Special Guest Villains (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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loligiary2020-02-24 12:24 pm
specialguestvillains) wrote in loligiary2020-02-24 12:24 pm
Sashiko: The Darkest Timeline
Jigen's right arm ached, and that meant the weather was about to go sour.
Granted, it always ached, but it was aching in a very specific way right now, and also it was January in Paris so the weather was going to get fucked eventually. Everyone gave charitably around Christmas, but as soon as it flipped around to January 2 all that goodwill towards men dried up and the weather was even colder than before.
Jigen took up his usual position near the cafe and watched the patrons stroll by, eying them up to see who looked like a big spender. Men with dates sometimes liked to impress their girls, as did bachelorette parties. People on the way back from soccer matches were charitable, but only if their team won, and if they hadn't they had the risk of being mean drunks. Sometimes they'd be mean drunks anyway.
Okay, guy in a blue blazer, looked like a tourist from the back.
"Hey, buddy. Spare some change?" he mumbled, the phrase coming more naturally than most of his French. He said it enough these days for it to be nearly rote. The man turned and Jigen found himself unable to look the man in the face. Something about his pose said horror, maybe even disgust. He didn't have the energy to deal with that bullshit today.
"Don't worry about it," he said before the tourist could even speak, and turned around to trod off again. The battered hat he'd been using as a money bucket went back on his head. Behind him, he heard the man slowly back away. By the time Jigen looked at him again, the man in blue had run off into the crowd.
Granted, it always ached, but it was aching in a very specific way right now, and also it was January in Paris so the weather was going to get fucked eventually. Everyone gave charitably around Christmas, but as soon as it flipped around to January 2 all that goodwill towards men dried up and the weather was even colder than before.
Jigen took up his usual position near the cafe and watched the patrons stroll by, eying them up to see who looked like a big spender. Men with dates sometimes liked to impress their girls, as did bachelorette parties. People on the way back from soccer matches were charitable, but only if their team won, and if they hadn't they had the risk of being mean drunks. Sometimes they'd be mean drunks anyway.
Okay, guy in a blue blazer, looked like a tourist from the back.
"Hey, buddy. Spare some change?" he mumbled, the phrase coming more naturally than most of his French. He said it enough these days for it to be nearly rote. The man turned and Jigen found himself unable to look the man in the face. Something about his pose said horror, maybe even disgust. He didn't have the energy to deal with that bullshit today.
"Don't worry about it," he said before the tourist could even speak, and turned around to trod off again. The battered hat he'd been using as a money bucket went back on his head. Behind him, he heard the man slowly back away. By the time Jigen looked at him again, the man in blue had run off into the crowd.
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"How about I make you a deal," the big man says instead. He gestures behind him to the cafe he'd been at. "If I'm in the office, I usually take lunch over there. Stop by around one. If I'm here, you get a hot meal."
It's a breadcrumb offer, but it's better than starving.
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This seemed too forward. Too much for a tourist or a businessman abroad. Jigen wavers and then finally offers a "I'll see if I can drop by", begrudgingly.
He can always just not, he supposes.
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The definitely-not-a-tourist takes his leave, going back to his life. But he's where he promised to be five days out of the next seven. He keeps his word, too.
But he doesn't ask anything back. Jigen can come and go as he pleases. It's fine. Zenigata just takes his afternoon paper, drinks coffee and has a lunch, regardless.
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Jigen feels like a stray cat being fed by a child. The first week he comes, gets the food, grunts a thank you and vanishes into the crowd as fast as possible. He doesn't want to be seen wolfing it down, doesn't want the man's eyes on him, pitying him. (He can take pity from a distance, he's low enough for it, but don't do it to his face.)
But the second week is colder, and he lingers in the cafe so he has an excuse to be out of the wind. A few customers give him a sidelong look for stinking up the place but he just presses his hands to the coffee cup and lets the warmth seep into his fingertips.
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"You got a place to stay? Because it's going to get colder. January's a bitch here."
His conscience is whispering to him: You shouldn't do this again. The last time, it didn't end so well. You didn't see the danger before it was already too late. This man, he's not like Oscar. He's a man with a history, not a boy who might've had a future.
"Because I got a couch, and I'm out of my apartment, most days. May as well have someone occupy it."
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Jigen pauses halfway through his sandwich, staring up from beneath his hat with bloodshot eyes. "You don't gotta do that," he says, wariness clear in his voice. He knew how unwanted he was. He wasn't useful anymore. "I got a setup. And you don't even live here, yeah?"
They hadn't talked much, and most of the talking was Zenigata talking while Jigen quietly munched, but he gathered the guy wasn't a citizen.
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He switches to English. It's definitely more thickly accented than his French. "I could use the practice, anyway."
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"You couldn't find someone besides a stray cat to practice on?" Jigen grumbled into his coffee. Come on. What was the real motive here.
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He reaches into his pocket, and then brings out a very traditional Japanese card -- name, phone number. No employment, just his name and phone number, in both kanji, romanji, and the English translation of his name.
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Jigen takes the card with one hand and stares at it like he's not sure it won't bite him. He turns it over, then looks back up at the man who seems to be overflowing with unrequested kindness.
