Archive of Our Own

Obligatory Beach Episode

The flight was crowded, but not overly. He had the whole seat to himself, and he was just fine with that. It let him stretch out a bit. It had been a long journey, and he was still nowhere near his destination. It was easy enough to get through customs in the backwater “international” airport. The bored security agent barely glanced at his passport. As long as the picture matched, well, that was good enough.

He rented a convertible for the long drive to the coast. Red, because she liked red. And a convertible, because why the hell not? He didn't get much time off, and rarely in a place where he wasn't on constant lookout or jumping at shadows.

He needed this, and was glad it was time again for his yearly respite.

As the highway stretched before him, he let his mind wander back over the years to the first time he had come to the little island that was just barely big enough to be included on the map.

His fedora was tucked safely into the wide center console, and the wind whipped his hair about a bit wildly as he thought about that first time. How could he possibly have known this annual pilgrimage would become such a cherished tradition?

~*~

He and Lupin had been in New York. Goemon was off on some mountain somewhere, and Fujiko was – well, who cared where she was, as long as it wasn't behind him with a knife.

They had been trying to knock over Tiffany's, but had botched it pretty bad. Pops was right on their tail and they had decided to  split up and lay low for a few weeks. Lupin headed toward Canada – he guessed because they spoke French there and he'd feel more at home. Jigen had headed south. North Carolina seemed as good a place as any; he had turned off on a whim and headed in the general direction of what billboards called The Crystal Coast. When he reached the ocean, he turned south again, heading down Highway 12 through most of the Outer Banks stopping on the little island called Hatteras, in a little town called Buxton. Quaint place, with a lighthouse and everything you'd expect from a sleepy beach town. It wasn't a hip touristy place, it was a bit more subdued. Run down was probably how he would describe it.

The first thing he did was stop at a surf shop and buy some beach clothes. He was sure his usual tailored suit and tie would stand out. And the last thing he wanted right now was to draw attention.

It was peak season, but there were still rooms left. He took the cheapest one at some seaside place with a lovely view of the parking lot. They gave him a key, a real metal key – not one of those slick cards – on a little lighthouse-shaped key ring with the name of the place on it.

He got settled in, and turned his mind to important matters. He cleaned his Magnum, had a smoke, and took a nap. He remembered waking up with the sun hanging low and wondering if this town had a liquor store anywhere close by. Best to wait until dark he decided, and flipped on the news just to see if his name would come up. It didn't, which halfway surprised him, but he was sure it was because no one here would care what happened in a jewelry store several states away.

When it was dark he changed clothes, sliding his Magnum into a shoulder holster under his left arm. He wore it over a simple gray tshirt with the island's name, and covered the whole thing with a bright Hawaiian shirt he left unbuttoned. Lupin preferred a shoulder holster, but Jigen had never cared for them. Circumstances dictated for now. He'd only be here for so long and he'd just make do until then. Laying low meant blending in, and blending in meant wearing beach clothes at the beach. When in Rome, he figured.

Now, food and scotch. And not necessarily in that order. He walked a block or two, to stretch his legs and get his bearings. There was a bar not too far, and he felt like he could definitely make it back to the room even if he drunk himself under a table, seeing as how it was so close.

The place was small. Built for tourists. Good. Lots of transients in and out; he shouldn't draw any attention here. It was just like you'd expect. A scattering of people at a few tables.

He remembered that she was the very first thing he saw when he entered the place. She was on a bar stool with some fruity looking thing with a wilted paper umbrella before her and some bar fly who was three-sheets-to-the-wind hanging on her arm. She looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Jigen thought someone should do something about that.

Of course, it wasn't his business, and he didn't need to get into a bar fight right now. Her eyes had collided with his, and he felt the impact as sure as he would have felt a bullet burrow in his chest. Her eyes were pleading, and obviously no one else in the place had any sense of chivalry. He decided fine, he would help her. He could stick up for her and be on the road again come morning. He silently lamented paying for a week on the room in advance when he was about to blow cover and have to run, but it couldn't be helped. He moved forward and shouldered his way between her and the drunk to order his whiskey. There was plenty of room on either side, so his intrusion made a statement.

“We were talking,” the man had slurred.

Lightweight, Jigen had thought, even though he had no idea how much the man had consumed. He lifted his hat brim just slightly. “Not anymore.”

“Why you --” the man started, about to cause trouble.

Jigen had quietly lifted the side of his Hawaiian shirt and let the man take a good long look. The man had paled, mumbled what may or may not have been an apology, and made a hasty exit.

He took the empty stool next to her, so recently vacated, received his drink and sipped it. He didn't look at her at first, because he didn't want her to think she had gone from the frying pan to the fire. He figured she would feel safest if he ignored her completely. It had taken a while to find her voice.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“He wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“Some men are like that.”

“Not you though?”

“Hmm,” was all he could say. Best remove himself from this situation, before it got uncomfortable. He finished his drink, put a couple of bills on the bar, and turned to leave when she laid a gentle hand on his arm.

He remembered he had stared at it like a fool for a good minute wondering what it was doing there before she had said, “Would you... Would you walk me back to my hotel? It's not far.”

He wanted to say that he was nobody's babysitter. That the troublemaker was long gone, there was no need to worry, and what could happen in a place like this? But, amazingly, he found himself nodding instead.

“Thank you. Have you eaten?”

“Not recently.”

“Let's go over to the little cafe up the street. They'll still be open. My treat, since I owe you.”

“Huh.”

She already had his arm and was dragging him toward the door. It would be fine he guessed. He had to eat anyway, didn't he? And people were less likely to remember a couple passing through than an intimidating man in a fedora eating alone. After, he had walked her back to her hotel a few blocks down – the same one he was staying at. He watched her go up the stairs to her room, and then he had walked down to the beach in the moonlight, and just sat there a while in the sand, smoking and thinking. 

If Lupin has been there to ask what he was thinking about so hard, he would have said nothing. But that wasn't entirely true. He found he was thinking about her.

Strange. Why would he do that?

~*~

He chuckled, his right hand on the top of the steering wheel, his left elbow resting on the door frame. He had been pretty lost that first night, he reflected.

~*~

Scared wasn't the right word. Wary, maybe. He'd been burned so many times before. And this time, he had been so sure would be no different. Best to forget all about it then, and just keep a lookout for Pops, and wait for Lupin to call him back to work. The last he had seen of the gentleman thief was a flash of green jacket disappearing down subway entrance stairs. Soon, he thought. He'd just enjoy the time off until then.

He slept late the next day. It was nearly noon when he finally roused himself. He was hungry again. There had to be a market on this island somewhere. People lived here; they had to eat.

He'd find it and get some supplies. A couple of good bottles of wine to pass the time too. If they had any good labels here at the edge of the world.

He had to drive around a bit, but he found it. That was where he had run into her the second time. She was in the oatmeal aisle trying to decide between maple or blueberry. He was going to just brush past her and not speak, but she reached out to tug his sleeve.

“Hey! It's you!” Her face brightened on seeing him, he realized, in a way that no one's ever quite had or ever quite did. It was an odd thing to witness.

“It's me,” was all he could think to say. For someone so well read, Jigen was a man of few words. So she remembered him then. Well, it was just yesterday. And they had spent a while together. And he probably owned the only fedora on the island, so he was easy to recognize.

“I wanted to thank you again. For last night.”

“Sure.”

He just stood there, awkwardly. Lupin would have known what to say, how to flirt. Jigen just wanted to find the wine section and get back to his room.

“I had a really nice time,” she offered.

What was he supposed to say to that? The food had been good, and he had gotten through the whole meal without being shot at or having to draw his gun. So, yes, he guessed he could say he'd had a nice time as well. “Me too,” he allowed.

“Have you been here before?”

