It's about you, me, and tautology

[peacocklocked]

What rouses him from slumber isn't a deep, satisfying yawn, the crack of his jaw over the need for oxygen to his brain, the darkness that envelops his bedroom, or the incessant chirp of birds outside his window.

He's lightheaded. It isn't the kind that comes hand in hand with a hangover after a satisfying night, no. Breaths are caught tight in his chest and throat and his legs are cramped, bracketed by something other than the humble frame of his bed. Lupin is sure this is some shit when his palms settle against wood. The air, what minimal air he has left, is thick with the scent of sandalwood.

He's in a goddamn coffin. This is decidedly not how last night ended. He and Jigen Daisuke had teamed up again for a certain painting, one held in an armored vault with a mind of its own (supposedly. Not much of one left after Arsene Lupin III got done with it. Nothing but gibberish after, not even enough for The Man Behind the Curtain.)

The first lesson in Waking Up in Your Own Coffin is to breathe as shallowly as possible, right? (He has no idea. This is his first time he'll care to remember in his adult life). His belt! His belt should have something...

His fingers feel heavy and fumble with the belt buckle, the sharp corners will probably be able to dig through the vinyl and wood pretty decently. Enough.

By the time he's dug through part of the lid his fingers are bloody and his breathing comes out fast and he's trying to keep his noises as minimal as possible, Grandpa would be able to get out of this in two snaps of his fingers, so why not him--

And that's when he hears a noise. A person shaped noise.

Comments

[borsalino]

This is just another one of Those Times.

It's another few hundred dollars spent out of collective pockets to buy a coffin and a tombstone, to hire the same tight-lipped priest who sighs after every call for an appearance, who never asks and never looks like he wants to. They've gone through this whole song and dance already— Goemon, almost annoyed after Lupin's hundredth disappearing trick, sparing a day post-ceremony after which he taps Jigen on the shoulder and says, "call me when he's back".

They both trust he'll be back— Fujiko requests the same, Chanel No. 5 thick on her wrists as she tugs on Jigen's sleeve (looking as glamorous as ever in her little black dress, funeral gear or no), leans in for a kiss on the cheek that Jigen doesn't oblige (she smiles for the first time that day after that rebuff), tells him to stay in touch.

So.

Jigen watches out for the day Lupin will be back.

This time, Lupin is fast (not even 24 hours, this is a first), but his return is less conventional; the thief usually comes back in a fit of theatrics, well-timed and with a smile to preemptively dispel bad moods. Usually. Lupin is lucky that Jigen's stuck around, that he always does stick around, because the gunman hears the clawing in the coffin and the desperate picking of something metallic against the seal before he can turn and leave.

"—Give me a damn break."

Cigarette snuffed out on lacquered wood, Jigen reaches out and unclasps both ends of the casket, letting the person inside know that the lock's been undone and that he can open the door. He's almost angry— really? is Lupin really going to fucking do this today?— but first things first.

"At least let us put you in the ground first, idiot."

[peacocklocked]

The voice may be muffled through wood and his own increasingly panicked breathing in his ears, but Lupin would know that tight, annoyance laced drawl anywhere (when he thinks back, later, he'll remember it didn't sound Quite Right).

So this son of a bitch got him into this! One of his weird pranks...Lupin's going to give him the wedgie of a lifetime. Bloody fingers push on the lid until it yields, relatively fresh air rushes into his lungs as he sits up, sucks in greedy gulp fulls of air like he's drowning (and he nearly had).

His vision dances as his eyes attempt to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights sprinkled about the funeral parlor. The characteristic scent of death and too many bouquets bought off-hand and last minute along with cheap padded seats that have been there too long assault his nose. It looks relatively normal, so Lupin's pretty sure this isn't some strange lobby to Hell or anything. So this is actually the real thing...? Lupin feels his face twist into a hardened scowl, palms braced against the side of the coffin so he can sit up properly and give it to his gunslinging sometimes partner, completely with gestures--

"What the fuck is your problem!? Is this a joke? Your attempt at being the plan guy? 'Cause I'll tell you what, this one sucks. You always complain about me sticking to my day job, but you need to take a look in the mirror, pal...."

He sits up too fast, his head swims, a groan makes its way from his throat and he drops back down onto the satin, forearm over his eyes.

