zenigatakeibu / Zenigata
All at once Zenigata feels his heart plummet into his stomach. It’s a question he should have seen coming, yet it hits hard nonetheless, straight to the gut. A lesser man may have broken down right then and there, tears and all. Instead that thick brow furrows as he steels himself, the polite smile falling. In its place comes something cold and steady. Impersonal. “.. We’ll see about talking after you eat. You’re still concussed, you need rest more than anything.”
He regrets accepting the role of caretaker almost as soon as he it’s his, but the doctors had insisted: ‘Who better to look after Lupin than the man who knows him best?’ His apartment is and always has been a wreck. Two trips to the laundromat put little more than a dent in the mess; whole trash bags of old takeout containers, empty bottles and stale cigarettes sit in wait by the door. The place is cleaner than it’s been in years by the time he’s finally done. Fresh sheets greet him that night, though he doesn’t get much sleep, too nervous about Lupin’s arrival come tomorrow…
“Here, I brought you something clean to wear…” Surprise surprise, the hospital is no more inviting than it had been during the initial visit. Zenigata sets the bundle of clothes on the edge of Lupin’s bed, feeling something in his chest pull at the sight of him so pale. And skinny… What the hell are they feeding him here, anyway? “We’re leaving as soon as we get your medications.”
The ride to the inspector’s apartment is a silent one. He watches the thief out of the corner of his eye the whole drive, white-knuckling the poor steering wheel half to death. Old habits die hard– harder, still, when you’re paranoid. The few minutes it takes to park and come up the stairs to his apartment feel like the longest of Zenigata’s life. Breath bated, the door swings open. “Th-this is–.. Ahem, this is it.”
It’s cramped and humbly decorated, the walls a plain rustic beige. Further inside is a small living room with a green tatami floor, a dusty TV resting in its corner. Beside it, a shelf for a turntable and a handful of records. The kitchen is sparse, too; it’s gone unused for a while by the looks of it. Zenigata nods toward the open bedroom as he shuffles past. “You’ll be staying in… There. I’ve got you some clothing, a towel… Shoes.”
The glossy pages of a magazine held no solace for him, able to imagine the sounds of the sparkling waves lapping upon the white sandy beach easily, but finding no comfort in that. It meant nothing, even if he might’ve visited such tropical destinations at some point in an apparently illustrious career. None of it meant a damn thing if he couldn’t remember what mattered. Forget the legacy of Arsène Lupin III, he couldn’t even recall if that was his actual name or what his mother or father might’ve looked like. Did he have any siblings, or legitimate friends? What were his hobbies outside of crime-related activities?
No – all he had was Inspector Zenigata, and the change of clothing the man had brought to wear. Silent, the shadow of the man known as Lupin nodded and set aside the magazine. At least he would be getting out of the hospital, away from the constant reminders that something was seriously wrong with him.
The car ride hadn’t been much better, the silence filled with a tension so thick you could practically mould it, shape it like a heavy and wet clay, but neither party even made such an attempt to shape it into so much as small talk. There was nothing to discuss. As far as Lupin was concerned, Zenigata held all of the keys here, the one with all of the knowledge and know-how of them both.
“Huh. It’s... nice. Cosy.” Caution marked his tone upon entering the apartment, noting that the place was rather dull. Not quite lived-in, but more of a home base for a man who likely led an otherwise chaotic life. Anything that signaled to a hobby or something for fun for Zenigata had collected dust, such as the television or the nigh-barren kitchen.
“Hang on. You’re not giving me your bed, are you? Where are you sleeping?” He didn’t need to glance through the entirety of the apartment to know there was only a single bedroom; somehow that information was simply just there in his mind somehow. Concern for others, martyrdom regarding subjects as mundane as a more comfortable sleeping situation didn’t suit Lupin.
“You’re already getting me clothes and stuff, letting me stay here. You should sleep in your own bed.”
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