What did she mean? To the oatmeal aisle? Or this store? Or the island? Or this state? Or this country? “Uh...”

“To Hatteras, I mean.”

Seemed obvious when she spelled it out. “Oh, no.” He tipped his hat up a fraction to get a better look at her. “First time.”

She beamed at him. “I can show you around. If you want... I come here every year, and can take you to all the sites worth seeing.”

“I didn't come here to sight-see.”

“Oh.” She let her hand fall to her side and looked just so – crestfallen was the word he'd use. But she recovered just as quickly. “Well. I just wanted to thank you. Again. For last night.”

He nodded, mumbled a quiet don't mention it, and beat a hasty retreat to the wine section. He could feel her watching him as he walked away, the hair on his neck at attention, his instincts always on alert. But he knew that she posed no threat to him. At least not physically.

He finished his shopping, adding a newspaper and a few more souvenir t-shirts to his pile so he'd have something clean to wear. He hoped the newspaper would have a crossword, but thought that unlikely since it was just a small town weekly.

The next thing he did was hold up in his room for two days. If he didn't go out, then he wouldn't run into her. It was sound logic, he thought. He stood on the balcony, smoking, thinking, waiting for Lupin to call him back to work and wondering how long he would be stuck in this place. There was only one casino in the whole blasted state and he was on the opposite end from it. There was nothing here to occupy him.

His breath hitched when he saw her coming up from the pool. She must have been heading back to her room. He had to admit that she was not hard to look at. A flopping droopy sun hat, her bathing suit two pieces but made to look like one, with a flowing, flirty little skirt and a bright floral pattern. She left a little to the imagination, which could be appreciated. She wasn't like Fujiko who just let everything hang out everywhere in front of everyone. That tramp – he didn't want to think about her.

Below, the object of his scrutiny felt eyes on her and turned, looked right up at him and – smiled. Smiled like she was genuinely happy to see him. That always caught him off guard when someone was happy to see him and actually wanted him around. She stared up at him and he even gave her a little wave. Then the wind kicked up and she was chasing her hat across the parking lot. Of course, when she looked back he was gone.

He stayed in his room two more days until he had read every word of the newspaper twice. His gun had been cleaned again though it hadn't needed it, and he was tired of television. One thing about a life on the run, there was plenty of excitement trying not to die, but there was also a lot of hiding and staring at the walls.

There must be a bookstore around here somewhere. Tourists liked to read while they sat on the beach, right?  He cleaned himself up enough so he could be seen in public and drove around until he found one. It was a charming place in a converted – he would have called it a farmhouse, but there were no farms around here. It was dim and cool inside. Floor to ceiling shelves were crammed with books, things stacked about on the floors, and the requisite touristy souvenir crap by the register. He should get Lupin and Goemon a key chain or something he thought, before dismissing the idea. They might read too much into it.

He scanned the shelves for something substantial that would last him a while. Maybe something about this place he was stuck in and its history? He picked up a novel with a lighthouse on the cover, but it wasn't the same lighthouse he could see from his motel. 

Suddenly, she was standing there right next to him.

“Not that one,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Don't sneak up on people,” he said as he lowered his right hand. He had been about to draw his gun on her. He tipped his hat up a bit to look into her face.

“Sorry. But you don't want to waste your time on that one.” She plucked the book from his hand, brushing her fingers against his. She scanned the shelves and picked something else – but similar enough to also feature lighthouse cover art. “This one.”

“This one?” He took it, turned it over, scanned the back for plot points, caught sight of the author's headshot. He looked from the book to her and back to the book again.

“I'll even autograph it for you,” she smiled. She had a nice smile, and he liked seeing it.

He chuckled a bit. “At what cost?”

She put her finger to her cheek, chewed her bottom lip, contemplating. He could feel the gears turning. Oh he's done it now, opening that door. “How about you take me to supper?”

“Supper?”

 “Yes. There's a nice steakhouse just over the bridge.”

He hadn't had a good steak in a long time. And he had to eat anyway. Dinner sounded nice.

“You'll need to wear something a bit – um – less casual.”

He nodded, and started doing calculations. Had he seen a dry cleaner on the island? How long to get his suit there and back? He should stop at the market, pick up some Old Spice and razors. Maybe while he was there he could get an actual grip and stop acting like a horny teenager. He was starting to think like Lupin, and he could not afford that kind of trouble.

She waited, hopeful. What was it about the female of this species that flocked around him like they were insects and he an industrial bug zapper? What was it about him that drew them in? He was never trying to draw them in. They just sort of came along and set up housekeeping in his mind and stayed there – even after they were long gone.

He could feel that wall shifting, beginning to crumble. He wasn't sure if he could bear it happening again.

“Would tonight work?” she prompted. “Or tomorrow? We could make a day of it.”

“Tonight is fine.”

“Great! I'll meet you at six.” She left him there, a little dazed as she breezed away, no doubt to not give him time to change his mind. He bought the book she had handed him, and a western, and a classic. That should keep him for a while.

He was just fastening his tie later that evening when he heard a car horn honking below. It was her. She would drive. She knew the way. That was fine by him. He hadn't cleaned the Fiat in a while. It still held the remains of hastily gobbled drive thru slop from his mad dash away from New York. Probably still had some blood in the floorboard too. Best if she didn't see that... He really should get around to cleaning the little yellow car. Lupin would be miffed and pout for about a week if he didn't do it soon. Tomorrow, maybe.

And best of all, since he wasn't driving, he could drink at dinner.

She was wearing some shimmery, silky-looking red thing that was cut just low enough at the top, and had a slit in the hem so he could see just above her knee. He made it a point to keep his gaze out the window.

The steakhouse she drove them to was nice – swanky would be a good word for it. Linen table cloths, candlelight, menus with flowing script, soft piano jazz in the background. He couldn't remember the last time he had been in such a place. Paris, maybe. But that had been for a job. He really couldn't remember the last time he had been in a place like this just for the sake of being in a place like this.

The food was good, and the company. He was honestly surprised at how easy it was to hold a conversation with her. He usually let Lupin do all the talking while he stood nearby keeping watch.

She liked classical music too. She knew how to play chess, but like him wasn't very good at it. Lupin had taught him how to play, but he had yet to win against the gentleman thief. She had seen most of his favorite westerns. She commented on Angel and the Bad Man, and he had to smile at the irony.

They talked for a long while about Crossfire Trail, an old Louis L'Amour story. He had seen the movie and liked it. She explained that in the book it had been the woman's father who had died at sea, the movie producers had changed it to her husband to play up the drama of the romance.

He nearly choked at that last word, and wondered how far this evening was intended to go. He studied her face, but it was completely innocent, like she had no idea what she had just made him think about.

“Do you like it so far?”

His mind had wandered. What had she said?

“The book I mean.”

“The one you made me buy today?” he asked. It was on the nightstand in the hotel room.

“Yes.”

“Haven't started it yet.”

“Oh.”

She looked just a bit disappointed, so he rushed to add, “Soon.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure I will.” What else was he supposed to say? Even if it was trash, it would be better than not having anything to read. And he still had that classic and western as backups.

On the ride back he wanted to smoke, but it wasn't his car, and she didn't seem like she would appreciate it.

In the parking lot, they did not part ways immediately. He had leaned against the car door, lit a cigarette, and turned to see her frowning.

“That's bad for you!”

He nodded. He knew it was. But he also knew his work would kill him long before the cancer sticks could. So what if it was a bit harder to run sometimes, and he always had that nagging, exhausting cough in the winter months. Smoking was one of the few pleasures left to him in this life he had chosen and he wasn't strong enough to lay it aside just yet. “Maybe someday I'll quit.” When I'm dead, he thought grimly, his mouth stretching into a thin line.

“Sorry,” she caught herself. “I've been told I nag too much. And to mind my own business.”

