Work Text:
His entire task force had traded it amongst themselves like a magazine changing hands in an army barracks, until each and every man had sniffled and gagged and coughed their way through it. Zenigata himself had not been immune and the virus had left him bed-ridden for two whole days. It was a miserable sickness, easily passed from one man to the next, yet he hadn’t thought, even for a moment, that Lupin and his gang might be similarly affected by it. Lupin perpetually had the luck of the devil on his side and Zenigata had assumed that while he and his small task force wheezed and coughed their way across the English countryside in pursuit of the thieves, Lupin and his men were one step ahead, peering back at Zenigata's crew and taking delight in their misery. As things turned out, he'd been wrong on that count, and he’d been unable to reject the small sense of petty satisfaction that had formed in the back of his mind at the thought of Lupin himself having to endure the same cursed sniffles as he fled across the country.
He'd figured catching the illusive thieves while half his force were still dragging their heels over the final throes of the cold would be too much to ask for. They'd be lucky not to lose track of them altogether. Anything else would have been an unusual stroke of luck on his end. But this unexpected turn of events didn't quite feel like the victory it was.
If Zenigata had chosen to ask him point blank about his actual age, he'd probably end up with the sharp end of the Zantetskin poised millimetres from his throat. The records were spotty at best, non-existent at worst. But Zenigata was fairly certain, from his own research and observations, that Goemon Ishikawa the thirteenth was barely more than two decades old, if that. Ridiculously young, certainly the youngest member of the Lupin gang. Currently however, he could have passed for some frantic mother's missing teenager.
Probably, it had been an error in judgment on his part to stand atop a moving vehicle while one was battling a vicious cold, even if one was a samurai.
It had been to Zenigata’s surprise that, upon realizing he’d lost a man, Lupin had immediately slammed on the breaks, causing the little fiat to skid and swerve dangerously before rattling to a complete stop. He’d stuck his head out the window and watched gravely as Zenigata pulled Goemon, flushed and shivering from the river. While, of course, Jigen held the squad back with the occasional warning shot. They'd found themselves at a standoff. Zenigata, unwilling to give up his prisoner, and Lupin puffed up like indignant cockatiel, demanding the release of his captured man. It had only come to an end when Goemon ordered his team to depart, claiming he would join up with them when it was convenient. As if he weren’t trembling like a wet puppy left on the side of the road, the Zantetskin fallen to the side of the road and his hands cuffed behind his back. Still, Lupin had hesitated, but with the task force closing in and Zenigata unwilling to give ground, he was finally forced to come to a decision. As Jigen retrieved the abandoned Zantetskin, Lupin had held them off at gunpoint, casting the occasional forlorn if not downright apologetic look at the shuddering samurai. Then he’d gone, the little fiat raging down the old country road with reckless abandon.
Zenigata would have been a fool not to expect retaliation at any moment, be it an external assault, Jigen style, or a simple break for the door courtesy of Goemon himself. Either way, he was pretty sure he would run into Lupin again at some point and when he did, he'd much rather it not look like he'd been treating one of the thief’s gang members inhumanely. The last thing he needed was for this feud to get any more underhanded and dirty than it already was. Now if only the prisoner would cooperate and let Zenigata help him!
If he'd thought Lupin was the most frustrating individual on the planet, it was only because he hadn't yet come up against a sick Goemon Ishikawa the thirteenth. The inspector had long thought stoicism in the face of injury and illness to be an admirable trait and one couldn't help but respect the samurai for it, but this was just plain stupid. Petty, even.
The hakama, which normally billowed out impressively, making it's wearer appear larger and a good deal more intimidating than actually was, now clung to the thin frame of the man beneath, dripping onto the stone floor at a steady pace. Goemon had not even bothered wringing out the folds of his clothing when given the opportunity. The floor beneath the metal chair he perched gingerly on was soggy already, the interrogation room the closest town had been kind enough to lend them would be flooded before long if it continued on that way.
