Work Text:
The pitifully short file sitting in front of him, Goro decides, exists as pure formality—Tokyo Police’s flimsy attempt to play at competence. It takes a gentle hand on his shoulder and one of Leblanc’s porcelain cups sliding in front of him to lower his raised hackles. Silver eyes shining with mischief, Akira Kurusu smiles, all charm, lips brushing against Goro’s ear as he leans down. “This one is on the house.”
Goro attempts to hide his burning cheeks and his rabbit-fast heartbeat behind a light cough. “Awfully nice of you, Akira.”
“Anything for my favorite customer.” The tilt of Akira’s lips turns into a full-fledged smile. He even throws Goro a wink. “It’s a new blend. Tell me what you think later, hm?”
As he takes a sip, Goro is nowhere near as surprised as he should be that Akira tailored it to suit his tastes perfectly.
Isn’t that a thought?
Akira Kurusu, who patiently listened to Goro spill his guts about his childhood, his mother, his father, without judgment, already knowing Goro intimately enough to brew a brand-new drink and still hit bullseye. Goro’s heart, traitorous little thing, insistently thrashes against his ribcage, determined to bask in Akira’s attention.
Goro turns back to the file. He can’t allow himself to be distracted—Joker is still on the run and, for as long as he remains free, every second he wastes is another potential victim in the making. Sighing to himself, Goro absentmindedly thumbs the latest report on Joker's activities: the gruesome aftermath of Kunikazu Okumura’s death.
The report calls it murder. Goro disagrees. Butchering is a far, far more apt word.
According to the coroner, Okumura’s spinal cord was severed by either a dagger or a hunting knife. Paralyzation, she said, hit before his body touched the ground—wide awake but unable to lift a single finger. Goro dreads to think how excruciating it must have been to feel his body brutally carved open like this; skin, tissue, muscle, and bone neatly parted in perfect cuts. Denver steak. Prime ribs. Tenderloins. Brisket. Joker clearly took his time, carefully disassembling each slab.
Of course he did, Goro sardonically thinks, eyes trained on the stylized Empress card, neatly tucked where Okumura’s heart should be. It would be a waste of perfectly good meat.
“Hey, Detective.” For the second time that day, Akira’s warm, gentle hand on his shoulder steers Goro away from his wandering thoughts. “I am about to close the shop, but… one last cup of coffee?”
“My apologies, but I must get going. As long as this case remains unsolved, I can’t waste time.”
“Joker’s case, huh?” Akira tilts his head, silver eyes shining with curiosity. “That’s what you’re working on?”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Goro evades, savoring Akira's small sound of protest. “It was delicious.”
The shopkeeper’s bell is chiming before Akira can open his mouth to reply.
The loud, insistent ringing of his phone startles Goro awake. He doesn't bother looking at the caller—Goro keeps his personal number under tight wraps, and none of his contacts would call without good reason.
“Goro Akechi,” the caller's voice is unidentifiable, distorted by static and cheap plastic speakers. “I didn't expect you to pick up.”
The fine hairs of Goro’s nape stand to an end, unease clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. He can’t think of anyone who would need to disguise themselves, much less doubt he would pick up a call in the middle of the night. Nervously wetting his lips, Goro says, “You wouldn't have called if that were true.”
“Hoping doesn’t make it any more likely.”
“Fair enough,” Goro concedes. “I answered your call. You got what you wanted. Don’t I deserve to know who I am talking to?”
“Do you?” comes the playful reply. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now.”
Cold dread chills Goro to the bone. Years of finely-honed instincts scream danger, danger, danger, begging him to run, urging him to hide.
Death, Goro thinks, skin crawling as the silence stretches, is whispering in my ear.
“Nothing?” the caller hums, sounding far too amused for Goro's comfort. “Maybe you need a hint.”
A bloodcurdling scream cuts Goro’s caustic reply short. The pain is so palpable that he recoils, mouth opening in shock. This voice Goro recognizes, Akira Kurusu’s spectral baritone haunting his bedroom.