"Your sense of humor really needs work...Hell, I'll pay you for lessons if that's what it takes. What were you thinking..."

How is this his life is the real question here. Of course, his thought process will really take a dive in the 'what the fuck is this' category in a few but what he doesn't know can't hurt him too badly.

[borsalino]

"My problem?"

There are things he expects Lupin to say: the customary "I'm back, darling"s, the "didja miss me"s, the "don't look so sour, your face might stick that way"s and the "daddy's home"s. The running theme between all these hypothetical phrases is the levity, preemptive congeniality to soften the anger or the relief or the exasperation, an airbag against potential impact.

This, though. A moment of bemusement flashes across Jigen's face at this moment of audacity, as if Jigen's the one that wanted to put Lupin in this stupid casket that's now gone completely to waste.

Lupin wants to give Jigen an atomic wedgie? Not before Jigen punches him into the goddamn stratosphere.

"Alright, I'm going to give you a moment to air out your damn brain. Only a moment."

The delivery of this statement suggests that it's not an idle threat, but the indignance wanes and makes way for vague surprise when he sees the streak of blood decorating the ceiling and edge of the coffin, upon noticing the split skin along nails and knuckles.

[peacocklocked]

Lupin's scowl all but splits his mouth beneath his arm, which he moves a smidgen in order to glare at the other man with one eye. Yet he doesn't rise, caught up in catching his breath and the air (yet smelly and overwhelming and creepy) cooling his face.

"Yeah, your problem! That job went off without a hitch, Zenigata's nowhere near here. I know what I said about unnecessary measures, but this is one he'd never be stupid enough to fall for." The furious expression and biting acid tongue lightens up, slightly, as an afterthought comes to light.

"You sure have balls, to drug me like that without me knowing. I hate that. But I kinda like it."

Seriously, a note of pride sings in his chest with this knowledge, he'll make a thief out of you yet, Jigen Daisuke. With a sigh and a huff, Lupin finally sits up properly and, fingers clasped around the edges of the coffin, hoists himself out with minimal falling on his face. He only now realizes his fingers fucking sting, he's lost the tops of at least two nails completely.

When his ass rests against the coffin, gratefully, for support, only then does he regard Jigen with a look that's all business.

"Well, Jigen Daisuke? Where did you put it."

(Does he notice? Does he? How they buried him in tattered red, only to bring him right out of hell in blue? Does he?)

[borsalino]

The costume change, the transition from searing red to cyan, doesn't escape Jigen's notice. But ultimately, he's seen stranger tricks, knows how many outfits Lupin hides in dark places (the casket is as good a place as any) and how many layers of makeup he can wear on a good day for occasions meant to boggle; it's perplexing, but not as perplexing as the rest of the package that starts with the uncharacteristic signs of struggle and ends with distinct cognitive dissonance in the form of a casual Jigen Daisuke.

Jigen Daisuke?

If Lupin is going for the chiding parent tone here, the humor is lost on Jigen. It's an unnecessary reminder of days spent as a hired gun, where the danger of being killed was more prevalent in headquarters and not on the field.

Jigen Daisuke. As if they haven't spent the last few decades being profoundly shitty all over the globe with each other. Spare him.

"Where did I put what? The only thing that's missing here is the screw that's supposed to be keepin' that thick skull of yours together."

In a tone that's maybe too-familiar, devoid of boundaries save for the one that he's just put up, the one that shows in his posture and the quick flick of a right hand to the space between the small of his back and his belt. He likes to think that he can identify an impostor from a mile away, but this one... well. He's Lupin at his slickest, breeziest, the Lupin who turns around in a swivel chair waiting for you in the dead of night. Cliche but classic.

There's an audible click of nails hitting metal, the sound of an index finger rotating the cylinder of a loaded revolver.

"Lupin?"

[peacocklocked]

The presence of his Walter P38 all the more burns into his shoulder where it rests, safe and protective, in its holster. Now that his vision and the fog in his head has mostly cleared, he's noticing some things too. The overly familiar body language Jigen first displayed upon seeing him, his tone, the confusion-- and not just the ordinary confusion when it comes to his brilliance. This is different.

And now he's got his finger on his magnum, staring at him expectantly and maybe a little agog. Lupin knows there's a slim chance he'll be able to get Jigen down before he decides to pull that trigger, with how fast he is (was? still is? what the hell is this). If he decides. He looks as if he wants Lupin to decide.