Zenigata had seen, with his own eyes, this man sitting with perfect poise beneath the pounding flood of a raging waterfall. If anyone had mastered the art of grace under pressure, it was Goemon. His control had been absolute and Zenigata had fully believed in that moment that the man was invincible.
Clearly, that Goemon Ishikawa and the one sitting before him were not the same man.
Goemon sat with his usual perfect posture, back straight and head up, eyes closed, suggesting rest or meditation. But that could only have been an act. His wet bangs dripped river water down his face and fine tremors wracked his whole frame. He was looking more and more like some stubborn punk with a cold than the composed, proud samurai Zenigata knew.
“They're not gonna let me move you anywhere else until the transport arrives, Goemon!” Zenigata finally exploded, both fists slamming against the top of the table and causing the neat stack of dry clothes piled there to topple over. “You wanna give yourself pneumonia?! That it?!”
The little room was positively glacial, nothing but cement and hard metal. Never mind that their prisoner was clearly ill, the stuck up English Chief of Police had refused to listen to reason and Goemon was not to be moved from the interrogation room unless it was in full body chains on his way into the back of a police transport. It didn't help any, either, that Goemon was blatantly ignoring Zenigata's attempts to help him.
Goemon, true to form, said nothing in response.
“Look, clearly your judgment's a bit off at the moment,” This earned him a frigid glare that was somewhat ruined by the fever-flush and dripping bangs. Zenigata persevered. “And that's fair. My guys have all been down with this thing too. But making yourself sicker like this ain't gonna help either one of us.”
Worse than that, it would probably incite a certain thief they both knew to violence.
Lupin crossed lines he wasn't supposed to all the time. He was a born delinquent. Still, Zenigata had seen evidence of the strong moral compass below the swagger and showboating. Lupin wasn't one to use violence when his cleverness could get him out of a situation. But for his friends? For Goemon? It was, frankly, unsettling to think about what Arsene Lupin the Third could be driven to do when it really mattered to him.
The indignant samurai lifted his chin at that, narrowing his eyes and opening his mouth. “You-” but whatever he'd been about to say was lost under a sudden fit of coughing. Rough, jagged sounding coughs ripped from him one after another and it seemed like they would never stop.
Zenigata shot to his feet, rounding the desk and reaching out to brace the young man, seconds away from giving in and calling a medic.
Goemon's left hand shot out, grabbing Zenigata's wrist before he could ever lay a finger on him and twisted.
Zenigata yelped in pain, but he managed to break the hold easily enough. Goemon was too busy to retain his grip, trying to regain his breath.
They both jumped when the big metal door slammed open and the room was flooded with English police officers, all with guns aimed at the shackled, choking kid at the table.
“Hey, hey! What do you think you're doing?!” Zenigata bellowed, jumping between his prisoner and the insane show of force.
It took some negotiating and a healthy amount of threats on his part but finally, they were left alone again and Zenigata was free to massage his numb wrist.
The coughing had subsided, but Goemon had given himself away when one traitorous hand tried to sneak up to his, no doubt, aching throat. The cuffs that attached him to the bolted table prevented the movement, however, and he instead balled his hands up in his lap.
Zenigata was taken by surprise when he spoke. “I apologize, Inspector.” He said, his eyes on the wrist that Zenigata was still trying to get feeling back into.
The inspector shook his head. “Forget it. No damage done.” He didn't think, anyways. Little pinpricks of feeling were slowly starting to ping through the limb. He watched Goemon nod in acquiescence, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. An idea came to him when the young man's shoulders hunched up as he fought back another cough.
“I'll make you a deal, Goemon.”
Suspicious eyes met his own.
“I'll go brew some tea,” at that, there was a flicker of interest in the steady gaze, the slightest straightening of his spine. “If,” Zenigata continued, “you agree to change out of those clothes and into something dry.” He punctuated this by moving the toppled stack of clothing a little closer.
It was like bribing a kid with a candy. Clearly, he'd gotten his attention.
Goemon stared straight at him, eyes widening hopefully but mouth pressed in a firm line, as if he were trying to hold back any words of agreement.
