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"Can I at least have a cigarette, officer?" Jigen spat snarkily. He wiped his clammy palms on the seat, awaiting a reply. Beneath a charcoal fedora, the man leered, more than impatient.
Zenigata didn't know how but he felt the glare. Through his rearview mirror, fixated on the curtain of bangs over his enemy's eyes, he out-stared. A pothole forced him to forfeit and he returned his gaze to the dark deserted road with a grunt.
Claiming victory, Jigen fell forward, catching himself between two front seats; a calloused palm faced up for his prize.
Pop's hmphed for the hundredth time that night. Nonetheless, a crumpled pack of cigs appeared from his trenchcoat. He shook it lightly, commanding Jigen who greedily pawed the pack away. Using the car's various light-up bezels, he made out its label. "Golden Bat!?" He commented, overstepping his surprise in a pitiful grab for small talk. "What do ya import these things or something?" The brand was old- the oldest in Japan actually.
"No," He lied, "And open a window before you smoke."
"Tch," Jigen leaned to the cheap plastic crank, "I need my-" A lighter hit his lap with a harsh plap. Mumbling, the gunman grabbed hold of the crank. It broke barely halfway through a rotation.
"Not that one... fucking idiot." An unusual venom hissed through the old man's teeth. Immediately, he was clutching the steering wheel, knuckles white, palms slick with regret. He hung his head out of Jigen's eye line, awaiting a raged response. Nothing. Zenigata's throat was dry. "I-...." His voice cracked up an octave. Swallowing fear with a final gulp from his flask, he tried again: "Sorry. I'm sorry."
Awkwardly, the gunman shrugged stiffly, igniting his crutch; its taste seeping him with bittersweet memories. Daisuke's heavy eyes flitted to Pops– checking in on the man as he straightened back into view. They had a routine going, one that consisted of back and forth glances avoiding the window for eye contact with near-perfect precision.
After passing a few rusted guide signs, it was Jigen's turn to zone out– to pretend he wasn't being dissected with each look. He exhaled a thick rope of smoke from his nostrils, thumbing the discarded cuffs at his side. When the sun was still nesting in a watercolor of orange, Jigen had quietly picked the lock. It'd been hours since then– even longer since any real chit-chat. In most situations, this was hardly cause for concern. Silence was a unique gift the pair could bathe cozily in but this stillness was an uneasy one. It enveloped each neverending stretch of road and flooded the car from stained seats to carpeted ceiling; weighing down on worn tires.
Daisuke opened his mouth, wanting to swim back to that safe-house of small talk. His body betrayed him, however, tying a rope around his neck and tightening till all he could do was stutter and choke. Jigen coughed up a cloud of grey instead of wasting his breath trying again.
The thief had been to more countries than most, made enough acquaintances to start a country of his own, and held far too many drunk screaming matches, but somehow– by hellish intervention– he'd never caught onto the whole talking thing. Comforting someone, saying the "right" thing, emotions. In an all too serious way, Jigen Daisuke would rather be shot. It stung less, most of the time anyway. (There were no bulletproof vests to cushion those sharp exchanges after all) And when small talk walked down that plank, he was naked, trivial, and bleeding out on the cold hard floor of conversation. His damaged lungs fought to last him through one stupid stuttering sentence, that was surely swarming with all the wrong things. Yes, he'd rather be shot.
Jigen took another long drag and gave in to the vacuum around him, watching a starless sky pass by from under the brim of his safety net.
They had an understanding, he thought. One Pop's would be cognizant of. This too would pass, just like every other "see something, say nothing" moment. Like when Zenigata pretended to not notice Daisuke's shakes or his sweat-stained blazer or his uncharacteristically awake limbs. Jigen well he ignored the inspectors sniffling, his tear-shimmered cheeks and, he convinced himself, Pop's four-pack beneath the seat had surely been empty when he'd clambered in.
He reminisced, making a list of sorts– counting IOUs instead of sheep.
The window never did make it open and a thick smell of tobacco drifted between old leather. Jigen breathed it in, the smell of a better night, one with the hood of his lover's fiat down and the stars reflecting off his partner's inky black eyes. Slowly, he went limp; his aching bones the final part of him to give up. The gunman hung like that for a while, eyes closed and body lax, trying his best to throw himself off that cliff and into the mindless waters of sleep. Zenigata forced the driver-side window agar and the highway's lullaby shot into their space.