So Lupin's hands go up, empty, and he cocks one hip against the coffin, expression cool to belay the panic bubbling in his belly.

"Jigen. Don't play around, that's not like you. Where is the painting." A pause. He's not sure that's the important thing, here. No, the important thing is finding out just what the hell's going on.

"You know what, I don't even care that much about where it is, I'll find it either way...what I wanna know is..."

He braces his feet apart, shoulders set.

"Just what is it you're thinking right now?"

Is he going to betray Lupin? Had he misplaced his faith in this man? What is this edge of difference he can taste in the very air, in the cracks of whateverthisis, teeming to break out? It's like he knows him better than himself, or just as well as himself, perhaps. It's really throwing him off, being the mystery that's predicted before the climax.

Except this is anything but. Who is Jigen Daisuke?

[borsalino]

Jigen isn't the scenarios guy, but he can spot deviations from an overarching script when they happen. There's something wrong— there's supposed to be something else here, hands in pockets and toes skating along the floor, maybe a "don't sulk, Jigen-chan, jeez". A reverse tantrum for Jigen's vexation.

His feet find footing on solid ground, heels digging into the cracks between wood paneling of the musty funeral parlor. Shootout position, except the spar is verbal and Jigen isn't going to show off his quick-draw prowess until he sees a glint of that Walther.

"Bastard, you just fell off a ten-story building and pretended to be dead for a few goddamn hours and you're asking me what I'm thinking?"

What do you think, is the accusation, and with it, Jigen changes his mind; to hell with distance, he spans the few steps he needs to get right up in his partner's (his partner's?) face, too-warm hands going straight for the collar of that unfamiliar cerulean blue and tugging. Sharply.

"If this is one of your pranks, save it. Just say that you hit your head too hard, and I'm willing to not kick your ass all the way back to our hideout."

[peacocklocked]

Lupin doesn't start, not when Jigen's stance changes, not even when he approaches, Lupin stands his ground, sweat beading at his hairline and jaw clenched-- he doesn't start until the warmth of gun calloused and gun loved hands creep through his jacket. He visibly starts, shoulders hiked up to nearly his ears, eyes wide. That's certainly different. It's usually him closing the distance, reaching for the other, knocking knees together and stealing food. In a way, this is characteristic of his partner-- shoving him in the door first, nudging him through a window first, that sort of thing. But this is different, this is direct.

Lupin's not sure what the lurch in his stomach means and he isn't sure he wants to know. What he does know is he doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He's so sure he did not, in fact, fall off a ten story building and pretend to be dead. He's never had to do that before. It feels like he's hopped up on the dizzy dizzy stuff all over again, what's real and what's not.

Though his gaze is on the shadow beneath Jigen's hat, his eyes do flicker around, as if searching for a familiar hooting bird, annoying and too sure of every piece of the board. (But that's impossible. Every trace of that is gone, except for--)

Their hideout? Does he want to check out this hide out? Will it be a trap...?

"Yeah...yeah, I must have hit my head...it's all kind of fuzzy. I don't remember anything from last night. Clearly I've got to teach you a new formula for that drug."

It's not technically a lie. For all he knows this could just be some strange, drug induced dream or something. (though the lining of his belly, which tightens and kneads with discomfort, knows otherwise. It's the rest of him that's trying not to play catch up too quickly at once. Or maybe he should, he has to keep on his toes with...whatever this is. The curious cat in him wants to find out, the Lupin in him wants to find out but the Lupin in him is also screaming to get away right now.

He puts a hand to his head and groans, stumbles for effect.

"Tell me...does the term fraulein eule mean anything to you...?"

It shouldn't. Besides "that bullshit you and that woman got me into that time, as if I have the time or give enough shits to figure that out, what am I, a chemist?" Test one of ????

[borsalino]

Coldness isn't a word he'd usually attribute with Lupin, and it's not exactly the frigid cold of winter that welcomes Jigen's aggravated aggression (thankfully, he might have had to pull away immediately if that were the case), but it is the thin chill of autumn; warmth of summer sweetly clinging to an incoming breeze, a fading heat in the face of longer nights. It's disorienting not to hear the apology underlining the selfish adherence to form, and it rankles, the refusal to acknowledge the mock-death in its entirety. What the hell is Lupin playing at?

