“Yes, I got that part. If I’m going to be working with you guys, I should at least know your names,” she sighs. “I mean, I guess you can tell me when we leave, if it’s a— a safety thing, but-”
“Oh, I don’t leave with them,” he says. She cuts herself off abruptly and jerks her head up to stare at him.
“What?”
“I make my own way to and from the Metaverse,” he says mildly, inspecting his claws like they’ve been manicured. “Always have. Don’t take it personally, Nijima, I haven’t told any of them who I am outside of this either.”
“You— what?” She straightens, staring at him; shoves her mask up into her bangs to stare at him a little more clearly; feels, when he raises his eyebrows behind the scarlet glass of his own and huffs a laugh, a little bit like decking him. “What?”
“It didn’t seem like a good idea.” He shrugs. “I prefer having my privacy. Joker knows who I am, but that’s… He asked me to join in the first place. Just because they-” he gestures to the Thieves, fluttering his hand in a way that feels insulting- “-Have their little everybody-share-our-feelings friendship circle power of love bullshit going on doesn’t mean I’m obligated to. Why do you care?”
Because the potential of this place seems insanely dangerous, she doesn’t say. Because I need to know I can trust the people who can access it. Because I don’t trust you.
“I want to know who I’m working with,” is what she goes with instead, because she’s been accusatory enough lately. “You know who I am, you saw— you- you saw— that-”
“I sure did,” he says, sounding richly amused. “And I certainly do. And you’re just going to have to be a big girl and handle the fact that the world isn’t fair, because my awakening’s over and done with and I’m sure as shit not telling you who I am.”
Oh, she can’t stand him.
“But that’s— how do we know- how do they contact you even-”
“This may surprise you, given the century, but I do own a cell phone,” he says dryly. She continues to resist the urge to deck him.
“And they’re all just fine not knowing who you are?” She crosses her arms, scowling, and he laughs out loud.
“I don’t care in the slightest if they’re fine with it or not, Nijima,” he says, “It’s my identity. And anyway they trust Joker, and Joker trusts me. That’s what matters.”
Joker, who had been standing listening to the others talk and occasionally glancing their way, flicks his head up more attentively; Crow waves him off. Makoto hisses through her teeth.
“How did you know to come here today?” It had felt like such a rush here, after getting those pictures, after Kaneshiro’s demands; she can’t remember seeing anybody texting. Crow smiles.
“Oh, I followed you,” he says, as though it’s not terrifying, “I knew you’d forced them to do something stupid and would probably make it worse, so I was keeping an eye on the whole… operation. When you became one of Kaneshiro’s clients I just came across to this side and kept watching, pretty much. Why?”
She stares at him. There’s a long moment of silence where she’s wracking her brain, desperately trying to come up with images of anybody even remotely like Crow that could have been following them, but she can’t think of anyone. Maybe he’s just better at stalking than she is, as much as that thought stings, but it still makes her skin crawl. And he said it so confidently, Joker trusts me, like— like it was just a given, and-
She takes a deep breath.
“How do you even know K— um, Joker?” She asks, trying to keep her voice level. He blinks.
“Well now, that’s a very personal question.” Crow rolls his weight on his feet, tilting his head as he considers her, and says, “And one you’re not getting an answer to. You’re not as good at investigations or espionage as you want to be, Nijima-san. But don’t worry, you don’t need to be— that’s what I’m for, after all.”
“That’s-!”
“Joker recruited me for a reason. That’s all you’ll get from me.” He grins, the twist of his sharp teeth dripping condescension, and flicks the ragged ends of his cape out dramatically in a mocking half-bow. As he straightens he catches her eye, his own strange and bright behind the scarlet glass of his mask, then smirks and turns on his heel to saunter back to Joker.
It’s as he’s curling a clawed hand on his shoulder to whisper something into his ear— as Joker smiles, indulgent and fond, and grips his arm in silent acquiescence to whatever he’s saying— that Makoto realizes two important things:
Crow is the smuggest, least trustworthy little bastard she’s ever met in her life, and Joker’s biggest flaw is his taste in men.
Going into this she’d been worried about Akira Kurusu being dangerous, being volatile, being unkind or unintelligent or cruel; he is none of those things. Akira Kurusu is kind and clever and tactically-minded, warm, easy to be around— generally sound of judgment, clearly, and followed by his peers, but between Crow and the fact that she’s seen him getting lunch with Goro fucking Akechi at least once—
She shakes her head to clear it; obviously there’s something to recommend Crow, or none of the Phantom Thieves would like him, and they all seem to enjoy his company well enough; it’s just…
“Okay, time to head out,” Joker calls, clapping his hands together decisively. “Senpai, you’re probably wiped, right? There’s a diner on central street that’s pretty good, I can buy everybody dinner and answer some questions if you want.”
