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Furuya Rei is an observant person. It is a point of pride that he is rarely blindsided. When in middle school he opened his locker and his first pastel pink love letter fluttered out — swiftly swept up by a grinning Hiro — he knew whose name he would find signed on the bottom. When the day after his sixteenth birthday the orphanage essentially told him to fuck off, he had a part-time job lined up and an arrangement with Hiro’s aunt he’d managed to negotiate the one time she was home and somewhat sober.
One the night of his high school graduation, when — behind closed doors and fingers spread on the scratched up kitchen table — Hiro had confessed he wouldn’t be going to University, it had simply been the culmination of his obsessive fixation on a cold case that Rei had been waiting out since the start of ninth grade.
Only three times in his life has he been caught truly, completely off guard. Once when he was seven years old, hearing Hiro’s voice for the first time after weeks of a friendship made of casual fishing competitions and one-sided conversations; and once the other day in Chicago, when he opened a video Gin sent him and watched, with no warning, Akai Shuichi’s murder.
The third time happens in an elementary school classroom.
“Amuro-san,” Conan whispers to him, letting go of Rei’s sleeve to cup his mouth. “You’re an enemy, right?”
Rei blinks.
“...of the bad guys,” Conan finishes, face completely open.
…And then he blinks again.
Theory one: Conan is more ruthless than Rei ever would have pegged him, and he is trying to get Bourbon out of the way by getting him murdered as a traitor by his own side.
Theory two: Conan is making some sort of obscure reference relating to the teacher’s assault. It’s embarrassing to admit that he doesn’t understand, but everyone’s been humbled by an elementary-schooler lately, so.
Theory three (outlandish, confusing implications): Conan thinks, for whatever reason, that Rei is on his side.
The first two are considerably more likely, but it is this third theory that still spins circles in Rei’s brain even now.
You seem to have the wrong idea about me, he’d finally said, because that was nice and safe. A valid response regardless of what Conan’s intentions were, dismissing both him and Vermouth in one neat sentence.
And… apparently… potentially… the truth?
“This kid has been unfairly lucky,” Hiro muses when Rei gets to that part of the story. “If you’d been anyone else, he would have been really screwed. Must’ve been dead convinced about you if he confronted you like that.”
Rei pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s incredibly dangerous. He can’t just go around assuming his enemies won’t kill kids.”
“I mean, in fairness, most of them won’t,” Hiro points out. “You have to pick out the ones who might kill kids and pay them extra, remember? Forcing people to confront their few remaining morals is just like, asking for them to betray you.”
Rei rolls his eyes, letting his arm fall back on the table. “Please don’t make me think about Gin on a Saturday.”
“My bad,” Hiro lazily salutes with a wave of his hand.
He yawns, crushing the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray between them.
“Why would he think that?” Rei wonders, brows furrowed.
“What, that you’re one of the good guys? Why do you think?”
Rei flashes back to some of his recent interactions with the boy—crashing the car of the woman that abducted Conan, tracking the delivery truck down and punching the guy that kidnapped Conan and his friends, treating Conan’s tennis racket-induced injury… “I have no idea,” he says, stumped.
Anyone would do those things.
Hiro shrugs. “If he knows Rye, Kir, and Sherry then that’s two NOCs and one traitor. He might just be assuming based on statistics.”
“He wouldn’t gamble on a statistic,” Rei dismisses with a wave, brows furrowed in thought. “He’s probably still in contact with Rye — do you think he told him I was trustworthy?”
His friend raises an eyebrow at him. “Let’s not be pathetic.”
“...It’s a possibility,” Rei says, lips pursed. Hiro’s too irritable right now to say what he really wants to say, which is too embarrassing to even utter out loud anyway. That is: even if Scotch was the one who first lobbied for Rye, even though Rye and Bourbon spent most of their time together arguing, Hiro just didn’t know him like Rei did.
Or, well. Like Rei thought he did.
This joke is on him.