He keeps Lupin upright with the vice-grip he has on his collar, pressed fabric creasing under tense fingers. Under the heavy shade of his Borsalino, he makes no effort to hide the fact that he's looking, watching. Testing.

After all, what kind of partner would be fooled by a fake?

"Fraulein...? What, a new treasure you want to swipe? Now's not the time."

At the very least, Jigen's pronunciation of European languages is as American and flat as Lupin might remember. Hauling scuffed shoes up neatly on equally-scuffed floor, Jigen pats dust off of Lupin's suit with the free hand that's not still trying to tether the thief to reality.

"You've pissed Goemon off again, don't even bother trying to apologize to him. And don't mention this crap about drugs, you know that none of us touches that kinda stuff."

[peacocklocked]

"It's always the time," Lupin says, almost hollowly, while the rest of the information he just received churns in his mind.

Jigen would have complained about that situation, no doubt about it. But this one (one? were there many? God save the Jigens who have to deal with their Lupins in that case) has no idea what he's talking about. Furthermore, Goemon...as in Ishikawa Goemon XIII? Apparently works closely with them. Lupin definitely would have remembered that stuffy and scary guy filling out an application for this business transaction. No, as the seconds tick by, more and more is visibly wrong.

Can a hallucination lie? Jigen doesn't feel like a hallucination. His world narrows down to the point of skin clutching fabric, anchoring him to the world. (This world??) Though the words and the tone may be different, at least his inflection is not. That's reassuring.

"Scary, scary. No, I don't suppose he would forgive me. Ah, I know that, of course, you're responsible adults...I just mean someone may have smudged my instructions just a little." He indicates with index finger and thumb scant inches apart, a (what he hopes is) disarming smile on his face.

He doesn't brush Jigen's hands off of him. He might really fall flat on his ass if he were anyone else.

"Do you mind if I check something out before we go back and I get my fifty lashes?"

Whereever they are, he's sure to have a hideout tucked away somewhere. Find out where they are, find it, snoop around-- figure out what the fuck is going on. Try not to let his hackles rise too much due to the hawk eyes on his every move. Play it cool. Lupin can manage that. (and if he finds out this is a hallucination for both of them? Or this is some weird...thing? Then what? Does he trust this man?)

[borsalino]

Still off. Nonchalance is one thing, the general feeling of confusion isn't. For a man of his profession, for a grade-A thief who plans his own funerals as meticulously as he does his capers, this reaction to what Jigen assumed was a premeditated self-murder is too mellow. Too... anticlimactic? If every artist has a signature, this one is missing the customary flourish.

That, and there's not even a hint of the familiar "Jigen-chan", no irritating attempt for a stolen hug, no move to placate or parody a heartwarming reunion. The hand on the collar shudders subtly, like a silent sigh, and tears itself away, fingers curling in and away from palms as if to test its tangibility.

"What the hell is wrong with you."

That's the first hint he gives regarding the fact that he knows that something isn't adding up. If he were less confounded, he really might have punched the guy in the face, driven hard knuckle into the outline of those familiar features just to make sure that the man in front of him can bleed, has skin in lieu of latex, is human, is Lupin.

Instead, he takes a wary step back— the familiar look of a wolf, cornered— and clicks his tongue. The sound echoes in the room, like the sound of a safety being released.

"You're acting like you don't even know who the hell I am. I've dealt with all your wishy-washy nonsense before, but now I'm really getting fed up with this crap."

[peacocklocked]

Alright, Lupin, wake up, wake the fuck up, Arsene. Jigen-- this Jigen, whatever, hasn't just gotten suspicious. He knew the instant he opened his mouth, and Lupin doesn't know if it'll cost him. What it'll cost him. Lupin's been sloppy. So sue him. So sue himself if he fucks this up any more. There will be nothing left of him if he fucks up anymore, actually. The thought sobers him instantly.

One narrow shoulder rolls forward and, slowly, ever so slowly, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket to fish out a crumpled pack of Gitanes.

"The real question is what's right with me," he mumbles around the heavenly edge of his cigarette. Careful searching of his person results in the lack of a lighter. There's a sigh.

"Lend me a light, will you." Palm up, expectantly, like he knows. (He does.)

