InsaneJournal

London Calling AU: Murder is a Crime
Title: Murder is a Crime (London Calling AU)
Fandom: Persona 3/FFXII Crossover
Characters: Shinjiro, Akihiko, Balthier, Fran
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Length: 4000 words
A/N: 4 months after Ink


Nights like this, Shinji guesses, are why half of the locals go on holiday for the whole month of August. A week until the Fringe Festival, and the streets are already ridiculous with tourists, mostly Americans, and the hours on all the shops, the pubs, and, of course, the chippies are all gone as long and longer as the strange long nights. This week, they’re open until four, next week and all the way through August, it’ll be six a.m. He shrugs goodnight to Tommy and steps out onto the sidewalk. The shortest way back to the caravan is to cut through the Cowgate, pick up Leith Street, and the six kilometers is a straight-shot, more or less. And he could take the bus most of the way, but that’s two quid he doesn’t need to spend, not on a night like tonight when Aki’s not waiting up for him. At least, he shouldn’t be. Aki has an early shift at the Y, early enough that Shinji might wait until Aki leaves to even bother going to bed. And that’s all the more reason to walk the whole way home, let Aki sleep soundly as long as he can.

The bars have all closed already, though the crowds are still spilling into the streets, giving the bouncers shit, everybody and his brother trying to bum a smoke from someone. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets—it’s still colder at night than he expects, given it’s the end of July—breathes deep the stale smoke that fills the stone corridor, and he does his best to ignore how much he’d like a cigarette himself. For Aki’s sake, he hasn’t had one in about two months, and for his sake, Aki’s had the good sense not to say he’s noticed.

The blocks fall away under his feet, the streetlights getting less frequent as he gets closer to the water. It’s a good walk, here in summer, and there’s something to be said for steps that are headed toward something, some place. The crowd’s thinning out, too, because no one walks into Leith unless he’s got a good reason. It’s a good walk, but this is Scotland, and the rain starts when he’s only halfway. He turns his collar up and keeps going, and that’s one thing that he likes about this place. No one bothers with umbrellas. He tugs his hat down farther, and the rain picks up hard enough that he sticks close to the buildings as he walks. It doesn’t help much, but it keeps his vision a little more clear when the wind off the Firth really kicks up, and by the time he’s turning onto the piss-poor tarmac stripe that leads into the campsite, the weather’s just fucking evil, and maybe he’ll hitch in with Aki in the morning, sneak a hot shower before the gym opens. The only light on in the camp is the one dodgy pole-lamp, half its bulbs burnt out, and even though it’s fucking buckets now, he stops for a moment and looks at the caravan at the edge of the place. He can’t see anyone, doesn’t see the gypsies’ motorcycles out front. He’s never seen two people that good-looking outside of magazines. They’re real Romanies, the rest of the camp says, and they’ve only been there a week and already the whole place hates them. Shinji doesn’t see the problem, but it’s not his husband dogging it after the woman—taller than everyone here, and thick long hair as white as Aki’s—or his girlfriend panting at the fellow, leather trousers and the shine of metal everywhere. He looks like a complete poof, except for the woman on his arm. Shinji wonders what they’re doing here, in this dump, with bikes like that and looking like they do, but he hasn’t said anything to either of them, and he hasn’t seen them speak to anyone but each other. Not that he’s seen them much at all. They keep strange hours—if they aren’t around now, when it must be pushing on near to four—but that’s none of his business. He shrugs into the rain and walks around the blue hulk next to theirs, the one so broken-down it’s been empty since he moved here, and he pulls up short.

