Work Text:
Six reports due in two days for six different cases, eight hour time-zone difference between London, UK and Tokyo, Japan to be factored into the delivery of Case 1 (mother of two stabbed in a parking lot) and Case 2 (painting stolen from the Tokyo Museum of Art). Two school assignments, three write-ups for on-site practical work, a midnight to three AM shift with the London MET to be rescheduled—
Saguru thunked his head onto the table, eyes gritty with reading. Elsewhere: Shinichi moving around, bouncing a tennis ball off the wall, six paces to the wardrobe, creak of the doors. 2:30AM to the second, and neither one of them could sleep with assignments due in the morning, work reports due before then. Contrary to popular belief, being a genius, he'd readily found out, did not make time any easier to manage.
Thumping down the stairs: Shinichi stuck his head around the doorframe, hair all on one side, water beading his face. Papers in one hand, pen in his mouth.
Gestures.
Saguru sighed. "May 21st, 2016, first shot fired approximately 8:04:02AM, no witnesses. Second shot fired 8:32:00AM. First shot found two inches deep into the wall, no bullet casing identified; second shot took off the head of Watanabe Koji, known Yakuza member."
Frowning down at the papers in his hands, quick two word notes in the margins. Thumbs up.
"You're welcome."
Shinichi disappeared back upstairs, trailing the scent of coconut-oil shampoo with him.
Look back at his own work, forgotten, unwritten, undone. No-one had ever looked into the scientific possibility of beheading via long-distance shouting, but if he didn't write more on that art thievery, Nakamori was going to give it the old try.
Moving across the world, getting into a phD course, and consulting for the London Metropolitan department meant nothing to Nakamori. All else could wait when crime was afoot.
It was a sentiment largely suited to a more appropriate hour of the day. At 2:34AM in the morning, it was a right royal pain in the—
Footsteps again, Shinichi thrusting his head around the doorframe. "Watanabe Koji, known associates?"
Saguru frowned, pinched the bridge of his nose, buzzing heat inside his head, thoughts scrambling into one another like dizzy flies, "Ah—"
"Where's the list?"
"I don't need the list," he said, took his hands away, stared at the table (Shinichi shuffling the window creaking flashes of streetlamp outside their Mayfair flat a ship docking in the harbour bellowing), "I've got an eidetic memory, Shinichi, I can remember—"
"I know," said Shinichi, "but you're taking on too much. Or have you not noticed that you wrote half that report in what looks like—" frown, two steps closer, the heat and weight of Shinichi making the antique table wobble as he balanced a hip on one side of it, "—Simplified Mandarin?"
"My cousin Jack's marrying a Chinese cook," absently, "I was thinking of what to get them for the wedding."
"While writing Nakamori's report?" Shinichi snorted, half-second pause. "You should send that in anyway. He'd love it."
"He'd kill me," but he smiled back at him, every inch of him aching, God, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. "And then you'd have to solve the murder."
"Forget it," shudder, "I don't need the extra workload. List?"
Saguru huffed, stood up, padded across the room to the thick filing cabinets stood like sentries on the northern wall. Watanabe Koji, three drawers down, one across, fingers slipping on the salt-scrape of the thickened cardboard until—
He took the file folder, pawed through it one handed, gave the list to Shinichi.
"Thank you," between two fingers, Shinichi hopping off the table, and pecking a kiss to his jaw. "What would I do without you?"
"Get your own bloody filing done," amused-but-trying-not-to-be. Saguru swatted at his hip as Shinichi danced by him, all long limbs and compact muscle, "get your own bloody work. Fetch your own coffee. Drag someone else to your football games—though that would mean I'd miss seeing you in your little green shorts--"
"Oi, oi," pouting, "I'm not a piece of meat!" Fingers picking across the top of the file, tweaking a page corner-first, digging into the pockets of his suit bottoms with the other hand to find his phone (to call Heiji long-distance, all the way in Japan, and--)
"Not at all," said Saguru, dropping down into his seat," in fact I think you should go everywhere in your little green shorts. Movie premiers. Fancy dinners. Work, even."
thwack, paperball bouncing off the back of his head. Saguru grinned, bent himself over his half-Japanese, half-Mandarin report ("hai—Heiji, listen, I had a thought about the Watanabe case—") footsteps going away again, Shinichi's voice trailing off (--"but if we can get to him before his associates – okay, can you get someone on it? Try Itonokogiri—")
4:00:20AM.