When his eyes finally find Jigens, an eyebrow raises. He doesn't know what it is, on the edge of hysteria and panic and full blown danger blaring in his ears-- where this sudden fondness is coming from, for this angry shadow of his partner. (Or Light. The light of his partner. He's still working on just what the hell to call this. The Twilight Zone?) It's that same aggravated way of worrying he finds traces of in the Jigen he knows, too. Perhaps that's why.

"Of course I know you, Jigen. You're my partner. No matter what happens, yeah? You're stuck with me."

He sighs, face tipped to the ceiling.

"Sorry, but will you indulge me? I need to find out something."

[borsalino]

The request is familiar, the delivery less so; but instinct has Jigen reach inside his suit pocket for his Zippo, trained fingers flicking the lid and snapping the wheel to make sparks fly until they ignite. Click, click, burn.

Maybe it's the relief that comes from seeing those Gitanes, as strange as it is to see that familiar blue packaging melting into the shade of Lupin's jacket.

(He's reminded of the time they stole a Picasso, one of the painter's early works, rendered in cobalts and moody indigos. "This is when Picasso was still figuring himself out," Lupin'd said with a degree of fondness, tapping his knuckles against modest wooden framing. "All great artists need their own Blue Period.")

The hand holding the lighter stills, hesitating in the seconds between his action and his decision, but eventually— it obliges, because as much as Jigen is addicted to Pall Malls, he's addicted to the secondhand smoke from Lupin's cigarettes.

He doesn't look too happy about his private revelation.

"You never say sorry." That's a lie, Lupin says it plenty of times, in varying degrees of seriousness, but Jigen's statement is more an indication of continuing caution than it is anything else. The Zippo snaps shut, drops back in its nest in Jigen's pants. "But, fine— what is it, I might as well."

[peacocklocked]

Jigen seemed to be contemplating this exchange in the moments between the flick of the lighter and passing the flame against the tip of Lupin's cigarette. Which is fine, Lupin observes him between the shutter-effect of hooded eyes, wonders if he's going to lean in and cave. Jigen- his Jigen?, does so fucking reluctantly, with a grumble and a wholehearted scowl, but he eventually does. Or he drives the point home with sharp barbs and Reason.

The olive branch, if one could call it that, is lit, and Lupin inhales deeply, lets tar curl into his lungs and paint them black as charcoal. His hands are still shaking, but he can hide that, rested against the sides of the coffin to keep him upright. No, this isn't an olive branch. He's still suspicious, as he rightfully should be. Lupin's hanging on from pure stubborn will and curiosity alone before he writes this off as...anything, really.

"I don't? Don't suppose I should. Often. We don't have time for training wheels this round." As if anything they've ever done, in this world or the next, will ever have training wheels. He could use an entire limo with training wheels, actually. Plus a bar.

When he parts his lips before the tumble of just what they have to do, as inconspicuous as possible, a stream of smoke slips free.

"I should have another hideout around here, if this is the area I'm thinking it is. I left something there I need. Notes, names, things like that." He doesn't ask for questions, gives no hint to eluding to these questions or the answers just out of his grasp, either.

[borsalino]

These are a lot of hypotheticals, and the practicality is... well, it isn't uncharacteristic but it does feel preemptive. Premature. Jigen is missing the distinct warmth of an elbow on the shoulder or a smirk pressed up near his face, and his shoulders rise to test that invisible weight, to pull away from that missing proximity.

Lupin's supposed to be insufferable. Why isn't he being insufferable? Why is he being mildly reasonable? His lips thin, hands now shoved in pockets to pitch his posture forward, this time. A slouch, a defensive curl inwards.

"You must've hit your head pretty damn hard, if you're asking permission for me to take you back to base. I wasn't plannin' on staying in this gloomy place for longer than I have to."

Heels turn towards the exit, the incline of Jigen's head silently motioning for Lupin to follow if he wants to. There's no doubt about the fact that it's stupid to turn your back on someone when you don't know if they're planning something fishy, but it's also an indication of Jigen's trust, that he's willing to show that courtesy as long as this person— Lupin, an impostor, whatever— doesn't try anything funny. Trusting isn't his default, but it is when the person in question purports himself to be Arsene Lupin III.

"The Fiat's in the back. I'm driving, I don't trust you at the wheel right now."