The door is open, but the lights aren’t on, and he can hear something over the pound of the rain. Something, something that gets drowned in the sound of twin motorcycle engines behind him, idling, cutting off. He walks slowly toward the step, and he gets colder the closer he gets, because, in the faint glow of the pole-light there are fresh muddied tracks into the caravan, and then there are voices—something ugly and cold, a hiss, a curse—Aki—and he is stepping up into the trailer, reaching for the light, hoping it works tonight, the “Who the fuck are you?” at the tip of his tongue—when there is the thump of fist on flesh and it is Akihiko’s breath that sucks in, strangles on a groan. Shinjiro closes his fingers on the first thing he finds—the maple porridge stick Aki showed up with one afternoon—and swings. Wood on something—wet jacket, maybe—but also shoulder, maybe neck, and the bulky dark figure in front of him grunts, staggers, caves, and Shinji follows, hits and hits until the blows knock the spirtle from his hand. Someone else—not Aki—says something Shinji can’t make out, the accent so thick and the blood roaring in his ears. But it doesn’t sound good, and there is someone else between Shinji and the bed, between Shinji and Aki, and Aki gasps his name like his breath is gone but his throat is wet.

Shinji doesn’t try to stop his foot, kicks as hard as he can, lifts his knee and stomps, and something crunches under the heel of his boot. He kicks again, tries to kick the first sonofabitch out of the way, because there’s something wrong with Akihiko, because Aki never sounds like that, Aki never gets hit when there’s punching, and Shinji’s barely seeing anything at all, between the dark and the anger and the fear and then the pole light cuts out, and everything is black.

He hears the guy lunge for him, and he braces for the impact, decides instead—what if the guy has a knife? he can’t see—to shove himself to the side, into the counter and cupboard, out of the most obvious path, but as his knee crunches the particleboard, there is another crunch, a heavy, muffled whump, cursing. Shinji whirls, stomps as he can, and something resists, then gives. The cursing stops. A wheezed breath from the bed that sounds again like his name. There’s no more movement near his feet.

“Aki,” he says, and he puts his back to the cupboard, though, he thinks, if there were more of them, he’d already know. The wheeze repeats, closer.

Shinji gropes for the switch again, and when his hand hits it, it does flicker, snaps weakly into glow. Aki’s face is bloody, his nose and lips a wash of red, but he’s holding his throat, staring at the two slumped forms on the floor. They are not moving. Aki stumbles back—the bed takes out his knees and he sits, lets go his neck, puts his hands down, tucks them under his thighs, and he’s still staring. Shinji is looking at the blood smeared beneath Aki’s jaw, trying to see if there’s something else there—a—a cut—but that panic dissipates: not nearly enough blood. But then what? He steps over—steps on and can’t bring himself to feel bad about it—the bodies, he thinks, because they still aren’t moving and now he sees how far the larger one’s head is turned, his cheek caved in, blood pooling, where the guy is crumpled at Aki’s feet. He’s looking so far over his shoulder he could see the other one, if he could see at all. But the eyes aren’t looking at anything, anymore, and Shinji can’t look either.

He stands in front of Akihiko, tries to ignore the press of a dead man’s calf against his ankle, so that Aki’s wide eyes are on his sternum. He crouches, and he is closer to the dead, and where there had been fear-spurred heat, the drench of his coat is gone icy cold. He puts his hands on Aki’s bare shoulders, and Aki is all chill. Wet. Like he’s been in the rain like Shinji but the room is only full of the bitter scent of sweat.

“You all right?” They both know he isn’t. They aren’t.

Aki nods, very slightly, and he reaches again for his throat. He opens his mouth, but what comes out is a cough and then more blood, cupped in Aki’s hand.

Shinji gets up again, leans to the sink because there’s no room to walk with—with what’s on the floor—picks up Aki’s shirt from yesterday, and he wipes Aki’s hands, wets another corner, and he dabs at the drying blood under his nose, on his chin. He is glad Aki’s never really been a bleeder, that it’s only a trickle at his lip where his teeth have cut in, and he pinches the bridge of Aki’s nose and holds his fingers there. Aki scrubs at his hands with the bloody cloth, and the movement is shaking all of him, won’t let the bleeding stop, and then Akihiko is shaking, from the inside out, and Shinji can’t will his own hands warmer. He tries to hold both of Akihiko’s hands down with one of his, knotted in the t-shirt, and Aki tries to talk, grimaces like it hurts, and his teeth are red again from his lip.