Jigen's numb, so-very-close-to-sleep body slid down the seat as he felt the vehicle groan to a stop. He jolted up so snappy his head spun, limping out of Zenigata's scrap metal in an instant. "Oh... heh just a gas station... duh." Disappointment hit him like a truck, hollowing out a hole in his very center.
"Yep," The officer clicked in a 'no shit I drove here' tone.
Jigen bore his forgotten cigarette into the ground till both the concrete and his shoe were dusted in ash. He gnawed the skin off his cheek in a vain attempt to clear any forming tears. It was too late, the gunslinger saw that puppy dog look from the corner of his eyes as he rolled them.
"We'll uh- We'll be there soon," Zenigata squeaked, pitifully sorry. The sound– the thought of it, Jigen felt as if he'd hurl a greasy slop of fast food right then and there. "You can get something in the store or if you have to-" He sped off as fast as his stocky, still thawing from sleep, legs could carry. "-go .. pee..."
The two reunited under headache-inducing fluorescents after ringing the tears from their eyes and the snot from their nose. Zenigata was slumped in the bright liquor aisle, half weighing his options, half spacing off. A blood-dropped sleeve reached for the cooler's handle like a zombie to a brain. He was stopped by the criminal. Sternly, but not without softness, they muttered: "Let's go." And the inspector just nodded.
Jigen paid for fuel, food, three 'get well soon' postcards, cigarettes, and a few shitty trinkets. They left without speaking.
"You can sit in front." His voice was hoarse and lacked its thick coat of law and order. "...please."
"Okay." The man ducked, forcing his body to behave lighter than it was.
"Just so you can roll down a window." Zenigata pinned down an excuse.
"I already said okay." He visibly winced, too rude Jigen, too rude. After a speedy recovery, he tried again. "I'll drive- I can drive after the next stop... If you want, Pops."
"Yeah okay, just go the speed limit alright?" The car wrestled to life, hiding the unease in Zenigata's chuckle. Murmurs from the radio, the hum of the heating, the rolling of the wheels, the wind whaling from the window, each noise seemed to accentuate their lack of dialog. Jigen pulled a stolen crossword puzzle from his blazer to sand down the edge as they resumed their trek.
A moment passed, then two, 10 miles, then 20. He'd almost finished scratching each corresponding word into yellowing paper. He'd almost completed the thin packet.
"They'll.." Zenigata gripped the gear shift unmoving. "They'll be okay right?"
The man's pen stopped mid-stroke, muscles tensing to a sore and frozen pose. "Yeah." Jigen pulled down his fedora. "They'll be alright." He pretended to hunker down for a nap, tucking away the pen and book. "They've got to be. I mean, they always are, you know… always."
"Yeah. Of course."
When a car did pass them on that lonely highway, Jigen stirred from his imaginary nap to face his partner and they resumed their routine once more.
As the pair plowed through mile after mile, their silence became less deafening- or was it more deafening less stinging?
Radio static rose and fell with Zenigata's sniffling.
The two inched into each other's bubble, some unintentional-intentional shuffling later and pop! the barrier was broken or rather, conjoined, into one warm little cove. Eventually, as light squeezed through the dark, as Jigen finally drifted asleep, and as Zenigata cheeks dried, two hands held one another. Beneath them; three cards, signed Goemon, Fujiko, and Lupin with Jigen's pen.
They pretended each intimacy that followed was an accident of sorts. Pretending the cigarette they'd later share meant nothing more than the paper it was wrapped with. Pretending that if those cards had their names they wouldn't care about penmanship or if they'd left a little heart by their name or not.
Zenigata and Jigen would not speak of the trip again nor would the pair discuss what bloody mess had waited for them at their destination. After all, they had an understanding to uphold. An understanding that had just sunk into deeper water than ever before and yet, they still skated on its icy surface.
"Jigen, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
Zenigata waited for a moment, hoping he'd take it back. "What's.. what's your favorite color?"
Jigen hacked into the night choking on a guttural laugh. "I don't fuckin' know. Purple? Black? Somethin' like that," He played along, "How bout you Pops?"
"Red."
"Hm."
"No green or... well... something." He paused, "Purple's nice though."
Jigen just smiled coy and calm, passing the cig on over to his rival.