He thought of how he always had to nag Lupin to get enough sleep. Or nag Goemon to stop training long enough to eat something. “It's ok to nag the people close to you. Shows you care.”

She smiled softly at that.

“Thanks for driving.”

“Thanks for supper.” She shifted her weight, looked up at him. “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

He wanted to say yes to prevent her from dragging him up the 257 steps of the lighthouse or out to play mini-golf, or something equally absurd. He flicked the ashes away before muttering, “Not yet.”

“I'm sure you'll find something to do. Have a good night.” She turned to leave him there, standing in the dark parking lot of the motel, a little perplexed. She was a few feet away when she turned back. “Hey, what's your name?”

He was shocked at that; his mouth fell open. Hadn't he told her? She had to know. This was the second time they had eaten together.

“I'm really terrible with names, so if you told me before, I'm sorry, but I don't remember,” she explained a bit sheepishly.

He was about to give his surname first out of habit, but caught himself in time, and said it quietly in that smooth baritone that sent shivers through her.

“Daisuke Jigen,” she repeated. “It has a nice ring.” She stuck out her hand, like this was some sort of formal introduction, and said her simple name.

He loved being in this country where he could speak his native tongue, and not have to constantly try to translate everything around him and fumble for the right words in French or Italian or Japanese, when all he really wanted to say was bullets, booze, smoke, shut up.

He took her hand with a flourish, brought it up under the brim of his hat and kissed it. Even in the moonlight, he could see her blush.

“Well, hmm, good night Daisuke.”

“Sleep well.”

A few minutes later he was staring at his reflection while brushing his teeth. The bad one wasn't giving him much trouble these days, and for that he was thankful. He was still aggravated though. And if it wasn't the tooth...

Goemon would tell him to transcend it or some nonsense. Lupin would say just dive in and have fun.

That was a moment they'd had there in the parking lot. He was sure of it. And it was his fault, for getting caught up in it, for leading her on when he knew it could go nowhere. It wasn't right to get her hopes up when he'd be leaving soon. And his life – always on the run, always in danger – that was no kind of life for a woman. A decent woman anyway. Fujiko didn't count. She wasn't decent at all.

Ugh, now he was thinking about that woman again, and that was the very last thing he ever wanted to think about. What Lupin saw in her he'd never know. He'd given up trying to figure it out.

Now he'd never get any rest.

He flipped through every channel twice and couldn't find a single thing to hold his interest. He scanned the stations until he found one playing Mozart. Say what you wanted about this little nowhere town, but any place that had a 24-hour classical station couldn't be all bad.

He turned to the book she had made him buy. Well, not made, exactly. But she had been pretty persuasive.

He nodded off somewhere around the middle of the second chapter. Not because it was boring – no – absolutely not. The language was gentle, soothing, nourishing almost. It calmed him in a place he hadn't ever realized needed calming.

He dreamed about her and woke up antsy. He felt something – something he usually felt right before a heist. Anticipation? Excitement?

He couldn't go looking for her. He would not go looking for her. It wouldn't be right to encourage anything when he would be gone in another few days.

So that was fine. He just wouldn't look for her then. But he couldn't help it if she found him. Jigen had never been much for swimming since he couldn't have his Magnum for obvious reasons. But – but he could sit poolside in the shade with a drink and her book. That would be keeping up appearances. He was supposed to be a tourist on vacation after all.

He wasn't sure how long he had been there when she came up behind him. “This seat taken?”

He jumped a bit, cursed, and blushed, his eyes wide under his hat brim. “I thought I told you not to sneak up on people.”

“You did.” She laughed. “Oh, do you like it?” She pointed at the book he was holding.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“What do you mean surprisingly?”

“Just not my go-to genre.”

“You should broaden your horizons.” She smiled. “You wouldn't just say you liked it?”

“I wouldn't just say it if I didn't mean it.”

She flushed a bit. Never quite used to hearing praise, especially about something she had poured her heart into. “Daisuke, I'm going to the beach. Join me?” Her face turned a shade redder and he chuckled. He correctly guessed that she wasn't used to being quite so forward. Vacations were a good place to try new things.

It had taken all of her courage to ask him to eat that first night, and all of it again at the market, and once more at the bookstore. Good thing it regenerated. She had none as she waited for his answer.

He knew he shouldn't. But... He folded down the page he was reading, and she snatched the book away, smoothing out the paper. “Don't do that. You'll ruin it.”

“How else am I supposed to -”

“I'll get you a bookmark.”

He just sort of stared up at her. What did it matter if he dogeared the pages? Wasn't it his book? It was sort of cute how she cared so much about it, wanted to keep it nice for him.

“You're supposed to sign that, aren't you?”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“Our deal. Dinner for the autograph?”

“Oh, right. Sure. Later. Right now I'm going to the beach.”

She waited and he didn't say anything.

She huffed. “Can't you sit in the sand by the water just as good as you can sit here?” She was just a bit insistent.

“But I'm already here,” he said as he tipped his hat down over his eyes. He couldn't just spring out of his chair and follow her down to the water. That wouldn't do much for his mysterious stranger image.

He waited a moment or two before looking up again, but she was already halfway to the gate. He could see her agitation in the way she moved, in the line of her shoulders, the clench of her jaw. Lupin would have known what to say to calm her down. Hell, he would have known what to say to not piss her off in the first place.

He looked around for the book, but it was gone. She must have taken it by mistake. Good. That would give him an excuse to catch up with her.

It was only about ten minutes later that he decided she had wanted a pack mule instead of his company. He had two beach chairs, an umbrella, a cooler, her over-sized beach bag, and a radio weighing him down, while she carried a bottle of sunscreen, a towel, his book.

She picked out a good spot, not too far, had him spread out a blanket and set up the umbrella, while she messed with the radio. It was tuned to some pop station that he couldn't stand. He saw her grimace at the offending noise and keep scanning the stations until she landed on some jazzy instrumental. He liked the sound of that better, and smiled just a little as he unfolded the beach chairs.

“So how far along are you?”

What the hell was she talking about?

“In the book.”

“Oh, um, about a third of the way, I guess.”

“Nice.” She dug in the cooler and brought out two bottles of water, handed one to him. He wanted something stronger, but took it, their fingers brushing slightly. “You wouldn't just say that you liked it to be nice?”

“I'm not a nice guy. And no. I wouldn't just say something untrue to make someone feel better. Life is hard, but it's best to face it head on. I don't say things I don't mean.”

“You're nice to me.”

“You've not given me a reason not to be yet.”

“Hmm.”

She wanted to talk about what he had read so far, but she didn't want to spoil it for him, so they talked about other things. The weather. A movie they had both seen. Small talk. Safe conversation for two strangers.

“How much longer will you be here?”

She had asked him to put sunscreen on the places she couldn't reach and his mind was full with the task at hand.

“Daisuke?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, how much longer are you going to be here?”

“Oh. I'm not sure exactly.”

“That must be nice. I have to leave in three days. And then it's back to the grind. I almost didn't come this year. It's been tough and I thought I just didn't need the time away. But...”

“But?” His hands were on her shoulders, stroking smoothly.

“But if I hadn't – I wouldn't have met you. And I'm really glad to have met you.”

“Me too.”

She turned, and grabbed the hand that had been on her shoulder, pulled him down onto the blanket beside her. He had said he was glad to have met her and he didn't say things he didn't mean. The only problem that kept flashing in the back of his mind like a security siren in the middle of a job was that it couldn't last.

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her. Drinking her in. Trying to memorize everything about her.

It took her two and half days to work up enough courage to ask for his number. She had written her name and cell in the book with a little heart next to it.

He couldn't give her his number. It was always changing. He was never in the same country for very long and he had to keep one step ahead of Pops and all the other investigators around the globe hounding his every move.