“Joker.”
“Jackpot!” Joker sounds overjoyed. Goro feels sick. “Now, Detective Akechi, you’ve been working hard investigating my case, haven’t you? This is your reward.”
A beat of silence.
Two.
Three.
Akira wails.
The bitter taste of bile floods Goro’s mouth, clinging to the back of his tongue as he bites back a foul curse. Out of all possibilities Goro considered, all results he calculated, Akira was never supposed to factor in.
“Leave him the hell out of this, Joker, or I swear—”
“If you want him,” Joker cuts, “then you’ll have to take him. Don’t make me wait, Detective. I’m not a patient man.”
Goro’s ears ring with Akira’s screams long after the line goes dead.
As soon as the route to the address Joker texts him is secured, Goro leaves his phone behind. There’s no point in taking it with him—Tokyo Police is as good as useless, and he can’t endanger anyone else. Besides, all his years as a detective haven’t been for naught. If there’s something Goro is more than capable of, it's handling himself.
Sliding his gun out of its holster, Goro quietly clicks the safety open. He places a fleeting kiss on the muzzle—a ritual of sorts, blessing his bullets and steadying his finger.
A single shot, and he will end it all.
As Goro steps inside Joker’s stage of choice, he can’t help but think it’s a fitting place for the final curtain call.
The crumbling building was, once, a textile mill. Long since abandoned, all that remains are flaking grey walls and rubble, broken windows and beer bottles, faded graffiti and discarded condoms—and even those have long-since lost their appeal to the less than savory crowds that once haunted the factory.
Akira's scream cuts through the silence like a wickedly sharp knife.
Goro’s steps are too loud as he runs, thundering through the empty halls and vacant rooms. Akira's screams get progressively louder. More pained. Ringing through Goro's skull, simultaneously closer and further away with every step he takes.
Where? Where are they?
It’s Joker’s laugh, loud and unabashedly cruel, that points him in the right direction. Goro breaks into one last desperate run, begging his legs to carry him faster. For a few extra seconds. For him to reach Akira in time.
He skids to a stop at what was once the stitching line, leveling his gun—
Joker is nowhere to be found.
Relief washes over Goro as he sees Akira standing, idly rolling a sleek black dagger around his wrist, whistling a merry tune in time with the spins. Confusion comes next. Akira shouldn’t be unharmed, shouldn’t be smiling—
“I’ve been waiting for you, Detective.”
Goro fires.
Joker moves faster than his bullet, and it's only the years spent polishing his skills that save Goro from the nasty footsweep. He takes a step back. Fires again. Misses his mark.
Joker laughs again, manic, exhilaration unmistakable. He can't imagine Akira laughing like that. Can’t reconcile him with such a cold-blooded killer.
The split-second hesitation is all Joker needs.
Goro doesn't see the dagger coming, but the pommel hits his temple all the same. He staggers, dizzy, and his finger slips off the trigger. Pain explodes behind Goro’s eyes before he can right himself, stars blinking in and out of existence as Joker's knee violently connects with his gut.
Joker catches him before Goro can fall. A chloroform-soaked rag is pressed against his face with surprising gentleness and, if Goro didn't know better, he could have sworn Joker kisses his temple before consciousness leaves him completely.
Awareness rolls over Goro in waves, gently lapping at the edges of his mind and washing away the thick fog clouding his eyes. He blinks once, twice, three times—a vain attempt to see past the all-encompassing darkness surrounding him. No luck when he tries to move, either, tied limbs too heavy for him to stand.
Gritting his teeth, Goro valiantly fights against the nausea threatening to swallow him, muscles straining under the herculean effort of doing something, anything but dying so pathetically.
Pushing himself to a more or less sitting position is nothing short of a miracle. Cold sweat beading on his forehead, Goro fists the soft fabric of the bed he is lying in with shaky hands.
There are footsteps down the hall.
I need to get out of here. If what it takes to set myself free is staining my hands with Joker's blood, then so be it.