He's not...in the business, is he? Doesn't seem to have the bearing for it, but some guys were real good at hiding it. Or maybe he was one of those sick fucks who preyed on the people no one would miss, and Jigen would wind up buried in a shallow grave after being poisoned or strangled.
Jigen chewed the mouthful of sandwich and weighed whether he cared, then swallowed and decided he didn't.
"Yeah. Guess so. Where're you staying?"
Either way, he wouldn't be cold anymore.
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"I'll be there by eight at the latest."
And just like that, the deal is done. Lunch is over, and Zenigata heads off with a smile. He is in fact out of the office at 5, but he has a trip to the grocery and the thrift to attend to before he gets home.
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Two or four years ago, anyone who gave Jigen a blank check and told him to meet them in an isolated location at night would be told to go screw themselves. Now, Jigen's a lot more desperate and a lot less picky. There's even some part of him, a part he tries to pretend doesn't exist, that wouldn't mind if it was just a complicated murder attempt.
The man's face seems so trustworthy, despite his size and gruffness. Jigen can't pick out why. He collects what few things he has from the places he 's stashed them and loiters outside, a battered duffel bag over his arm.
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"You're too short for mine and my son's wouldn't fit you, so I took some guesses he says as he goes back to cooking. "There's a laundry in the unit. Not a big one, but you can get your things clean if you want."
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"Wouldn't mind a shower, actually," Jigen grunts, abruptly painfully aware of exactly how filthy he is now that he's surrounded by clean, civilized things. He does take his own belongings into the bathroom with him, along with a randomly chosen set of clothes, locking the door that he knows Zenigata could break down without flinching.
Then he strips, gets under the hot water, and just melts. It feels like heaven on his cold, raw skin. Jigen runs his hand through matted hair and beard, taking his leisurely time as he indulges. Water pools and runs in rivers through the gnarled scar tissue of his right arm but he barely worries about it, nearly brought to tears just by the sensation of warmth on him.
By the time he comes out he looks half-asleep but more alive, greyish skin now a soft pink from the heat. "Hot water's run out," he mumbles, quite aware of whose fault that is.
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He'll let the mean gauge hot much he needs. After all, this isn't the first time he's been at the homeless care rodeo.
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Oh god, he does. Jigen descends on the food like a hungry locust, uncaring of what it might do to his stomach. He barely breathes except to eat more, until his plate's empty and he's drinking down another glass of water.
"Don't suppose you got beer?" he asks hopefully.
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Look he likes the tastes of home.
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Eh. It's booze. Jigen goes through the first bottle in nothing flat, and only seems to grow self-conscious halfway through the second one. He offers a bottle to Zenigata from the sixpack as if it's not Zenigata's to begin with.
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"So I know you may come and go, but I've done this before and this is my home and my rules. There aren't many, and they're for safety, mostly."
He lets that sink in. "If you're using, don't do it here. If you're doing sex work, don't do it here. Don't bring people back-- it's a great way to put us both in danger. If you're stealing, stop. I'll supply your basic needs. If you want something, ask, I'll see what I can do."
Deep breath: "I'm not going to sleep with you, or touch you without your permission. I ask you do the same."
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Jigen snickered at some of those rules. If Pops thought that anyone would be sleeping with him unless he was the one ponying up for it, the guy was both blind and had no sense of smell. But he shrugged and raised his bottle to toast the proposal. "I don't have much that I need. When it's not too cold anymore, I'll get out of your hair."
The food and the warmth were starting to wake up bits of his brain that had been numbed for months. Not pleasantly numbed, just inaccessible because his only concerns had been food, shelter, and alcohol. Jigen swirled his beer bottle and considered the matter again. "I"m not the first couch-surfer you've had, am I?"
That wasn't a talk you gave a grubby man in his 40s. It was a talk you gave a street kid.
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Very terse about that. Just straight forward and simple. He got up to take care of his plate at the sink.
"I would appreciate it if you'd clean up after yourself. There's stretches where I get messy, but I want to keep it to contained chaos."
Dishes were washed, things tided, some booze bottles in the recycling bin. But the place was lived in. Not perfect.
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'My son'. And where was the son, if the man still had his clothes but lived alone?
"Fine," Jigen said, finishing the beer and throwing it back. He kept looking around the room, checking for...what, cameras? Guns? What the hell was the threat here?
(Because it was good, and nothing good could come without being a threat.)
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There was another futon in the bedroom, and a proper desk and boxes taking up most of the wall.
However, there is one tiny bookshelf with little knickknacks, and on top of it was the answer to an unspoken question: a tiny family shrine, with pictures of parents. Next to them if the photo of a young man in a police uniform, clearly not Japanese.
All of them are bracketed with black ribbon.
Zenigata did the dishes in silence.
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It was hard to miss, given it was the only thing here that seemed well-attended but untouched. His own home had something similar when he'd been growing up...probably the entire place had been torn down by now, shrine and all, if it hadn't burned to the ground. Jigen ran a finger over one of the ribbons, until his shaking right hand dropped down to his side again.
"This your son?" he called to the man in the other room.
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