“Address then? We could write letters. Like olden times.”

“Like in your book.”

“Yes.”

“Um, I'm sort of between addresses right now,” which was technically true. He sounded like a bum, but he looked like one in his beach disguise.

Her heart was cracking just a bit at his denials, but she made one final attempt. “Well, then. Will I ever see you again?”

He sighed, flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Who can say? But I think I will try to come back here in a year's time.”

She brightened at that. It wasn't much, but it was enough to hold on to, for now.

He lifted her suitcase into her car, closed the trunk.

“I did have a really nice time this week,” he said quietly. This was the part he hated the most. The inevitable goodbye. It was always inevitable and always hurt like hell. And he knew it would happen this way again and he had just stood by and let it. What was happening to him? He had known her for a week and he was pining over her like Lupin over Fujiko.

“Me too.”

They stood there awkwardly in the sunshine a bit longer.

“Well, goodbye.”

He nodded. She hugged him so suddenly it sort of took his breath away. Before he had a chance to recover, she was in the driver's seat, belt fastened, windows down, ready to go. “I'll expect to see you here next year then.”

“I'll do my best,” he promised. He might be in prison or dead by then, but if he could manage it, if he could get away, he would come back here, and she would be waiting.

~*~

The second year, he had been able to return to the shadow of the lighthouse. He had told Lupin he was going back to the States for a bit, had something to take care of, and the way he had said it brooked no argument.

“I'll go with you,” the gentleman thief had offered.

“No.” One word and a scowl had been enough to deter him.

Not so easy with the samurai. “Perhaps you require assistance, Jigen?” Goemon had asked softly.

“I can handle it alone.”

“Fine,” Lupin broke in, “Just be back in time for -”

“The next job. Yeah. I know.”

The second year in Buxton had been even better than the first. Probably because they had both looked forward to it for so long. And they weren't exactly strangers this time around.

She insisted they do touristy things this time. She drug him to the Maritime Museum, and to the top of the lighthouse. He had arranged for them to ride horses on the beach at sunset, and see the wild horses that roamed the neighboring islands. She drove him up to Avon and they went fishing off the pier. Later, they went to the life-saving station at Chicamacomico where he learned about the shipwrecks that necessitated the place's existence, and how the life-saving stations up and down the coast eventually led to the modern day Coast Guard.

It was perfectly ordinary and perfectly romantic and perfectly chaste. She gave him a peck on the cheek when it was time for her to leave and she grinned when his cheeks turned red in the shadow of his hat.

~*~

The third year he was two days late. He had seen Zenigata tailing him in Seattle, so he missed his connecting flight on purpose. He had to go around the long way through Mexico and back again, but he was able to get back to North Carolina without bringing the ICPO with him.

“I thought you weren't coming,” she pouted.

He loved to see her full lips in a pout. “I'm here now.”

~*~

The fourth year Lupin was getting suspicious and asked a favor from Fujiko.

Jigen had choked when she sidled up to their table at the steakhouse. It was so bad someone had beaten him on the back as he coughed.

“What the f-”

“Daisuke! Language!” she had blurted before he could finish.

“Oh Daisuke,” Fujiko purred. “Had no idea you were on a first name basis with anybody.”

“What are you doing here?” he had gasped.

“Who is this?” his dinner companion had asked, trying not to sound upset.

“Oh, don't worry. I'm no one to be concerned about. You can have this bearded loser all to yourself. Surely no one else will have him.”

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, anger rising a bit. He tried to keep it under control. It was difficult.

“Lupin was worried. Asked me to find out what was going on, where you slink off to every year. Wait until I tell him!” Fujiko laughed, a tinkling, grating sound.

Lupin – he'd kick his scrawny, red-jacket-wearing ass when he got back.

“Lupin!” the woman seated across from him had exclaimed. “Lupin III? That Lupin? The Lupin?”

True to form, after she dropped her bomb, Fujiko vanished.

The fourth year had been the year when she had found out who he really was. He thought she would break it off right then. Finding out he was a wanted criminal. She was a lady after all.

But she hadn't. She had just told him to make sure he was here again in a year's time.

She might have a new book out by then; he could read it on the beach.

~*~

He could smell the salt now – he was so close. He could not wait to see her. He had it all planned out. The box in his suit coat pocket, next to his cigarettes, was a weight close to his heart.

He hadn't quit smoking yet. She'd be disappointed in that. But she'd also be so happy to see him, it probably wouldn't matter. Much.

It wouldn't be long now. Maybe another hour. He wasn't sure just when he had started to link the passage of time in his life to her. He was on a roof in Moscow, freezing, waiting for Lupin to show up when he had thought in only ninety-seven more days he'd be with her on the beach. A heist would go fine, but Fujiko would screw them over again and as he angrily sipped his bourbon he would think only fifty-one more days to put up with this mess. When Pops had him cuffed to an interrogation table, all he could think was, Lupin had better come up with something fast; he had somewhere to be in eighteen more days.

Now it was only a couple of days until he would ask her. It would change everything. And he desperately wanted a change. He had felt like this once or twice, but he had always dreaded how he knew it would end – badly.

But he didn't have that sense of foreboding with her. She wasn't scheming – trying to get something from him or get him out of the way. She said exactly what she felt and exactly what she was thinking the moment it popped into her head. She was – refreshing. And he wanted her to be a bigger part of his life, not just for a couple of weeks every summer, but always.

He checked into the motel, took his bag to his room, and changed into what he referred to as his beach disguise. Then he went to find her, but plucked a rose from the bush by the office first.

Her car was in the usual spot. She wasn't by the pool. Or down by the ocean. It was too early to find her in the bar – she didn't drink anyway. That fruity thing he had found her with that first time had been virgin. She had none of his vices. Somehow that made him like her even more.

He finally found her in the cafe where they had shared that first meal together. She was at the counter, and she had been there a while. Maybe since breakfast. He could tell because of the stacked dishes and crumpled papers spread about. She was scribbling furiously in a notebook. Inspiration had hold of her, and he almost didn't want to interrupt. She was so intent on whatever scene she was crafting, she didn't even look up when he entered, jangling the little bell above the door.

He pushed the rose into her field of vision, and she turned, looked up, was already sliding off the stool. “Daisuke! You made it!” She accepted the rose, and kissed his cheek, and he blushed. Why? Why did he still do that? She had kissed him before. But it always sort of stunned him and he felt warm inside.

“I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

“Flirt.”

“No, that's Lupin.”

She laughed at that. “How are your friends?”

“Good, but I'm not here to talk about them.”

“Want to go to the beach then?”

“You know it.”

“I've got a new story idea.”

“I'd love to hear it.”

She gathered her things, handed him her tote bag. Outside, she gave him a quick side-hug, and slipped her fingers in his back pocket. Before knowing him, she would never have had the courage to do such a thing. He shifted the bag to his other hand and did the same.

He tried to be casual; aloof. But he wasn't very good at it. He didn't want to ask right away. The mood had to be right. He'd wait. A few days maybe. Maybe that last night to make it special. Give her something to hold on to for the coming year apart.

Their vacation passed much too quickly, as it always did. He set up their spot on the beach that afternoon. Packed a picnic for their supper. A bottle - non-alcoholic and sparkling.

It would be perfect.

She had gotten a lot of sun the past few days, so she opted for a yellow sundress with billowy sleeves and that floppy hat instead of her bathing suit. He had his fedora and that stupid Hawaiian shirt he had bought that first summer, the one covered with smiling pineapples wearing sunglasses. He looked ridiculous, but didn't even mind.

She could tell he was a little agitated, but he always got just a little grumpy when their time ran short.

He had never gone this far before. He had never bought a ring for a woman. Had never thought he would ever be in a place that he would willingly make himself that vulnerable.