[peacocklocked]

Ah, he's a little broody and tightly wound. Now that's familiar. The familiarity almost makes this less about the awkwardness that's startled to churn. But not really. He sticks behind Jigen as they head out, specifically so their his left shoulder lines up behind Jigen's right. A few steps behind, boots scraping along the ground. One of his hands dangles at his side, ready for anything, while the other cradles the cigarette between two fingers.

"Right." The Fiat. It's a thing, then. Not bad. Could be worse. Could've been a Volvo.

"I'm not asking permission, I'm asking if you'd mind a detour. Otherwise I'm leaving you out here for the walking dead. Most of them are hungry for husbands." Does he mean cougars or actual zombies or...both??

Jigen's frustrated-- alright, beyond frustrated and worried and Lupin almost feels bad for doing this to a friend. On the other hand this man is almost a stranger, enough to be wary, anyway. In case this is a trick or a hallucination or whathaveyou. He can't take that chance, not with what's waiting for him.

So little puffs of smoke tail them as they mosey along past the urns and the caskets and the pictures of creepy Forefathers of the funeral home with eyes that should follow you, and Lupin hums something old and sure under his breath, their steps echoing beneath them into the darkness.

"I'm sure if we crashed you'd land on your feet." This is nothing new, backseat driver that he is. "I'm a pretty good navigator, regardless."

If he expects to feel some pang of recognition when he sees The Fiat, it falls flat, even though the moonlight makes her shine like a beauty. He does run a palm over the side, as if he's getting to know her, or an old friend, perhaps.

[borsalino]

Yellow, not exactly a discreet or conventional color for a thief, but. Go big or go home. Lupin might notice how easily Jigen opens the door to the driver's seat, how he handles the car as lovingly as he would his .357 and hums in time with the starting of the ignition, a soft rumble that he emulates down to the pitch. No matter how many times they total the thing, how many times he gets on an identical Fiat and adjusts his form to the new seats, he can place that rattle and shake of engines anywhere. He's a man that loves the classics.

It seems to calm him down some, being in that space, buckling himself down. His posture eases, weight sinking into springs that give way and creak into position. The phrase 'the hug of cushion' seems apt.

"Navigator, right. Get in, Magellan."

The back lot is empty, predictably— the local funeral parlor's not exactly a hangout for hip youngsters, the last time Jigen checked— and the establishment itself is a diminutive, modest building, tucked quietly in the corner of town away from prying eyes or nosy inspectors that would have a mini heart-attack upon hearing about who they put in a coffin today.

(They can't begin telling Zenigata about every time Lupin fakes dead, even Jigen's not that cruel.)

Jigen pulls out the cigarette receptacle in their car, a little compartment that's already full to the brim with stubbed ends. Whether that's due to his heavy smoking habits, or because the past few hours have been trying, that's up to Lupin to decide.

"Damn, we've gotta clean this thing. The back's starting to clutter, too— all that weird stuff you stash back there."

[peacocklocked]

So the passenger seat molds perfectly to his ass, groove to cheek. He may not know this little speedster, but it certainly knows him. The revelation almost seizes a laugh from him.

"I think we're more cut out for Lewis and Clark. The jury's still out on the raccoon cap, though."

Long legs stretch out, one ankle over a knee, tap, tap. Even goes as far as to roll the window down, frigid air immediately pooling in, chilling him to the collar of his jacket-- not bad. At least he's (probably) alive. He leans over to tap a sprinkle of ash into the already too-full bin.

"At least it's got character--"

The back? Tosses a look over his shoulder to see, indeed, a heap of weird shit back there. Marvelous, eyecatching, tempting shit among the trash. Gadgets and disguises and wiring. Lupin's fingers itch to paw through the piles, scrounge up odds and ends, see what makes this one tick. Toes curl in his hoots with anticipation.

"It's a gentleman's stash, man. Maybe one day you'll be able to understand it," His tone is light and breezy.

As the vehicle moves out, Lupin's got a better idea of where they are, just by taking a gander at the businesses nearby, and the houses peeking out from the neighborhood just down the block. They've got a heading.

"Turn right when you get to the sign." What he doesn't know is Jigen probably already knows exactly where he means. Is it their current one? Is it a back up? We may never know.

[borsalino]

Jigen watches with one sharp elbow resting against the ridge of his own unopened car window, attention flicking between the forks in the road (he turns right when prompted) and the man curling smoke immediately to his side. Their path narrows with distance, smooth asphalt making way for secretive cobblestones that rattle under the spokes of sturdy wheels, a steady rat-tat-tat like gunfire. It's strangely relaxing.