There’s a round of cheers from the Thieves Makoto is familiar with; Crow, though, huffs and kicks him lightly in the shin, at which point Joker tosses him a theatrically apologetic little swoon and makes increasingly absurd promises to take him out later until Crow snaps his teeth and threatens to kick him again and he cuts off to grin instead.
How can they all just be okay with this? How does it not eat Sakamoto and Takamaki and Kitagawa up inside— even the cat, how is he not driven insane not knowing who he is?
Nobody comments, though. It’s clear, by the relaxed way he leans against the trunk of a money tree, that he’s not going to leave before them; it’s clear none of the Thieves expect him to. She grits her teeth and doesn’t mention it.
The feeling of eyes on the back of her head burns into her as the Metaverse warps around them.
She manages to keep her thoughts on the matter quiet for almost forty-five minutes, which is impressive, all things considered, for her; partially she’s tempered by curiosity about the rest of the Metaverse, partly by exhaustion, and mostly, in the end, because almost as soon as they sit down in the promised diner booth Joker’s phone lights up with a call from a contact marked simply as Crow and she’s too stubborn to be rude to the man’s metaphorical face just yet.
Loath as she is to admit it, she’s glad he joined the conversation. Between the two of them Akira and Morgana clearly know the answers to a lot of her questions, but Akira is soft-spoken out of costume, reserved and taciturn in his understanding, Morgana has to be careful nobody notices him sitting at the table, and Crow’s brusque, unfriendly answers are short and cold and sincerely helpful.
They’re condescending, for sure, and mean, and sometimes he’ll cut in and say something to Akira in a particularly contrarian tone of voice and literally everyone else at the table will begin to protest at the same time(only once do they manage to actually get past this phase, and it turns what Makoto had thought was an innocent question about hold-ups into a near-incomprehensible fifteen-minute debate about ethics, during which she hears Akira string more words together in a row than she’s ever seen from him before in her life. No one else gets a word in edgewise. It only ends because their food arrives.), but they’re helpful. It’s kind of like having an encyclopedia that thinks she’s an idiot.
Eventually he leaves. More accurately, he cuts himself off in the middle of a sentence with a hissed little “-Shit!” and hangs up without elaborating, but everyone seems to take this in stride. Ryuji muffles a laugh around his mouthful of food, Yusuke hums in quiet amusement, Ann rolls her eyes; Akira just smiles fondly and quickly taps out a message before tucking the phone away in his pocket.
It’s as good a time as any.
“So, um,” she says, fidgeting with her chopsticks uncomfortably, “About…him.”
Everyone looks at her. It’s not like they haven’t been looking at her when she asks questions up until now, but there’s an energy to it with this that she can’t put her finger on, a certain intensity in their eyes— as she scans the group she can’t help being reminded, quite viscerally, that they’re a team. They have loyalty to each other and to Crow, even if he’s… like that, that comes before whatever kindness they’ve shown to her.
The eyes focused on her most sharply are Akira’s, and he’s the one for whom the shift is the most jarring. Even when she had bought into the whole delinquent thing a bit, he’d always been fairly unassuming. He tends to shrink behind his glasses and his bangs, tends to slouch and tilt his head to catch the light, and on those rare occasions he doesn’t his eyes are generally gentle and soft, empathetic, intelligent, kind. She’s caught herself finding him comforting, even, in the last few days.
This is not that. This is the leader of the Phantom Thieves, Joker sans mask; even through the lenses of his glasses his stare is so intense that catching his gaze makes her breath stutter in her throat, bottomless gunmetal grey shimmering in the soft light of the diner. He’s fixed on her, patient, assessing, knowing— looking at him makes her feel like he can see straight through her skull and into the recesses of her mind, into the worst parts of her, into everything she hates about herself and about everyone else. He blinks slowly and inclines his head a fraction, urging her to continue.
It’s hard to settle on a question. Finally:
“What’s his— who is— why is he like that?”
Akira blinks again, but this time it’s a little less intense and a lot more startled; what comes out of his mouth is more a laugh than words.
“Ah,” he says. “Well, that’s, um.”
“He’s like that ‘cause he’s an edgy little freak that watches too much Featherman,” Ryuji says in between bites. He rolls his eyes fondly. “Or is it the other ‘like that,’ the Akira ‘like that,’ ‘cause-”
“Ryuji,” Ann hisses. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, god! And don’t snitch—”
“It ain’t snitching, dude’s obvious!”
Ann whaps him in the arm. “Hsst-! Shut up! Senpai, what do you mean?”
Makoto tears her eyes away from the fond, private smile Akira’s pointing at them to look at Ann and frowns, setting down her chopsticks and taking a sip of water before replying. She’s absolutely not going to touch whatever it is the blondes are talking about. But—
“Well, it’s just… I would be concerned about not knowing who all has access to that world anyway, but on top of that he’s…” she pauses, looking for words that won’t offend his friends. “He seems…”
“Rather contemptuous, perhaps petty?” Yusuke supplies.