“Hold still, dammit.” Shinji climbs onto the mattress with him, and Akihiko shoves back from the edge like the floor is on fire, pulls his knees up, and Shinji has never seen him so white. There are two dead men on their floor. He can’t think about that yet. He backs Aki all the way to the wall, and the three feet between them and the floor feels like miles, and he wraps both of their blankets around him, tries not to get anything too wet, but the wool of his coat is sodden. He ignores that for the moment, lets Aki knot his fingers in the blankets, and keeps pressure on that vein. At least nothing feels crunchy, broken. Outside, the rain still falls.

“That looks like a world of trouble.”

Shinji whirls, and the Romanies are standing just inside the doorway. The man prods the first body with his booted foot.

“Murder is a crime, you know.”

The ice in Shinji’s chest spikes. “It’s not—it was self-defense,” he says. He looks at Akihiko, his clenched fists, and with the blood wiped away, his throat is still red, purpling, swollen.

“That’s what everyone says.” He checks for a pulse on the first, doesn’t bother on the second.

“Balthier,” the woman says. “Enough.”

Her voice is accented in a way Shinjiro cannot place. She steps into the space between the first man’s elbow and his body, then between the next’s folded legs, and Shinji keeps his own feet filling what little space there is in front of the bed, keeps himself between Aki and her. She almost smiles, makes space for her feet anyway, shoving the body back with heeled motorcycle boots.

Shinjiro keeps himself where he is.

“It is not my intent to do him damage,” she says, but she does not try to get closer. Looking over his shoulder at Aki, she says, “Have you any trouble breathing?”

Aki is pinching the bridge of his nose, still, but he shakes his head. “Hurts,” he rasps, the word all context and no enunciation, but he shrugs, and the gesture brings with it such relief, somehow.

“Save your voice, then.” She steps back to the doorway, beside the man—Balthier—who is crouching beside the first man, holding the porridge stick between thumb and forefinger. It’s smeary red on one side, and Shinji feels bile rise.

Balthier sees him look, and he lifts an eyebrow. “I’ve seen worse,” he says. “But this is a situation you’ve got on your hands.” Now he sounds like a Shakespeare actor, like the newscasters, when before he almost sounded like the woman. It puts Shinji on edge—who are they, what do they want, why are they here now—and Aki coughs again. He has to ask.

“Do you have a phone?” He can call a cab, tap into their small stock of cash. Get Aki to the clinic. Worry about the rest later.

“Unless you have some fairly unexpected connections, it would be in your best interest to keep the communication to a minimum.” He closes the door against the wet breeze, and the back of Shinji’s neck prickles. He can feel Aki tensing behind him, the creak of the mattress. But the Romanies aren’t doing anything, not getting any closer.

“Communication—look at him.” Shinji points at Aki, regrets it immediately. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him. Not these people who shouldn’t be here, who saw—the thought hits fast, rough and ugly: how to get rid of them—but he feels like he wants to collapse, and they both look through the bodies with so much calm—it’ll never work. And he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want any of this. And he wants to be dry and warm and not look at dead men on the floor. “I have to—”

“You have to gather up your clothes, anything else you want for the next two days.” Balthier opens the cupboard, glances in. “And then you lie low for a bit. Have anyone you can say you were visiting?”

Aki leans forward, scoots closer. He winces, arm curled over his stomach. Shinji reads his lips over the choked words. “What about—?” He tilts his chin at the pile, looks away again. Shinji holds down the shiver that’s shaking his lungs because even if he’s soaked, at least he’s got clothes. Aki’s got boxers and a t-shirt and the wet air is cold.

“You leave that to Fran and I.” Balthier takes the first man’s arm, drags him out of the way, and Fran steps close, pulls the other one in a longer line next to the first.

“Why?” Something is wrong with this. Everything is wrong with this. Shinji has been involved in a lot of things he’d rather not have been, but this is different. He doesn’t even know who these guys are, why they came after Aki.