Zenigata waited, patient.
Finally, “Green tea, please.”
The inspector had to hold back his grin, moving forward to unlock the cuffs around Goemon's wrists and ankles so he would be able to change his clothing.
…
Goemon had, true to their agreement, changed his clothes when Zenigata reentered the interrogation room, carefully balancing two mugs of steaming tea in his hands. The hakama had been laid across the table, still dripping and the samurai was back in his seat already, staring stoically straight ahead. As Zenigata approached, he pushed back the sleeves of his borrowed sweatshirt, exposing his thin wrists which he then presented to the incredulous inspector.
Zenigata huffed and, rather than reattaching the cuffs as Goemon clearly expected him to do, pushed a mug of tea into the expectant hands instead.
Goemon's eyes widened almost comically and he, honest to God, fumbled with the ceramic mug before his fingers closed around it.
Zenigata retained his grip on the handle until he was sure he had it, then nodded and retreated back to his own seat.
He watched silently as Goemon brought the steaming drink closer to his face and inhaled deeply. Something in his posture loosened and Zenigata held back his bemusement as he practically melted around the mug of tea, curling his shoulders in and cupping the mug with both hands to warm them. A minute passed, and then the samurai's feet lifted off the floor and he really curled up, tea held between his chest and his bent knees.
Zenigata had borrowed the clothing off one of his own officers, someone closer in size and stature, he'd thought, to Goemon than he himself. It seemed he'd overestimated how big he actually was.
Goemon was a trained assassin, dangerous on a good day, lethal otherwise. But, in the dark hoodie that had turned out to be several sizes too big, sweat pants and cutesy kawaii socks that the lieutenant would never be able to live down among his coworkers, he looked like he ought to have been sprawled out in front of a tv with a game controller in his hands and a bag of chips open at his side.
Goemon shivered and Zenigata moved without really thinking about it, reaching across the table and yanking the hood of the sweatshirt up over the samurai's damp hair.
Goemon stared at him and Zenigata, face turning red, tipped back in his chair and avoided eye contact.
Were his own assumptions even correct? Was he actually dealing with someone in his twenties? Was it at all plausible that the kid that sat before him was, in fact, just that? A kid? Before this thought could spiral any further, Goemon cleared his throat, his cough just a bit less strained sounding than before. “I know you to be an honourable man, Inspector Zenigata.” He said, slowly. “However, showing compassion in the face of an enemy's weakness would be considered foolish by many people.” These words were, perhaps, less effective when said around delicate sips of tea, but Goemon's gaze was unwavering as he waited for a response.
Zenigata tilted his head back, let out a gusting sigh, took another sip of tea. When he answered, he did so in a softer voice than he'd truly thought himself capable of. “You one of those people?”
It may have been the affects of the illness, and he probaby had less control over emotions than usual, but Goemon’s eyes skittered away, a flush that had nothing to do with fever spreading across his face. When he spoke, it was as if he were forcefully and painfully pulling the words from some gaping would that had been left untreated for too long. “Weakness in a warrior is dishonour and ought to be treated as such. A man who shows leniency toward such a display is a kind fool. A man who would accept this sort of treatment is no better than an animal, begging its master for table scraps.” This, he said around another sip of tea, either missing the irony altogether, or just stubbornly ignoring it, Zenigata wasn't sure.
Zenigata's head was beginning to hurt. He'd known anyone who ran with Lupin had to be a bit strange, but this was something else entirely. Good lord, when had he become a councillor for young and wayward thieves?
The Inspector thought for a moment.
Goemon ducked his head down.
Finally, Zenigata spoke. “Some would say,”
At the sound of his voice, Goemon lifted his head, watching him intently, as if Zenigata's response to this actually mattered to him.
The Inspector nearly stammered over his next words, but caught himself in time, clearing his throat again and continuing in a more gruff tone, “Some would say that an act of compassion, particularly toward an enemy, is an act beyond honour. And that accepting these acts with grace requires more courage than refusing them.”