"You're keeping something from me," he finally says with a degree of authority. Well aware that he's not tossing back the pitches that are being thrown at him, Jigen makes another turn and worms the Fiat into a quieter neighborhood, where the roads are barely wide enough for a car and a half.

If Lupin was the suspicious sort, or if he wasn't aware of exactly where they're going (the right way, incidentally), he might have suspected the gunslinger of foul play; taking him into a back alley and shooting him, point blank. Their version of the yellow cab rumbles on.

"What sort of mess did you get yourself into this time?"

Jigen's no detective— he doesn't do the decoding, but he is in possession of instincts. A languid tilt of the head punctuates his question, a gesture that screams "you probably won't give me a straight answer", cultivated by years and years of having this conversation and running into the same conclusion. Astonishingly, Jigen doesn't look bitter about it at all.

[peacocklocked]

An ankle jiggles in time with the rattle of the road, too fast to keep up with. Less than relaxing for him. (Though there's something to be said about being driven around like this in the dead of night, over old streets paved before the first touch of skyscraper and heavens, that's not too shabby)

"I'm not entirely certain, yet. There are pieces missing and I'm going to sorely be in debt if I don't get them all soon. Studying it is."

The thought of already being in debt to this world, to this...whatever, already leaves a sour taste in his mouth. But equally does the thought of striking out on his own make him still. Decisions, decisions. Ultimately he'd probably be better off if this turns out to be something crazier than usual...Even if he doesn't take the bait. It's certainly nothing new, and rolls off Lupin's back like water over a duck's feathers. It's the little things that ease him along, here.

This path is looking vaguely familiar, which surprises Lupin just a bit. No one should know where this place is but if anyone did, it would be Jigen. (Is that a point in his favor or not?)

As they pull in closer to the little house offset by a truly neglected teeny square of lawn (in cubits, even) and a cracked mailbox, Lupin's pulse picks up the slightest.

"Remind me again who I have to thank for my fall, will you, Jigen?" Speaking of messes.

[borsalino]

The only real convenience the house provides is its modest garage, and Jigen pulls into it with practice, putting the car in reverse and backing up into the small, hidden space. Darkness casts long shadows over them as the shutters come down slowly, mechanical grinding of too-old machinery moving to seal them in their claustrophobic confines.

Jigen makes no move to open the door first, even as the garage descends into pitch-black, inky and unsettling.

"Some billionaire hotshot scientist with a rare metal that you wanted to turn into a ring for Fujiko."

Recited with the affectation of a man who's been subjected to this same ruse dozens, hundreds, thousands of times. It's impossible to see his expression in the dark (if he'd get out, the motion sensors'd flood the place with light), but his tone speaks volumes: "no way you'd forget anything that has to do with some idiotic scheme involving that woman".

But just in case Lupin misses it— because this man doesn't seem like his Lupin, the Lupin in red, Lupin the coquette— he appends:

"Not something you'd forget."

This sounds more like "Your move, Lupin the Third".

[peacocklocked]

The enveloping kind of darkness that swallows everything whole should make even a normal hot blooded man pause, make his knees creak just a little. But for Lupin, it's a bit of a comfort. The comfort of knowing if he can't see, the odds are no one else can see him either. Maybe he really did hit his head because he's not entirely sure this Jigen falls into that category of being paranoid enough for that.

An honest to goodness, true laugh bubbles from Lupin's throat for the first time since he's woken up in this fucked up situation. He even smacks a palm against his knee, smoke floats like a veil between them.

"A rare metal for a ring? She's really upped the stakes, then. I always figured her for a rare meteor loving type of woman." Just knowing she's given him that many chances, as it seems, leaves a giddy feeling in his chest, tight and warm. That woman.

"No. Unless this is all a dream, but..." Hooks that foot free-waving in the air back onto the dashboard, closes his teeth over the filter of the smoke.

"I expected my dreams to be much sweeter than this best case scenario."

And it truly is; Jigen sticking around and actually settling into this common weight, Fujiko apparently sticking around long enough to give him chances, hell, even Goemon the boring ass hanging around is a surprise, though not exactly an unpleasant one. Every bit of this so far, from the moment Jigen released him, equal best case scenarios...of the future? Ugh, it's making his damn head hurt.