Ryuji adds, “Like a belligerent, mean-spirited piece of shit?”
“Ominous and intentionally off-putting?” offers Morgana’s voice, from somewhere around Akira’s knee.
Ann, grinning fondly and propping her chin on perfectly-manicured hands: “Bloodthirsty and vengeful? Jealous as all hell? Grouchy?”
“…I was going to say a bit misanthropic,” Makoto says weakly. Okay, so they’re not unaware of it. And— bloodthirsty and vengeful? What the hell? She glances at Akira, whose smile has only grown more affectionate; there’s a spark like pride in his eyes, warm and fiercely loving, that makes loneliness stab through her rib cage like a railway spike.
Crow is violent and vindictive and mean, apparently, esoteric and secretive, and…the Thieves like him. They don’t just like him despite those things— they don’t pretend not to see them or force him to cover them up— they like him with them. Maybe even partially because of them, if the fond amusement in their voices is anything to go by.
Makoto has never been less than perfect, and she has never had a single real friend, and it’s obviously not Crow’s fault he got there first but the jealousy and spite that jolts through her is so strong she nearly cracks her glass. In her heart Johanna’s engine purrs, reminding her she doesn’t need to be perfect, that that anger can be useful now(that they’ve invited her along, and maybe they’ll like the ugly parts of her, too). She takes a careful breath.
“He’s not all bad,” Ryuji says, quirking a grin. “Like, yeah, the guy’s a jerk, but he does give a shit. He gives a lot of shits, actually, once you figure out how to translate what he means from what he’s sayin’ out loud.”
Yusuke nods and laces his fingers together. “He has been instrumental in my own journey, since my awakening,” he says, gazing contemplatively out at the restaurant, “While his method of delivery may be brusque and occasionally even cruel, what he says is meaningful. His anonymity is the one thing he insists upon; every other indignity he… suffers, but accommodates.”
Makoto frowns.
“He’s our friend,” Ann stresses. “He’s been here since the beginning, pretty much. When— when we were up against Kamoshida-” she stops to take a steadying breath and shut her eyes, and shame burns hot in Makoto’s throat once again for not noticing more, doing more, being more. “-When we were in Kamoshida’s Palace, he— mm. Look. I trust him. He’s a nasty little jerk, and he’s one of my best friends in the whole world.”
“I guess I just don’t understand why you all didn’t ever have more of a problem with it,” she says, looking down at her hands. They’ve formed fists; very intentionally she relaxes, resting her palms on the table. “He’s— isn’t it scary? Having somebody like that just… out there? Maybe he won’t hurt you, but…”
It doesn’t feel great, casting aspersions; it feels like she’s back up on the roof accusing them of things again, playing the good little girl. But she has to at least ask, has to say she tried, because she keeps thinking about what Akechi said in that stupid interview about using powers like the Phantom Thieves have for other things, and she keeps thinking about the cases her sister works, and she just— she can’t leave it be.
Morgana’s little head pops into view, his paws holding him up on the edge of the tabletop.
“Joker knows who he is,” he says, echoing what Crow himself said earlier, and the absolute, unshakable confidence in his voice is something she’s never felt in her life; “Joker knows him. That’s enough for me.”
She turns to look at Akira, whose face has faded from that fond pride to something unreadable; when he feels her gaze he meets it, entirely overwhelming again. He’s so much, this boy, and Makoto doesn’t know what to do with it.
Her mouth is dry as she asks, “…How do you two know each other, anyway?”
“We have a history,” he says vaguely, “I knew him before I started this probationary year, so I went looking for him when I got to Tokyo, and when I fell into the Metaverse, well.”
Morgana glances at him, ear twitching like something about that’s not quite right, but he says nothing. If there was a lie in there Makoto can’t place it; his face is perfect, his voice calm and even.
“Why did you agree to the anonymity thing? Wouldn’t it be easier if you could have everyone get together?” She knows she’s pushing. She knows she’s probably annoying him, that they’re probably going to get mad, but…
Weirdly, his lip twitches into half a smile. “I would have agreed to just about anything to get him to join us,” he admits easily. “Anonymity makes sense for him for personal reasons, and it’s the least I can do to uphold that one request.”
“You would have— why? What’s so important that you’d phrase it like that?”
Akira pauses.
“That’s…” He shifts, resting his chin in his hand, and there’s something about it— something in the way his voice goes soft and serious, something to the set of his spine and the odd, burning-distant glint in his eyes as they flick away to stare at something none of them can see— that makes it feel like it’s anything but metaphor when Akira murmurs, “He means the world to me.”
It’s soft, earnest, kind. She can’t place why, but it sends a chill down her spine.