They had been there for quite a while. They had eaten and laughed and talked. Her lastest story would feature a mysterious bearded stranger in a fedora. Where'd you get an outlandish idea like that, he had laughed.

The sun was sinking low behind them, and Jigen thought he had better pull the trigger before he lost his nerve.

“You know – you are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he started. He should have thought this through a little more. He should have planned better what to say.

“Oh, Daisuke.”

They were both sitting on the beach blanket, just a few inches between them. The ocean was relentless, pounding the sand. Seagulls called. The setting was perfect.

He fumbled in his shirt pocket, pulled out the velvet box, promptly dropped it in the sand.

“Dang it.” He picked it up, dusted it off. Her eyes grew wide.

“Daisuke.”

He opened the box, handed it to her. The stone caught the last of the dying sun's rays. It was beautiful; subtle, not too large, but large enough for no one to mistake what it was. “We could live here. I could come between jobs.”

“Daisuke.”

“And we'd have four – maybe six months together a year. Not consecutively of course, but more than we get now.”

“Daisuke!”

“What?”

“We can't.”

“We can't?”

“It won't work.”

“It won't?”

“This is a fine vacation spot, but I don't want to live here. And I'm not a treasure you can keep in a safe house and visit when it's convenient.”

“I know that. I... I just thought...”

She sighed. She was breaking his heart she could see, and it was the very last thing she ever wanted to do. He snapped the box closed, jammed it back in his shirt pocket where he wouldn't have to look at it.

He pushed his hat brim low over his face even though it was dark now. Stars were twinkling and the moon would be up soon. The tide was coming in.

It was a while before he could trust himself to speak. He wanted to smoke, but the wind had shifted and would have blown it right into her face, so he didn't. “So what now?” His voice was rough, and that made her throat tight.

“Can we just be together for a while? Can we just sit here?”

“Sure.”

He unfolded his long legs and leaned back on his palms. She scooted closer, laying her head on his shoulder, and he rested his chin on her head. Before too long he felt his shirt grow damp from her silent tears. He shifted a bit to wrap his arm around her, hold her a bit closer and a bit tighter. She wrapped her arms around him as well and hugged him while she cried. She took in the smell of his aftershave, that lingering tobacco stench that somehow was comforting.

She didn't know how long they stayed there. She didn't want to move. She was so afraid that this would be the last time she would ever see him. She had rebuked him, and he wouldn't come back again, she was sure.

It was late when he finally stood, pulling her up with him. “Come on. I'll walk you back.”

“Ok.” She couldn't say anything else. There was nothing more to say. They packed up the beach stuff in silence. He hadn't opened the bottle; it was still sweating in the cooler. She would find it later, he guessed, and drink it or not. He didn't care.

She held his left hand – always his left, since he needed his right free in case there was trouble – and let him walk her back to her room.

She kissed him goodnight. A long lingering kiss tinged with regret. “Goodnight Daisuke.”

He mumbled something. She hadn't heard if it was goodnight or goodbye. And something that sounded like “My darling,” but she couldn't be sure.

Back in his room he stared at the ceiling and thought about his life. What was he good at? Guns. Maybe he could be an instructor. No. Too much paperwork to get certified. He'd need a new identity; too much trouble. He spoke a few languages. Maybe he could be a translator. There were online marketplaces for stuff like that. Ami could get him set up. And he could live in the same place year round, and be a sitting duck just waiting for Interpol to swoop in and haul him away. What if he did try to go straight, provide a life for her she could live? She would still be in constant fear he would be arrested and torn from her. Whenever he was out of her sight she would worry he wasn't coming back. Sort of like now, but somehow worse. She was right. It would never work. No matter how he thought about, what he was willing to try, it would never work. But being impossible did not make him want it any less.

He had been such a fool to think he could ever have anything different from what he already had.

~*~

The next year, she went back to the same room at the same motel. She tried to enjoy her vacation. She couldn't. She kept looking for him everywhere. She had even chased down an old man on the pier. He had been wearing a fedora and from a distance she had thought maybe it was him.

But he wasn't there. He wasn't at the market, or in the bookstore, or even at the top of the lighthouse. He wasn't eating in the steakhouse or drinking in the bar where they had first met. He wasn't anywhere. She tried not to be surprised and she tried not to be hurt.

But really, just because they couldn't spend their lives together didn't mean they couldn't spend their vacations together. It was practically tradition at this point.

She went by the front desk one afternoon to report a backed up commode, and the clerk, after checking her room number and name, handed over a letter. “This just came.”

“For me?” She didn't recognize the handwriting.

It wasn't Daisuke's. She had seen enough of his half-finished crosswords. And he would make little notes on the drafts she gave him to read by the pool. She missed that. Sometimes, he would even write something terribly poetic in the margin, something he would never voice, and she wouldn't find it until she got home and started the editing process.

She didn't wait to get back to her room. She tore open the envelope as soon as she was outside the motel's office. A sea breeze threatened to snatch it away, but she clutched in a death-grip.

She read her name, and then below that:

You must be quite the woman to have stolen our Jigen-chan's heart.

Rest assured that he is fine and will make a full recovery. We had a bit of trouble in Sydney, but he will pull through.

He called for you in his fever sleep, and wanted to make sure you knew he would be there if he was able. I won't let him travel right now. He's still a bit weak. He'd write to you himself, but his arm is still in a sling.

He's not the best patient, but we are all used to his grousing.

If all goes according to plan, he will be with you again on the beach in a year's time.

Until then, take care,

Lupin III

There was a little cartoon doodle next to the signature. It sort of looked like a bug-eyed monkey, but it was hard to tell. At some point in its travels the letter had gotten wet, and the ink had run slightly.

So he was still alive. And apparently had forgiven her. He would have been here if he hadn't have been hurt. He had been hurt. He must have nearly died, but it was hard to tell from the letter. There was no detail.

Or maybe it was a ruse. He couldn't face her so he got his friend to make up a story to explain his absence.

She wasn't sure which would be worse.

At any rate, according to this, he was still alive, somewhere, and for that she was determined to be grateful. She hoped he would manage to keep himself in one piece for another twelve months so she could see him again.

~*~

Things had changed for her. A lot can happen in a year and a lot had. He pulled up in a Jeep this time. Blue, because that was what was available at the airport rental place.

She saw him coming across the parking lot from her balcony and went down to meet him.

“Daisuke!” She was so very glad to see him. He was glad to see her too. He hugged her right there in the open, and then lifted her by the waist and spun them in a tight little circle before setting her down again. He caught her left hand and brought it under his hat brim for a kiss. He stopped halfway when something caught the light.

“Hell is this?” he asked astonished.

She jerked her fingers back, covered the offending object with her other hand.

“The. Hell. Is. This?” he said again.

“I'm married now, Daisuke,” her voice was small.

“That so?” was all he could manage.

“I wanted you to know. I wanted you to be there. At the wedding, I mean.”

What had happened? When had it happened? How did he feel about it? Relieved, she hadn't waited for him? Angry, that someone else had taken his place? She had turned him down, but said yes to someone else?

“Who's this?” a man's voice behind them.

She jumped a little, her face turning red, and Jigen was sure this must be the husband. She looked like she had been caught red-handed, but they hadn't done anything.

Jigen lowered his hat.

“The old friend I told you about,” she explained.

“Ah, yes. The world famous photographer. Nice to finally put a face with the name.” The husband stuck out his hand, and Jigen shook it. Not because he wanted to, but because it would look off if he didn't. He had experience undercover, knew how to act in any situation. He couldn't make waves here. He couldn't draw attention. “Maybe you'll join us for dinner later?”

“Maybe.” He would most definitely not be having dinner with her and her husband. “Excuse me.” He didn't bother to get his suitcase from the Jeep. Instead he dug around in his bag until he found the bottle he had brought with him, and withdrew to his room.