Vision swimming and senses numbed by the drugs running rampant in his system, Goro fights to keep himself upright. Steeling himself for what’s about to come, he takes a long, shuddering breath.
He can do this.
He must.
Despite his quivering body and the goosebumps on his flesh, Goro bares his teeth. Let it be known that Goro Akechi won’t go down quietly. Let it be known that while he may not win, Goro for sure won’t lose.
The dark, heavy door trapping Goro in Joker’s den slowly creaks open, and a lean figure slowly crosses the threshold. Goro closes his eyes. Opens them. Tousled hair. Bright silver eyes.
The face of his captor hasn’t changed.
Goro swallows a hysterical laugh. He should have known. Should have expected his life to end in betrayal—he was once an unwanted child, what made him think his adult self wouldn’t be just as easily cast aside?
The devil, Goro deliriously thinks, has to get his laughs in somewhere.
Akira Kurusu—Joker—crosses the distance between them with the same feline grace he does everything else. A predator, Goro belatedly realizes, stomach churning at the hunger lurking behind Joker’s eyes. He has always been a predator.
“Good morning, Detective.”
The familiar nickname has Goro’s blood boiling, his anger so all-consuming it physically hurts. He thrashes against his restraints with a strength he didn't know he had, ropes growing taut as he attempts to break free. “You piece of shit.”
“It’s alright, Goro,” Joker places a gentle hand on Goro's left cheek, thumbing the delicate skin beneath his eye. “I’m not going to hurt—”
He doesn't get to finish. Goro's teeth sink into the offending hand quicker than Joker could ever hope to react, their viciousness only matched by the man himself. Joker's violent jerk and his guttural grunt only serve to spur Goro further. Blood floods his mouth as flesh gives, muscles tearing under the animalistic savagery of his bite.
Knowing he might as well be spelling his own death, Goro spits the chunk of flesh at Joker's feet.
“Don't worry, Joker.” Goro watches with perverse satisfaction as Joker curses, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. Ever so slowly, he licks his lips, smiling nice and wide to show his bloody teeth. “I have no qualms about hurting you.”
A flash of bone-deep hurt crosses Joker’s silver eyes, and he sounds so betrayed Goro almost, almost laughs. “Fine. We can play by your rules, then.”
Goro waits for his punishment with his head held high. The sharp edge and cold steel of a knife between the ribs, slicing skin and mincing bone. Fingers digging into his wound and severing Goro's organs while he still breathes. Being forced to watch Joker eat them one by one. Goro can take it all. He didn't get this far to die like a dog, whimpering as he is put out of his misery. If Joker wants his kill, Goro will make sure he works for it.
Joker does none of these things. Instead, he places a fleeting kiss on Goro's hair. “I’ll be back soon.”
The sting of a needle puncturing his neck is the last thing Goro feels before the world fades to black once again.
The room Goro wakes in reeks, the stench of stale blood, bleach, and something distinctively dead foul enough to burn his nose. Gritting his teeth, Goro presses his eyes shut—attempting to both escape the encroaching horror and chase away the blinking spots blurring his vision. For a brief, blissful moment, Goro allows himself to believe he fell asleep at Leblanc. That his fateful encounter with Joker was nothing but a nightmare. That soon enough Akira will wake him up with a low chuckle and will offer him a cup of his new blend on the house.
He will be home.
“I’ve been watching you all this time, you know?” Goro opens his eyes. Back turned to him, Joker stands close enough to touch. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to kill. “Spent months dreaming about this.”
Goro feels the blood drain from his face. It dawns on him, then, for just how long he has been on Joker’s radar—how long Joker has been planning his murder step by meticulous step. Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and rip him apart.
“I didn’t know how to tell you who I really am,” he continues, ignoring Goro’s silence. “How could I explain to you what I do? Make you see the world the way I do? I had to make it perfect. It had to work.”
“So you staged your own kidnapping to try to convince me?” Goro’s eyes flash, maroon set ablaze by the sheer force of his anger. “You’re more delusional than I thought.”