Balthier is holding Akihiko’s duffle out to him. “Because you haven’t got all that many options, have you?” His right eyebrow arches, too knowing, and Shinji’s teeth clench. The police. That’s who they should call. He did the worst damage. He’ll take whatever he has to. And Aki’s beat up, so it’s obvious he didn’t start anything, right? He looks at Aki. Aki’s tugging on his sweater, digging jeans out of the pile, putting the rest of it in the bag.

“Aki?” He doesn’t care if they hear, but it’s Japanese that comes to his lips. “We can’t—”

“Have to,” Aki whispers, in English. “No papers.”

He’d forgotten about that. There are so many people in the city now, almost to the Fringe, they are completely unnoticed. But they’d be deported, maybe worse, Shinji doesn’t know, but that can’t happen to Aki. He can’t let it. Even if—

“What’s this going to cost?” They’ll pay for this the rest of their lives.

And Fran actually snorts, a dry, bemused sound. And Balthier pings his fingernail against the camp stove. “Such vast resources, it’s hard to choose.”

Aki glares at him, and then Balthier’s face straightens. “There’s someone I’d like to talk to. You—” He points at Akihiko, “will get me the chance.” Aki lifts his chin, eyes narrowed, and that, too, is comforting, even though his lips still pull down each time he swallows. Shinjiro doesn’t miss, either, the sharp look Fran shoots Balthier, the way her jaw clenches, but that’s none of his business. He doesn’t want to know. “Who? How? He’s not going to some mob boss for you.”

“He won’t have to do anything, except keep winning. The person I’m interested in, I’m certain, will turn up eventually.” Balthier leans against the door. “And, I suppose, the two of you should try not to die if blokes like these turn up again. You do disrupt the expected course of action at the bookie’s, my pale young friend.”

Akihiko glares again, but he keeps putting things in the bag.

“Money is always a disruption,” Fran says, somewhat pointedly, even as she’s emptying the men’s wallets. There’s not much there, but what there is, she hands to Shinjiro.

Balthier sighs, but says nothing about that. Instead, he says, “Do you recognize either of them?”

They look—not long—and both of them shake their heads. Shinji wants to sleep. He’s a little afraid of what will happen when he does, but he wants to sleep.

Fran holds out crumpled betting slips. “But they certainly recognized you.” She tucks them back into the appropriate pockets, looks at Akihiko, sniffs dismissively at the bodies. “Stupid price to pay for a few hundred pounds.”

Shinjiro almost feels proud—Aki hasn’t lost yet, and he comes in as a profitable long-shot, shorter, thinner than everyone he’s faced. But then he wishes neither of them had ever come here, why Aki had to follow him, why he could never leave anything well enough alone—

Balthier tsks. “Never gamble on anyone who isn’t yourself.”

“Isn’t that what you’re making us do?” Shinjiro gets his tattoo box from the cupboard and wishes like hell there was some of that Scotch left. He puts the box in Aki’s bag, rolls up their blankets. It hits him now—where are they going? The thought of having to walk somewhere now, hunt up a room, face someone—it’s crippling. The whole thing—nothing they can do now, to undo anything, fix anything. He wants to be angry, to protest, but Aki’s staring again and he doesn’t know what to do.

“No more than you’re making us.” Balthier opens the door again, checks the still-dark campsite. The rain falls softer now, the cloud cover holding back the dawn.

Fran looks long and hard at the back of his head, and Shinjiro wonders who it is he wants to talk to. Why this slick bastard needs their help, if he’s got all the answers. He opens his mouth to ask, but Fran steps across the caravan floor, takes his sleeve and Aki’s arm.

“Where are we going?” He pulls his sleeve free, puts his arm instead around Akihiko; he feels like he’s made of wood.

“You’re going to our place, and you’ll stay there until you’re told you can leave.” Balthier picks up Aki’s duffle. “Move, before the bitch in caravan four gets up.”

“What about them?” Aki’s breath hisses at his shoulder. He is ready to re-ask, because it was so quiet, so flat, when Fran answers.