He drank. Alone in the dark, with classical music soft in the background. And the more he thought about someone else doing what he wanted to – having a wedding night with the woman he loved – yes, loved, damn it – the more he wanted to give her a piece of his mind.

He was still in his suit; it was stale and wrinkled from travel, but he didn't care. His tie was loose, the first few shirt buttons undone. He went to all the usual places before he found her on the beach. It was bright and hot and he was sweating. He had shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

She was alone, staring at the water.

“A photographer, huh?”

“I told him you shoot stuff for a living. He drew his own conclusion.” She had her knees drawn up, her arms around them.

“Where's he now?”

“Not sure. Probably drove inland to a golf course or something.”

“You came on vacation together and he left you here alone to play golf?” Jigen was incredulous.

“He's with me every day. We're hardly ever apart. He deserves a few hours to himself.”

He had been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. He wasn't sober either, so he knew he couldn't drive. The very last thing he needed was to get thrown in some drunk-tank in this hick town. He almost – almost, but not quite – wished he had never stopped here those years ago.

“He treats you well?” The answer would determine if Jigen let the man live. He had killed before, and most certainly could again, if it meant protecting her.

“Very well. Thanks.”

“You love him?” Why the hell did he ask that? What good could it do to know?

“Not in the same way I love you. But yes.”

“Hmm.”

He sat down on the very edge of the blanket, the same one she brought every year, worn thin now, the colors faded from the sun. There was several feet of space between them. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, puffed in silence a while.

“I just came to say I'm leaving.”

“So soon?” She didn't sound surprised. She had expected something like this. “You just got here.”

“Can't be helped. Something's come up.”

“What about dinner?”

“Just tell him there's a butterfly in Argentina or something.” He stubbed out the glowing end of his smoke in the sand. He thought he must look odd, in a disheveled suit and tie, sitting on the beach.

“Will I see you again?”

“Who can say?”

He stood, slung his jacket over one shoulder.

She sat there staring at the water. She wouldn't look at him. It was all she could do to keep from crying. “Take care of yourself Daisuke.”

“Yeah. You too, I guess.” He took his hat off, beat it against his thigh in a gesture of agitation, wiped his face on his sleeve, replaced it on his head.

“I'll miss you.”

“It's a free country. You can do whatever the hell you damn well please.”

“Don't be cruel, Daisuke.”

Great. He'd made her cry. “I'm leaving.” He shoved the hand that wasn't holding his jacket into a pocket and started back to the motel. There was sand his shoes, and when the wind kicked it up just right it stung his arms and face, and he remembered that he didn't necessarily love everything about the shore.

He was somewhere over the Pacific Ocean the next day when it occurred to him that he didn't even know her name anymore. She was Mrs. Golf Clown or whoever now.

He tried to think of what he knew about her. It was a short list.

She liked her steak medium-well.

She didn't wear makeup, but she never needed it.

She had no preference for dogs over cats. She had had both, but had neither right now.

He knew she had to watch her feet when going down stairs as to not lose her balance, but didn't have to when going up.

He knew – he knew she loved him. She had said as much. Not in the same way.

He felt hollow and wrung out.

No one said a word when he got back to the safe house two weeks before anyone expected him. He must have radiated warning signals because even Fujiko gave him a wide berth.

He was blind drunk and completely useless for about a week, until one morning Lupin barged into his room – his room – he didn't even knock, the bastard – and flung open the curtains to let the sun burn off the hushed shadows he had gathered around himself.

Jigen cursed Lupin up one side and down the other, but the thief just stood there until Jigen was out of breath, with that stupid look on his idiotic monkey-face the whole while, wearing that hideous pink jacket. What was he thinking wearing that thing?

Lupin told him it was time to dry himself out and pull himself back together. This had gone on long enough. Goemon was worried. Even Fujiko had asked about him. There was a job to do and the team needed the world's number one marksman in tip-top shape. Besides, how would it look if the hardened ex-mafia hit-man died of a broken heart? Pathetic was not the image Lupin III was trying to project.

Jigen shut the bathroom door hard in Lupin's face, and took a shower. The first one he had had in a while. If you can't remember the last one, then it's probably time.

Jigen hated when Lupin was right. And he hated even more the hypocrisy of it. How many times had Jigen had to pick up the pieces when Fujiko was herself and shattered Lupin yet again. But mostly he hated that Lupin was right.

What was done was done and there was no changing it. Til death do they part. A fleeting thought crossed his mind briefly, but he thrust it away from him. She would know who had done it, and would never forgive him. Best not to even think about it.

Best just to bandage his bleeding heart and move on. It was just another wound. He had lived through worse before. It would heal and scar over, or it would fester until it killed him. Time would tell.

The water ran cold and he got out of the shower. Found a new suit in the closet, dressed, and went in search of coffee.

“How are you Jigen?” Goemon's quiet voice behind him. Jigen started a little; he hated how Goemon could just appear like that. They should put a bell on him.

“Fine.” He slammed the cabinet door, set his mug down with just a bit more force than intended, poured his coffee. “Just freaking dandy.”

Goemon looked hurt, but said nothing, and moved to the living room, probably to meditate.

Jigen followed him, tiredly sank down into one of the well-worn chairs, took a sip. “Sorry. Look, it's not you I'm mad at.”

“I know.”

“So, what's the job?”

Lupin burst in, a giggling Fujiko in tow. “Glad you asked.”

~*~

The next summer found him in Cairo. He had two days to decide whether or not he would go back to Hatteras.

At first he flat out refused. There was no reason to. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he had left it poorly. He should at least see her one last time – even if it was just to get what the shrinks called closure. Just to put this thing between them – whatever it was – to rest.

He made the turn into the motel parking lot and saw her car parked in the usual place. Like the sunrise or the ocean, it was always where you expected to find it.

She wasn't though. She wasn't by the pool, or at the beach. She wasn't in the cafe either. He thought maybe she had gone to town, to the bookstore or the market, but her car was here, so that didn't add up.

He sat pool side and smoked and waited for her. After a while he went down to their spot near the ocean and waited there. He waited. And thought. What was he doing here? Why had he come?

Maybe she had seen him and was avoiding him?

No. She wasn't like that. She would be happy to see him, even with how they had left things.

Where was she? He wanted to see her. Even if it meant seeing him in the process.

It was getting late. He'd go to the bar for a while, then go to bed. Start fresh in the morning. Maybe she would turn up tomorrow. A sniper knew how to be patient. It had never been quite this hard before though.

He was shocked to see her in the bar. She was at a table for two in the back, staring into her glass like it held all the answers and secrets of the universe.

Two chairs, but only one glass. She barely looked up when he came to stand next to the table. “Where is he?”

“Daisuke?”

“Your boyfriend.”

“Husband.”

“Yeah, whatever. Where is he? Why are you sitting here in the dark drinking alone? It's not a good look for you.”

She looked him in the face, blinked a few times. “I'm a widow Daisuke.”

“Oh.” That took some of the fire out of him. He sank into the chair across from her. He wanted to ask how and when and could he do anything? But he wouldn't pry. She would tell him or she wouldn't. And he figured he probably didn't deserve to know. “How much have you had?” he nodded at the glass.

“This is the first.” The glass was brimming, untouched. He took it from her cupped hands, sniffed it, knocked it back.

“You don't need this.”

“I thought it might help. With the pain.”

“Trust me. It doesn't.”

He signaled the bartender. Ordered another for himself, something non-alcoholic for her. He waited for her to say something.

It didn't take long. “The cancer. We didn't know – how could we have known? We thought – I thought we'd have forever. What fools we were.”

There was an old beach music song playing, loud in the small space, saying Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy...

“That was something I always admired about you.”

“My ignorance,” she scoffed bitterly.

“Your innocence.”