“I had no other options,” Joker says. Even from a distance, Goro can clearly see pink dusting the tip of his ears. “You weren't looking hard enough.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Joker, you know damn well—”
“You weren't,” Joker insists. Fidgeting, he shifts his weight from one foot to another before fully turning to look at Goro. “You were too busy with Joker to pay attention to me.”
“You can't be serious.” Goro barks a loud, incredulous laugh. He can't be. He can't. “You’re jealous. You're not going to kill me because I got too close. Not because I'm a threat. You're killing me because you’re jealous. Of yourself.”
“I'm not going to kill you, Goro. You don’t have to be afraid,” Joker says. The frown that crosses his features is real. Goro knows his words are not. “I promise.”
“Bullshit—”
“It’s not,” Joker insists. He runs a gentle hand—a bandaged hand—across Goro’s face, knuckles caressing his cheekbone like an amorous lover would. His skin is unnaturally warm, his fingers unnaturally wet. Goro immediately knows they are drenched in blood. “You can trust me.”
Silver eyes, fever-bright in their intensity, pin Goro in place. Goro doesn’t beg for his life—refuses to—but it’s a very near thing. His defiance, once a source of pride, makes haste to the instinctual panic rising up his throat—the primal fear of turning into prey tightly interwoven in his DNA finally kicking in at full force. Caught between the crushing weight of his failure and the insanity dancing right under Joker’s skin. Between the devil and the great blue sea. There’s nowhere to run. There’s nowhere to hide.
Goro never stood a chance.
“You told me about him, remember?” Joker’s fingers remain gentle as they slide down Goro’s face. He slowly traces the shape of Goro’s lips, staining them crimson with every swipe of his thumb. “About him abandoning you and your mother. Driving her to suicide. Making you feel like an undesirable burden. About how you had to crawl your way out of the slums because of him. About him making your life a living hell.”
Joker smiles. It’s a wicked little thing, all teeth and joyful violence. Goro freezes—a deer in the headlights, a butterfly caught in a spider’s web. He can’t possibly mean—
Joker steps aside.
A severed head. Liver. Lungs. Kidneys. Heart. All artfully arranged on a dissection table before Goro, expertly quartered and neatly cleaned, glinting under the artificial lights. Pieces of what was once his father displayed for Goro’s pleasure.
“Your father broke your heart.” Joker's pale fingers gently run over the displayed viscera, caressing innards almost, almost lovingly. “It was only fair that I reaped you his.”
The black dagger once again finds its way to Joker’s deft hands, layers of fat and muscle parting under the elegant dance of his blade.
It’s haunting.
It’s beautiful.
Goro might have been the one to be brought to heel, but it’s Joker who falls to his knees. It’s not quite worship—the Joker Goro knows is too proud for that—but close enough for something inside Goro to twist as he offers the still-warm heart.
It’s a peace offering.
It’s a courting gift.
Lost in the power rush of having the most dangerous man in Tokyo bowing to him and him alone, it doesn’t occur to Goro to do anything but look into Joker’s eyes and viciously bite the oblation reverently offered to him.
He doesn’t dare to think. Doesn’t dare to breathe. Masayoshi Shido’s blood tastes divine, his flesh a delicacy unlike anything Goro has ever tasted. A rotten man such as his father is—as he was—should by no means taste so sweet.
And yet…
Goro’s lips part. His lungs burn as he exhales a long, shuddering breath. He wants to deny the knowledge that it’s Shido’s heart he just sunk his teeth into, that it’s his blood he so greedily licked out of Joker’s fingers. He wants to scream. He wants to run away. He wants to thrash and burn Joker’s hideout to the ground—to burn himself to the ground—until nothing else remains.
“More.” Goro’s mouth opens against his will, tongue lolling out, pink and pretty and oh-so-inviting. “You will give me more.”
“Of course, Goro,” Joker—Akira—says. The delight in his voice tolls the bells of Goro’s sealed fate, the glee shining in those stormy eyes the flames guiding Goro to hell.
It’s an execution.
It’s becoming.
“Anything you want.”