Furuya Rei is an observant person. A methodical person. He takes pride in that, in the combination of skills that let him watch every day unfold like a series of Rube-Goldberg machines. He prepares three pitchers worth of cold brew in the morning—the dispenser is empty by five. He lets his fingers linger over the juncture of Rye's neck and shoulder—he gets a hand tucking his hair behind his ear at dinner.
Everyone is predictable, a faceless mass of machines going through the motions he’s mechanically estimated or set himself eons ago. He is almost never blindsided. He is fucking furious at the people who manage it. The anger tilts his chin up, makes him look . Properly.
“You’re blinded,” Hiro diagnoses.
He half-reaches into his coat for his pack and then tsk s, retreating his hand, which means he’s already hit his daily cigarette limit. Given that it’s only a little past four PM, Rei’s a bit concerned.
“You’re blinded by whatever you wanted to have, so it falls to me to remind you that Rye’s a bastard who screwed us over and left us for dead. You know Chianti’s still including the clown emoji everytime she texts me? We’re never beating those fuckin’ NOC allegations.”
Rei hums, traces the rim of his mug with a finger. Tries not to linger on whatever you wanted to have. Fails .
“Vermouth is at least satisfied with the answer she got while I was wearing the wire,” he says flatly, “Short of Curaçao, she’s the best person we can have vouching for us.”
Hiro grimaces. “How much did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her about Akai, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Maybe you should’ve.”
“...What?”
“That’s how Kir beat her allegations, no? She threw him under the bus?”
Rei stays silent, staring blankly until Hiro pushes himself up onto his feet with a scoff, “And then you wonder why the kid said what he said.”
Rei watches him go, a bit stunned. “You need a nicotine patch!”
“What I need is a smoke, ” Hiro retorts back from the other room, almost definitely automatic, and Rei stills, listening. His shoulders tense, bracing himself for yet another session of wrestling the damn cigarettes out of Hiro’s hand, but then he hears him tearing open one of the sealed patches and relaxes with a sigh.
The objective truth is this: Akai Shuichi prioritized his position and goals as an FBI agent over any sort of rapport he may have had with them, something he didn’t do even when he was on the run. Even when his cover blew up, he’d dropped by their apartment to introduce himself properly.
( “Another life is possible. For you both.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Rye, surely you don’t think we’re dumb enough to trust the FBI of all things.”
“You don’t have to. Just trust me. Even half of what you have to offer is worth immunity. You have my word that you will get it.”
“Rye–”
“Come with me.” )
And then… and then he’d occasionally kept texting Rei, patiently placating his indignation at being so rudely deceived for so long by making Rei even angrier with his stupid, pragmatic arguments. He kept that line open, even with Gin and the FBI salivating for the chance to shoot Rye and get their hands on Bourbon respectively.
(No Grand Slam for our favorite player this year. ):
My favorite player. And I told you she’d lose on clay.
Think I was the one who said that.)
It was a placation, but Hiro had scoffed with more amusement than venom. And Rei texted back, fascinated by this splash of red that had managed to escape his notice. Disruption that avoided something as boring as a wreckage, instead drawing a tenuous connection.
Rye put him first. He'd predicted that. But then Akai had put him first. And that… was something else. Something untouchable, separate from anything as petty as an employer, only now it's suddenly…
(Alive, FBI?)
Not.
Which, really, is understandable. At the end of the day he and Hiro are part of the organization that is actively trying to kill Akai. Had it been the other way, Bourbon would most likely have taken the exact same measures.
Akai gave them their chance, waited them out, and now he's finally turned away.
It’s perfectly sensible, and yet…
Rei sighs, again, giving up to cross his arms over the table and rest his forehead down. Familiar footsteps shuffle back into the kitchen, and Rei doesn’t move, even when he feels a hand land on top of his head.
“Hey,” Hiro says, voice quiet, fingers ruffling his hair. “What do you want for dinner?”
Turning his head so his cheek is pressed to the table, "I get to pick?"
“Don’t get used to it.”