“The less you know about that, the better it is for all of us.” She puts herself between him and Aki again, disentangles his arm gently. “In case someone sees us,” she says, and she winds her arms around Akihiko like a lover, bends her head near to his ear, and walks him slowly across the campsite, looking, to all appearances, like this is seduction. Balthier slips his hand in Shinjiro’s back pocket, pulls him close on the cinder block that is their stoop.

“Lock the door,” he says into Shinji’s ear.

“There’s no key,” he says back, hating the closeness. It’s part of the reason their rent is so cheap. They can lock it at night, when they’re there, from the inside, but not when they’re out. He wishes Akihiko had locked the door tonight.

“Doesn’t matter. Do it. Hurry.”

The door clicks closed, the sound forever too thin, too flimsy, and Balthier backs him toward their caravan, his breath hot on Shinji’s neck, his body as warm, and Shinji holds his arms for balance, for appearance, for the respite it gives his chilled hands. When they’re inside, Balthier lets go immediately, tosses a towel at him. Akihiko is already sitting on one of the mattressed ends, and Fran is pouring brandy generously into two mugs.

“Get dry. Warm clothes.” Balthier shoves the duffle toward him. He’s not taking anything off in front of them. Balthier rolls his eyes, but he says nothing more.

“You will stay here,” Fran says. “Leave for no reason. Let no one see you.”

Balthier nudges the door to the tiny water closet open with his foot, cocks his head toward the cupboards. “Toilet there. Food and drink here.” He zips his jacket all the way up. Fran pulls the black bandana around her neck up over her hair.

“Where are you going?” They could be going to get the police for all he knows. He doesn’t know if that’s a relief or not. At least he’d know what would happen. Maybe what he deserves. The lino creaks when his weight shifts, and he feels that living crunch again.

“You’d rather not know.” Balthier opens the door again. “No one sees you. Remember.” And the caravan is quiet until Aki says his name again.

He steps closer to Akihiko, and now he strips off his wet coat, his t-shirt that still smells like fry oil, boots and sodden jeans. Much as he doesn’t want to care, he hangs them over the sink, from the pegs on the wall, though he puts his boots in the water closet. He can’t look at them. While he rubs his hair dry, he hears Fran’s voice, low, at the window.

“You have no assurance he’ll seek the boxer out,” she says. “He might not even be fighting anymore.”

“I’m not looking for assurance.” The metallic click of the kickstand. “I’ll take half a chance.” Anything else Balthier says gets lost in the roar of engines, but Shinji still listens while he pulls on one of Aki’s sweaters, a pair of sweatpants that still smells like the gym. They’re dry. That’s enough.

When the sound is gone, Shinjiro sits on the edge of the mattress, gets up again, takes the mugs. He expects Akihiko to push it away, but Aki takes it from him, drinks long and steadily. And then he coughs, but there’s no blood this time, though he holds his throat like it burns, and it probably does, everything raw and bruised. He puts down the mug only when it’s empty, and Shinji watches Aki ease onto his side, his eyes already—still—glassy. He sips his enough only to warm his stomach. They can’t both be out of it, though he’d desperately like to be out of his mind for a week. He sets the mug on the floor, digs their blankets from the bag. Aki doesn’t say anything when he puts himself closer to the door, curves his body around Aki’s drawn-up form. He wants to say something, to say this is going to be all right, but they both know it’s not. He pulls the blanket closer, wraps his arm over Aki’s chest, and stares into the slow-coming morning. Aki is perfectly still against him—too still for sleep—but neither of them say anything. Eventually, though, Aki slumps, his breathing even and brandy-sweet, and Shinji spares half a thought for knowing Aki should be leaving for work now. He should be with him, walking the broken tarmac to wait for the number thirty-two bus, making jokes about how Aki’s hair is sticking up from his pillow until Aki takes his hat and they’re punching each other in the arm when the bus pulls up. Aki twitches in his sleep, clutches at Shinji’s arm. They should both be anywhere but here.