She put her hand on the table, and he placed his over it. She wasn't wearing the ring. He noticed that right off.

“I'm so glad you came. I've been waiting here... I thought I'd never see you again.”

“I'm sorry.” What was he sorry for? Her loss? How they had left things? What he had said the last time they had been together? All of it and none of it. He didn't know anymore.

“It's too loud here. Take me back?”

“Of course.”

He paid the tab, held the door. Outside she slipped her hand into his back pocket, like she used to, and he tentatively did the same.

She was in mourning still, obviously. She was vulnerable. And he was determined not to take advantage.

But at the door of her room, she hauled him in by the shirt collar and closed it behind him.

“Are you sure?”

“I've waited my whole life.”

He put his Magnum on the nightstand, covered it with his hat. Nothing romantic about that piece of hardware, but he would have it close by nonetheless. He shrugged out of his over-shirt, slipped off the shoulder hostler, started to lift his t-shirt over his head. “This isn't something we can take back.”

“I know.”

She found the classical station, let her hair down.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

His hair was soft and clean and she relished running her fingers through it. He still wore the same spicy aftershave, still smelled of old tobacco and a hint of sweat. He was a good kisser, and knew exactly what he was doing. She tried not to be jealous of his experience, tried not to think of him being with other women. His tongue pushed that thought right out of her head.

It was the best she had ever had, even better than what she had shared with her husband (all she had to compare to), and for that she cried just a little.

She woke up sometime in the middle of the night, moonlight peaking around the curtains, the room quiet save for their breathing. He had one leg thrown possessively over her, one arm around her middle pulling her close to his chest, while his head rested in the crook of his other arm. He snored softly, and she smiled. Her husband had never snored, and never held her quite so fiercely. She clutched the arm that held her close, and burrowed closer to his warmth. She drifted to sleep again with his heartbeat in her ear.

When she woke up in the morning the bed was empty and she panicked. He'd left. He'd gotten the one thing he was after, and now she'd never see him again.

She sat up and was about to cry until she smelled the coffee, the tiny coffee maker making soft gurgling noises on top of the tiny motel fridge.

She found an over-sized t-shirt, pulled it over her head. She found him on the balcony in one of the deck chairs, sipping from a paper cup, reading the paper. He was wearing his shorts and his fedora, a combination that would look foolish on any other man alive.

On the little side table, between the empty chair and the one he sat in, was a little steaming paper cup of cocoa. It even had little fluffy marshmallows bobbing in it. Her heart was full to bursting on seeing it.

“I couldn't remember if you liked hot chocolate or not – but I knew for sure you wouldn't want coffee.”

He remembered. He remembered everything. She kissed him good morning.

“Ugh. You've been smoking.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Brush your teeth.”

“Yes ma'am.” He folded the paper, set it on the table to cover his gun. “I might even shower.”

“In that case, I might join you.” She turned bright red at that. Not that they could do anything they hadn't already done. She had just never been good at flirting. Ironic for a romance author, he thought.

He chuckled a bit, a deep rumbling. “I'd like that.” He held a hand out to her, and when she took it he pulled her into his lap. His skin was warm from the morning sun. She lightly traced the scars across his chest with delicate fingers.

She sighed, “You've had a hard life, Daisuke.”

He couldn't argue with that. “Worth it though.”

“How do you figure?” He looked like a jigsaw puzzle almost. He'd probably been stitched together more times than he could recall. Knife wounds and bullet holes, a patchwork of pain.

“Well, the way I figure – I got to meet you, and that just about makes up for all the rest of it.”

“You always know just what to say.”

“No, that's Lupin.”

“Let's not talk about him.”

“Hmm,” he took another sip of coffee. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Let's just sit here a while. We don't have to talk about anything.”

“Ok.” She traced the line where his clean-shaven cheek met his beard, then shifted to lay her head on his shoulder. They had an ocean view, the morning, each other.

He wrapped his arms around her, whispered something French she didn't understand.

And she felt safe. In the arms of the most dangerous man in the world she felt safe and warm.

~*~

The next year they reserved one ocean front suite, instead of their two small separate rooms.

They were happy together, doing ordinary things.

He showed her how to clean his gun, and they went to a range so she could learn and practice. She taught him how to play chess a little better, and he thought Lupin would be impressed the next time they faced each other in the game.

They talked about story ideas for her next project while cooking together in the small suite's kitchenette.

They loved each other, but tried valiantly to not love too much. It was hard to keep a handle on it. Enough to treasure their time together, but not so much as to let wanting more drive them insane. They were together when they were together, and that would have to be enough.

~*~

One summer she was washing dishes, when he stole up behind her and hugged her close, resting his chin on her shoulder. He had whispered something lewd, and she had laughed saying she should wash his mouth out with soap. He had suggested something he could do with his mouth that would be much more enjoyable for them both, and after blushing a few minutes, she turned, laughing, to run sudsy fingers through his hair, and let him have his way.

~*~

Another time they had been walking on the beach. Pretty cliché, but they were having a good time laughing at that – long walks on the beach - when she tripped in a hole left by some sandcastle constructionist.

She had twisted her ankle pretty badly and couldn't walk on it. He had scooped her up, an arm under her knees, one around her shoulders, and if it hadn't been for the pain she would have been glad it had happened. She circled her arms around his neck and let him carry her back.

~*~

They had a few more uneventful summers. One year they started staying on the ground floor. The view wasn't as good, but his hip gave him trouble on the stairs now.

Each time they met, he had just a few more gray hairs in his beard. And she could see he moved just a little slower when he was getting up or sitting down.

She worried about him when he was away from her, but there was nothing she could do when he was on the other side of the world.

It was time again for them to part. The time had gone by much too quickly, as it always did.

“I love you Daisuke.” She kissed him. Hugging his neck, tipping his hat back so she could stare into those gunmetal gray eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You know I do.”

“I'm glad of that.”

“You,” she smiled. He wouldn't say it, but that was ok. She knew. She could tell.

She watched him drive away, and thought about how full her heart was when he was near, and how empty it would be now that he was gone. She thought about what a blessing it had been to know him.

It wasn't until a week later that she realized she had thought of him in the past tense.

~*~

The next summer, she was there waiting on the appointed day, but he was nowhere around. That was fine. He had been a day or two late before – he might have missed a flight or a ferry or not been able to cross a border legally and had to wait for nightfall. Any number of reasons. No cause to be alarmed.

On the third day, she started checking the motel office for a message. Several times a day she would ask if there was a letter or a telegram or a post card – anything with her name on it.

Each time the clerk looked at her with just a bit more pity. “No, nothing. I'll let you know should anything come.”

She waited out that vacation tense and moody and hopeful. She thought she saw him in every bearded man that passed by. But he never came.

She even extended her stay by a week, something she really couldn't afford, but did it anyway.

She spent that extra time alone.

Where could he be? He wouldn't just not say anything. Her heart clenched at the thought...

Several months later her doorbell rang.

She was at home, mired in those predictable, routine things that made a life solid. Laundry in the dryer that needed folding. Dishes washing. A tray of Christmas cookies in the oven. The vacuum drug from the hall closet.

Anyone she knew would have texted here or outside. She wasn't expecting a package. She wasn't expecting anyone. Her heart fluttered a little and she checked her hair in the hallway mirror before opening the door.

It wasn't him.

But the man standing there looked vaguely familiar, in a brown trenchcoat, holding his hat before him like a shield. He was handsome in a way, with broad shoulders and a strong, square jaw, his sideburns were just graying at the temples. He looked – distinguished, dignified. She should know who he was, she was certain she had seen him before.

“Are you -” he said her name in a stilted accent.

“Yes?” Who was this man on her doorstep? Why did he look familiar?

He looked like he was about to salute but caught himself. That must be how he always introduces himself, she thought. “Inspector Zenigata with Interpol. May I come in?”