Goemon stared at him.
Zenigata looked away, his own face heating up. “Course, that's just an opinion.”
If Goemon intended to reply to that, the Inspector never found out. Both of them went toppling from their chairs as, what appeared to be an armoured vehicle of some sort, burst through the outside wall of the interrogation room and squealed to a halt.
Zenigata sat, staring stupidly as a familiar head of short-cropped hair poked out the driver-side window.
Lupin grinned. “Goemoooon!” he sang out, “Uncle Lupin's here to pick you up!” He stuck one hand out the window, brandishing a thermos. “And look! I brought tea!”
At Zenigata's side, the young samurai was trying to lever himself upright and was failing miserably at it. The force of being thrown from his chair had knocked the hood from his head and had clearly left him winded.
Hot anger mixed with bitter concern flooded Zenigata's system. He turned his head to scream violently at the reckless thief in the armoured vehicle, even as his hand, far gentler than his tone suggested, moved under the kid's arm and helped him sit up. “Dammit Lupin! You could have killed him!”
That cocky grin melted off the thief's face and he immediately exited the vehicle, not opening the door to climb out like a sensible person, but scrambling through the open window like a monkey. He was at their side in an instant. “Shoot! I forgot your reflexes aren't all that tuned right now.” He muttered, sounding genuinely remorseful as on one hand skimmed over Goemon's brow. He brought the thermos up to the samurai's face. “Here, drink this.”
Goemon made a face and leaned away from the frantic hands. “My reflexes are fine, and do not refer to yourself as my uncle.”
Lupin, undeterred, mashed the lip of the thermos against his face. “Come on, one sip? It's your favourite.”
“I have already had tea and I do not want more!” Goemon blurted out, without first thinking it through, if the furious blush creeping up his neck were any indication.
Lupin paused, letting the hand holding the thermos droop a bit. “More?” A perplexed expression was beginning to replace the frantic concern. Shrewd eyes reexamined the room, taking in the dripping hakama on the table, the spilled mugs of tea, and finally, Goemon himself in the oversized hoodie and damned kawaii socks. Then a teasing grin split across his stupid face as he turned his attention to Zenigata. “Aw, Pops. Have you been taking care of him for us?”
Belatedly realizing that he hadn't yet let go of the kid's arm, he snatched his hands back and leapt to his feet, hoping that his fury would cover his own blush. “Lupin! Stop right there!” He pointed a finger down at the pair of them, ready to intercede should the thief attempt to steal his prisoner.
The metal door barring them off from the rest of the precinct swung open and struck the wall with a loud bang.
Jigen swaggered in, the Zantetskin in one hand, his magnum in the other. He came to a stop a few feet from the three of them, gun pointed lazily in Zenigata's direction. Tilting his head back, he grinned at Lupin and Goemon, still on the floor. “Looking pretty cozy there, Goemon.”
Lupin grinned at this, throwing an arm around Goemon’s shoulders and reaching up to ruffle his damp hair.
For this, he received a sharp elbow to the gut and as he fell back, gasping, Goemon rose gracefully to his feet. “I did not require your assistance. I said I would meet up with you later.” He said as he stepped over the groaning Lupin and retrieved the hakama from the table. He spent a moment inspecting the blade, then sheathed it with a satisfied nod, and hesitated.
Below Jigen's roaring laughter, Zenigata could just make out softly-spoken words. “Thank you, for your kindness, inspector.”
Goemon turned and bowed to him.
Zenigata said, nor did anything as the still-chuckling Jigen collected the hakama from the table, Lupin off the floor and ushered both him and Goemon into the vehicle.
Jigen stuck his head out the window before putting it in gear. “Thanks for watching him, Pops.” Then he backed the monstrosity out of the hole Lupin had created in the wall and they were gone.
Zenigata rubbed a weary hand down his face and blew out a long sigh. He really, really needed a drink. Next time he caught up with them he was definitely adding babysitting fees to the charges.
End