…And yet, everytime Rei thinks about it too long, no matter how much he’s rationalized it, he still can’t stop his mouth from twisting into a pout. After all, even grieving he'd never stopped that childish voice inside of him from accusing, you made me see you and then you got yourself killed. It's only fitting that even now he can’t stop it complaining:
You kissed me. You held my hand and kissed the tips of my hair, you piece of shit. Tell me you’re alive.
“Omurice,” he says.
“Profound choice. Yeah, I can do that.”
Hiro’s laughing, probably because Rei picked a fifteen-minute dish, but whatever.
It’s what he wants.
.
.
"Amuro-san isn't working today," pipes Conan, looking at him with wide, curious eyes that do nothing to soften the blatant undertone of why are you here?
The kid’s standing by his table with all the audacity only a seven-year-old could have, hands perched next to the sugar shakers. Hiro’s been here ten, maybe fifteen minutes?
"I know that," Hiro tries to say kindly, because the day he learns something about Zero from someone else will be the day he dies and someone whispers it into his coffin. "I just wanted a snack."
He’s not even lying—he just wants some cake. And this specific cafe meant he had a fifty-fifty chance of stumbling on an enjoyable hazard, so he flipped the coin.
Conan goes from wide-eyed to briefly squinting at him, to wide-eyed again when the waitress cuts in, having obviously been eavesdropping.
"You're one of Amuro-san's friends?" She asks curiously. It takes a second to place her name, but then he remembers—Enomoto Azusa. Zero's talked about her a couple times, and badly only once. Pretty solid record for a coworker.
"Yep, Shindou Ryo," he introduces himself easily, not missing the way Conan wrinkles his nose at the name. "I basically raised him. Feel free to unload your complaints."
She laughs, both polite and genuine. “Oh no, Amuro-san’s been such a help! His face alone has done wonders for advertising, especially to young wo—oh,” She puts a hand up to her mouth in embarrassment. “Not that that’s the sole reason, of course, we’re not trying to take advantage…”
“Course not,” Hiro agrees, biting back a snort at the image of Zero being dangled as bait for high school girls.
“Really,” she presses, looking both insistent and a bit flustered. “He takes so much care and picks up so many hours, it’s a wonder he has the time. I even got an unexpected afternoon and evening off last week—he worked the whole day, prep to clean-up, took over all my single-shifts and told me to take a break!”
"Last week?" Conan pipes, and oh, Hiro is so glad he decided to come here today.
"All of last Thursday, if I remember right," Azusa nods. "You were away for the day as well, weren't you?"
He can practically see the cogs screeching in the kid's brain. Vermouth, on the train. Bourbon, also on the train. Yet Amuro, with a twelve-hour alibi.
"Ah, yes, I was on the Mystery Train…" Conan smiles despite the awkward furrow in his brow.
What would his guess be?
The kid turns towards him, gaze calculating. "Do you have the same kind of job, Shindou-san?"
That direction, huh? Not quite right, though Hiro can't fault him for the assumption. He hadn't wanted to show up in full disguise either, but then Zero had brought up established identities and reasonable excuses and Hiro you taught Sera guitar for two months she's going to recognise you you clown so another favour extracted from Vermouth it was.
“Nah,” he shrugs, “I teach guitar.”
The look the brat shoots him in response almost makes Hiro smile. He’ll definitely have to check if he got bugged after leaving this place. Again.
Conan nods. “Huh… does a guitar teacher have a lot of free time?”
“It’s three PM on a weekday and I’m here eating this croissant, kiddo." Hiro fights the quirk in his lips as he shrugs, settling himself back for a classic Edogawa Conan interrogation. The kind that doesn't corner so much as it circles: constant, present.
"Why don't you connect the dots?”
.
.
Operatives with nothing to do, Conan decides with deep conviction, are the worst.
Shinichi’s never been one to bemoan needing to throw away his assumptions. Investigating is what he does, he’s not supposed to complain about having too many questions.
But— what is that supposed to mean?
Who was on the Bell Tree Express?