"I suppose it's time to figure out just what else I'm forgetting, hmm..? If I trip up any more it might worry Fujiko Mine~"

[borsalino]

Even in the dark, it should be abundantly obvious how Jigen deflates, forearms settled on the locked steering wheel, chin threatening to rest on said forearms. There's a shuffle in the dark, slow and resigned, mirroring the quiet scramble that Jigen'd heard in the funeral parlor underneath the heavy lid of a closed casket. Full circle.

"Never thought I'd say this, but I can't believe you're not calling her 'Fujicakes'."

Profoundly humiliating. The syllables sound alien on his tongue, clicked between reluctant teeth (Fujicakes, how does Lupin even do it). That settles it, though, and when the lights snap on to the sound of a door being swung open, Jigen narrows his eyes under his hat and looks pointedly at the bare concrete walls of the garage, following the shadow of his 'partner'.

"So, what is it? You're definitely not the Lupin I know— where's the bump on your head, so I can set you right."

Preferably by swatting his palm at it in hopes that it might get Lupin to remember important things about all of them again, for christ's sake. He's calling amnesia for now, maybe a concussion; alternate dimensions is such a strange place for his mind to go, and it doesn't go there, not yet. Equating this with their relationship at its infancy doesn't exactly click for him.

[peacocklocked]

Another snort seeps from Lupin, just this side of calming hysteria, both from Jigen's form and the endearment spit out along with it. It's just too much.

"Fujicakes..." he tries it out on his tongue, like swishing around a draft of wine along all his tastebuds and the ridges of his teeth, over the roof of his mouth, pure and sweet with just the hint of a kick. So like her, too.

"I kind of like that one. I can tell from how much it pained you to say it, it's really special." There's another rumble of a chuckle.

Lupin doesn't make to exit the care right away, no, he continues to sit there, face straight ahead while dark eyes regard his 'partner'.

"I'm trying to decide whether it'd be safer for you to check out any potential head wound or Fujiko...you probably wouldn't try to kill me." Humming to himself, he stretches his arms out in front, bones popping and stiff muscles attempting to unlock.

Finally, with a shrug, he, too, exits the vehicle, long legs shifting the instant feet touch the ground.

"Another query: just what the hell did you guys do last night? Leave it to me to trip up some booby trap," said in more of a grumble than anything, hands cocked on hips, shoulders forward. Lips purse.

"I don't know what it is...but I'm guessing it has something to do with that metal you snatched. Or it's place of origin. What I stole last night was a painting from an individual buyer of relatively normal background."

If his tone is accusing, well, it's meant to be. He knows himself, he knows this is profoundly wrong, all of it. Even if he had amnesia, surely he'd know something so profoundly off to the core of things...right? None of this is right so it has to be...some science shit. Wonderful.

[borsalino]

It's with great reluctance that Jigen starts easing into this concept, that this Lupin in blue is, in fact, not the Lupin they were going to bury a few hours ago. The other guy seems more comfortable with the idea... or, well. More willing to propose it, which probably should be a point in his favor. No one likes admitting that they're misplaced, especially not Arsene Lupin the Third, whose paths always remain gleefully unknown or gleefully pre-designed.

Nails play with a familiar scratch on the hood of their Fiat, tracing a mark that grounds Jigen in his version of reality. His magnum is still the same weight, resting primly on the waistband of his pants, an anchor.

"We definitely weren't looking for a painting. That would've been an actual money job."

Meaning, it was one of those stupid capers that they got themselves into for the thrill of it, and also because Fujiko put on a bikini and said something sweet to Lupin in one seedy place or another. His high opinion of her clearly never changes in any iteration, expressed with a breeziness that veers on the side of tetchiness.

But above it all, he doesn't miss the sweetness with which Lupin mentions Fujiko, the spark that comes with it, an errant flame that should be dangerous but never burns the whole house down. It's not anything that someone else can emulate; an impostor would give themselves away immediately by failing to have that self-destructive energy.

As ridiculous as this all is, he's starting to be convinced. (And really, they've been through some truly weird situations, so this is nothing too new. Too new.)

"What we were looking for was a rare metal made by some physicist or other. Something about it being able to bend magnetic or spacial fields under the right conditions. Probably a crock of shit."

The science went way over Jigen's head, obviously.