It was Pops! She had seen his picture in newspapers. Daisuke had told her about him. That was how she knew him.

It was raining and cold. She should have invited him in long before now. It was one of those miserable winter days when it felt cold enough to snow but it just wouldn't.

“Of course,” she said as she stepped back and invited him in.

He was here about Daisuke, of course. There could be no other reason. He wanted her to tell him where to find Daisuke, or help set a trap for him, or... she didn't know, but she felt her calm drain away, her fear rising.

Just deny everything. There is no proof. Daisuke isn't here, so it should be fine. Just don't admit anything.

She sat in what had been her husband's favorite chair, while he perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, knees together.

“I've come to tell you -”

The over timer sounded, a loud harsh buzzing noise.

“Oh, the cookies. Excuse me a moment, Inspector.” She fled to the kitchen, and tried to formulate a plan. If she tried to run him off that would look suspicious. Well, then, go the other way and try to make him feel welcome instead.

“Tea, Inspector?” she called from the kitchen.

“Why – yes. Thank you.” She could tell English was not his first language, but he spoke it with confidence. She supposed someone working for the ICPO had to know plenty of languages just to do their job.

Daisuke knew – how many? Several languages. She wasn't sure of the exact number, but it seemed like something she should know about him.

She brought the tea in tall matching glasses, condensation beading on the edge. His eyes widened just a bit. She guessed maybe he had expected something hot, and not as sweet, and served in a small china cup.

“As I was saying,” he cleared his throat, his voice thick. “I've come to tell you about Jigen Daisuke.”

Her eyes cut to the pictures on the mantle piece. One was of her husband after winning a golf tournament. The other was of Daisuke on the pier in Avon, holding a fishing pole, one hand on his hat to keep the ocean breeze from stealing it. “What about him?” She tried very hard to keep an even tone.

“You know him then?” He had seen her look up, followed her gaze to the pictures. There could be no doubt. People didn't generally keep framed photos of strangers on their mantle.

She didn't say anything.

“It wasn't easy to find you. I'm sorry it took so long.”

“Why were you trying to find me, Inspector?” This conversation was going no where. What was he doing here? What did he want?

“I don't know how to tell you this except to just say it. Yata is so much better at this kind of thing.” He mumbled that last part.

She briefly wondered who Yata was, but instead insisted, “Tell me what?”

“Jigen Daisuke is dead.”

And there it was. The truth – one she had already considered and cried over in the night more times than she wanted to admit – stark and staring her in the face – impossible to deny.

“When?” she croaked.

“Last spring.” He gave a month and a day. Her birthday week. She would never have a birthday without thinking of him. Spring – that meant, this summer.

He had already been gone for months and she had sat on the beach and at their table and in their room and waited for a man who would never come.

“How did it happen?”

“It is not a pretty story.”

“Please.” She felt tears coming, but couldn't stop them. “Please tell me.”

“I heard all of it secondhand, mind you. A few weeks after – Lupin got sloppy. His heart wasn't in it, and we arrested him. He told me about it while we had him in custody. He had said that it was Jigen's dying wish that you know.”

“Lupin's in prison?”

“He escaped.”

“Oh... Please tell me what happened.”

He told her the story – not in such vivid detail, but her author's mind supplied it unbidden.

~*~

The moon glistened off the wet pavement as the little Fiat did its very best to out run their pursuers. Lupin was at the wheel, coaxing the engine until it shuddered at the speed.

Jigen was standing in the passenger seat, his torso exposed above the sun roof, Magnum in his right hand, left keeping his fedora firmly in place.

A stray bullet nicked a side mirror and Lupin complained. “I just got that fixed. Do you think they were aiming for that?”

“No,” Jigen laughed. “That was just a lucky – Shot!”

His knee buckled and he felt himself falling. He landed with his feet still in the seat, the rest of him in the floorboard, his head resting against the glove box. There must have been an exit wound, because his back felt slick and warm.

Lupin's attention was divided three ways – on the car chasing them, on the dark road ahead, on his partner bleeding out in the passenger seat.

“Lupin,” the gunman gasped. “I'm dying.”

Lupin forced a chuckle, and tried to sound unconcerned. “Don't be so dramatic. We'll get you patched up soon; you'll be right as rain.”

Jigen gritted his teeth against the pain, his hat askew, sweat on his face. “Shut the hell up and listen to me, damn it. I don't have a lot of time.”

“Jigen-chan.”

“There's a woman,” he ground out.

Lupin said her name in his French accent that softened the edges of the words.

“So you know?”

“Yeah. I've known.” He jerked the wheel, to whip around a slow moving truck, and Jigen shifted in the floorboard from the momentum.

His voice grew softer with each word. “You have to tell her. She'll be there waiting for me and you have to tell her. Tell her she doesn't... doesn't need to... need to... wait!” Whether that last word was part of the sentence that preceded it, a command for the reaper, or just a plea, Lupin would never know.

He kept driving, because there was no choice. When the tears blurred his vision, he swiped a blue sleeve across his face to wipe them away. He kept driving with the corpse of his best friend in the passenger side, streetlights periodically reflecting in blank eyes.

He met up with Goemon and they escaped.

~*~

Her imagination stopped there, but it had shown her plenty.

“Do you know where he's buried?”

“No. Lupin wouldn't tell me that, so I guess behind one of their hideouts he didn't want to reveal the location of... It happened in Berlin; so in Germany, somewhere, it has to be.”

“It gets so very cold there.”

“Yes.”

“Daisuke hated being cold.” She had only ever seen him in summer, but she knew this about him.

The Inspector nodded. He hated this part of the job. Bringing bad news to what essentially amounted to innocent by-standers. Well, now it was done, time to leave her alone with her grief.

He started to stand.

“Wait. Please. Can you stay a while? Just a little while? I don't want to be alone just yet.”

He sat back down, took a cookie off the plate she held out to him. “I only ever got to see him in the summer, just a couple a weeks a year. It was the highlight of the year for me. I would look forward to it almost as much as Christmas.”

“Hmm,” he chewed, let her talk.

“Can you – can you tell me about him? As you knew him? He would never talk about himself.”

The Inspector spent an hour talking about the right hand man of his arch enemy. Lupin's bodyguard. Lupin's gunman. Lupin's best friend. He praised his skill as a marksman, admired his fidelity, respected his ingenuity.

“He even saved my life a few times. And I saved his more than once. If he had been a good man we could have been great friends.”

“He was always good to me.”

“I am sorry for your loss, but you deserve better.”

“Maybe.” She smiled sadly. She wished she had more pictures of him. She wished he was here now.

This winter would be brutal.

The rain had turned to sleet as the Inspector made to leave. She thanked him for tracking her down, for coming all this way to her cozy corner of the world, so very far from anywhere he should have been.

“Was my duty.”

“No. You could have just sent a letter. It means something that you came here in person.”

He blushed a bit, color rushing to his face. It reminded her a bit of how Daisuke would look after she would peck his cheek.

He turned to leave and made it halfway down the porch steps before turning back. “Oh, I almost forgot, the most important thing.”

He pulled something out of one of his trenchcoat pockets, unfolded it, tried to bend it back into shape. “Lupin said you should have this.”

He handed her the battered fedora, and she stood there in the cold wind thinking about the man who had worn it, what he had meant to her, and how different her life would be without him in it.

She wasn't sure if she could ever bear to see the ocean again.

But the mountains were also nice.

“Inspector,” she called. He had his car door open. He looked back. “Inspector, would you be on this side of the world again anytime soon? Would you be able to stop in? For tea?”

He considered it for a moment, and she tried to be patient in the waiting.

Finally he said, “I think I just might.” He came back to hand her a business card, and she had texted him her number before he even made it out of her driveway.