Everything in him wants to say Amuro Tooru—it makes sense, because Bourbon was on that train, from the bolo to the smirk. He played investigative partner, cocked his head in that same easy acknowledgement as Conan spoke, did everything Conan had expected him to right up until KID almost got himself blown up.
But.
“Cooking for other people is just…” Scotch wrinkles his nose. “Zero’s only bearable because all of his pickiness came from my food in the first place.”
“Aw, that’s cute!” Azusa laughs. “Not one for the service industry, then?”
“Nope.” Scotch pops the p, before sliding his gaze back over to Conan, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “In fact, I’d pretty much do anything else.”
Staring right back as Azusa gets called away, Conan punts all of his previous assumptions over the horizon.
Amuro, working an all-day shift. Vermouth, an annoyance about her attitude that his mother relayed but hadn’t been able to explain at the time. Scotch, Bourbon’s childhood friend who to his own admission knew everything about him. They all point to one conclusion, one ridiculous, absurd conclusion:
Scotch was the one on that train, disguised head-to-toe as Bourbon.
“Why,” Conan blurts without a thought. “Why? Why would you do that. Why?”
Scotch doubles over in his seat laughing. It’s not derisive or condescending—just a genuine, outright laugh, wiping at the corners of his squinted eyes.
“Thought you—” He coughs out another bubble of laughter before composing himself. “Thought you liked him better.”
Conan throws up his hands. “But it wasn’t necessary ! Why would you go through all that hassle? Back then—I didn’t even know who you were!”
Scotch had sat through presumably hours of make-up, tailored every inch of himself until it was quintessentially Bourbon, went through his entire op as Bourbon would and… for what?
“It’s the same thing,” Scotch says, a statement of fact. “Me or him, it’s the same thing. It doesn’t matter.” He stops there, but his eyes are thoughtful as he stares at him, and Conan is a detective, he knows when to wait.
Sure enough, Scotch leans his cheek on one propped hand, reaching the other out to muss Conan’s hair amusedly. “‘sides, you weren’t the only one on that train, you know?”
Conan pauses. Blinks. That was… valuable information.
He’d sort of thought, as Bourbon’s friend and continued dodger of any kind of bug, Scotch would be just as enigmatic. Yet against all expectation, he actually… hasn’t refused to answer a single question yet.
(Though, this raises another question: how much of Bourbon’s circular speaking is truly because he thinks it’s necessary, versus how much of it is just because he enjoys it?)
“Hm?” Scotch lets out curiously when Conan slips into the other side of his booth before he can think twice. This chance, of someone so willing to speak straightforwardly—he can’t pass this up.
Wordlessly, Conan reaches out to scoop up the second pastry on his plate.
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Scotch reacts mildly, “after last time, I guess.”
“So it was you,” Conan confirms aloud to Scotch’s indulgent head tilt. “Who else did you know on that train?”
Scotch chuckles genially, before leaning back and making an x with his forearms.“Aw, that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
“I mean,” —Conan waves a vague hand in the air— “outside of your colleagues.”
“I know other people,” he laughs. “Zero’s just the only one stuck to my hip.”
And there’s that little hint again, that peek at a history deeper than Conan had thought possible. He hesitates a little to dig into it—straightforwardness is nice in theory, but where is Scotch’s line in the sand?
“Did you really raise Amuro-san? Aren’t the two of you the same age?”
Scotch chokes briefly on his coffee, before chuckling out the rest behind his napkin. “Well, no one else was doing it. And it was an even exchange kind of thing, y’know?”
No, Shinichi does not know. “What did he offer you, then?”
Scotch waves an idle hand. “I taught him to cook and to stop getting into fights and trouble all the time—shoulda seen him, he was a very high-strung kid—but he was also better at… everything else, really. Fishing, all that stuff.”
There’s an odd skip in his voice in the middle, like he was thinking about something else. Scotch’s gaze trails away towards the window, less avoidance and more… reminiscing.
“He’s a good friend,” he says. “He’s… always had my back.”
And there it is again, that fondness.
“Did you,” Conan rolls his tongue in his mouth as he considers the right words, “consult each other about your careers?”
Maybe that’s a little too on the nose. But Scotch only stares at him, expression contemplative. He knows what Shinichi is asking.
“’Course,” he says easily, but it’s a little quieter than how he’s been speaking so far. “We consult each other about everything.”
He takes a breath, lips not quite shut like he’s considering whether to say more. Conan waits, hands tightening on his own knees, as that evaluative look passes over him.
“There was something I needed to do,” Scotch says. Slowly. “It meant I needed to move around a lot, head abroad, so Zero suggested the—guitar gig. And he came with me.”
There’s a weight, in the simplicity of that last sentence.
"You asked him to?"
"Kid," Scotch muses, an odd quirk to his lips. "Do you ask your lungs to breathe?"
Conan's lips part without a sound, mouth suddenly dry. "That's not the same thing."
Scotch just shrugs. "Isn't it?"
"Theirs is a level of trust you can't underestimate." Akai tapped a finger on the kitchen counter, mouth twisting a tad sardonic. "They're two completely different people, and they're not. Do you understand?"
Shinichi does not understand. Shinichi doesn't understand, but he throws Scotch's sentence into the maelstrom in his brain, lets it shape and reshape his thoughts.
Bourbon is terrifying. Amuro is kind. Bourbon saved the kids from a freezing van. Amuro smirked at him as he crushed his expectations.
They're two completely different people,
Scotch teases Amuro over the cafe counter. Scotch cocks a gun at an eighteen year old girl.
Conan has Scotch's other croissant on his plate.
and they're not.
“I don’t think it’s the same thing at all,” Conan repeats, brows furrowed tentatively.
It felt— feels different, is the thing. He’s… he’s had to be so careful, with Bourbon and his riddles, the mind games, the endless faces. He’s been coiled tense throughout these last months, anxious and stressed and paranoid. But it had paid: in breakthroughs that told him that, against all odds, there was something in Bourbon he could wear down.
But with Scotch it hadn’t been like that. He’d only shown Conan the one face, grins and jokes and taunts all wrapped in it.
It’s a friendly face. A relaxed, happy face. Not a single threat—of anything bad or good. Nothing for Conan to trust, and nothing for him to fear.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“The most crucial piece of our operation.”
“There was something I needed to do, and he came with me.”
Conan is never going to lose, with Scotch. But that means he'll never win either. Scotch will continue with his light banter and his vague grins and his easy information and the distance will never close, that deceptively short arm's length shoving him—gently—away.
He can’t see an opening at all.
“I don’t think you’re the same person,” is the only way Conan knows how to put it. “You and him.”
Scotch blinks at him. Raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
It’s only one sound, barely a word, but his voice is colder than Conan’s ever heard it be. Maybe he hates that idea, that he’s not as integral to Amuro as he thinks.
“And I love you.”
Or maybe he’s sensing the threat.
“I’m going to convince him, you know,” Shinichi declares.
It’s probably reckless of him, to talk to black operative Scotch like this, with nothing between them. But he wants to pay back Scotch’s honesty, and a weird feeling pangs in his chest, one that feels a lot like remorse, a sadness he’s never been able to kill, no matter how many tragedies he witnesses.
Detectives are often too late. Shinichi really needs to start coming to terms with that aspect of the job.
But he doesn't understand, he doesn’t. Childhood friends? Shinichi would never allow Ran to do something like this for him. Hell, he’s keeping her firmly at an arm’s length — out, out, out — and he’s the victim. Protecting her is the one and only choice he’s been allowed to have. How could you love a person and still pull them down this path?
“I’ll convince him," he adds, "and he’s going to come work for me.”
Scotch looks at him with a blank face, and Shinichi stares back. This conversation was helpful, the final stretch of his investigation; a sort of calmness has descended upon him, the self-assured ease he feels when he realizes that he's been right from the beginning.
“You won't get Bourbon without Scotch.”
It’s clear to him now that Akai’s the one who got it wrong.
“And when he does,” Shinichi tells Scotch gently, because given the choice he will always pick kindness, “I hope you follow.”