Nakamori's report (finished in Japanese) scanned and sent to the detective's email in Japan. Two more case-files read over, notarized, put to one side to review in the morning. His head drooped to one side, then the other, as he pawed through the huge stack of psychology textbooks to come up with the DSM-V (colour-coded pages with different sticky notes, showing every spot he'd taken some information from). Crack it open, let the pages fall halfway on either side, pause.
Shinichi coming back into the room, electric with energy, going to the cupboards. Saguru ignored him, hummed underneath his breath as he picked through the redorangeyellowbluegreenpink sticky notes, looking for—
Thwack. Hard-edged, metal on wood, gunshot-loud in their apartment. Saguru jolted, looked up wide-eyed and blinked the sleep from his vision—what?
Shinichi standing at the table, holding a can in his hand, frowning at it. He raised his hand, fist clenched around the can, and thwack, brought it down against the edge of the table.
"What—"
Thwack, another one, and the can sprang open, and something expanded out from the ruined mess of it in a big, sausagey shape.
Shinichi grunting in approval, sagging into his seat and picking a chunk of it off with his fingers, stuffing it into his mouth, chewing, eating.
Six seconds since the explosion of whatever and Shinichi eating.
"Want some?"
"What is that?" tilt of the head to the right, watching Shinichi's mouth work the spongy white— "is that --- dough?"
"Honey biscuit dough," Shinichi said, waved the tin at him, and then, "... what?"
"I've just never had to resort to acts of violence," said Saguru, "to open a biscuit tin. Not even the Huntley & Palmer ones. So you just—" he leaned in, eyeballing the squidgy dough, "—smack it against the table, and that's it? Bob's your uncle?"
"You have a three percent chance of becoming more British when you're sleep-deprived," said Shinichi, amused, "and yeah. That's it. You're supposed to cook it," as an addendum, "but it's okay raw, too. Good for late-night snacking."
Glance at the clock, 5:00:30AM, "Early breakfast, more like," said Saguru, caught the roll of Shinichi's eyes. Held out his hand.
Shinichi took another bite, and passed it over.
Closer than a table-width, it was cardboard over some kind of thin metal, which had peeled itself up in petal curves, exposing memory-foam-texture dough, soft with honeysuckle scent and artificial glossiness. Saguru wrinkled his nose, and poked a finger into the softest part; it sank in like butter, no texture or stiffness to it, nothing like a Jammy Dodger or a Custard Cream, or even bloody shortbread.
"It's radioactive garbage," said Shinichi, watching him, "but it's good. Try it."
"The last time you said something was good," said Saguru, "was at a state fair. Darling, deep fried butter is not good."
"It's butter and oil, you snob. Of course it's good. Try it."
Powerless to resist, he pried off a section of dough, and stuck it into his mouth.
Immediately, the texture was—
"I thought you said this was a biscuit?" hand covering his mouth as he chewed, holding it back out to Shinichi, who snatched it from his grip like a mother separated from her newborn child. "Why is it so—" Couldn't place his finger on it, stiff and not crumbling, not melt-on-your-tongue pliable, not—
"It's a raw biscuit, you really need to have it cooked with a berry compote," said Shinichi, "Mom would make it all the time when I was little."
Raise a brow, tingle of artificial honey and odd-texture biscuit on his tongue, but he liked Shinichi sitting across his table, chewing on his tin of radioactive garbage food, reminiscing about – nice times. So he didn't point out the absolute lunacy of putting a berry compote on biscuits.
"You've had biscuits before, remember?" said Shinichi, grinning, "Biscuits and sausage gravy, it's a classic."
"Those are not biscuits, dear, those are scones." He could remember that dish, though. America, two years back, Shinichi on a trip to some conference and dragging him with him, and so much space. That was what he remembered from their trip: long roads fringed with trees and darkness and quiet and so much silence, it felt as though he could hear his own heartbeat stilling as he breathed, so much dark and so much stars – until they pulled off the highway and hit Los Angeles, city of a thousand lights and skittering sounds, and from there to California, long roads of nothing and desert dust and oranges, and then on to Hawaii from the airport there. He'd liked Hawaii.
Shinichi chewed another mouthful, then leaned over, and kissed his forehead. "Thinking about how wrong you are?" he said.
Saguru flicked him a smile, and stood up, wobbled. "I can't believe you made me eat that bloody thing."
"It was good, though, wasn't it?" said Shinichi. "I don't like a lot of American food, but you can't go wrong with sausage gravy and biscuit. Besides, your food is way worse. Potato was never meant to be used as a pie crust, Saguru."
"It was good," because he remembered Shinichi across the table watching him bright eyed and happy, sharing the plate because it was too early for proper food too late for a snack and they'd been driving all along the night and come to a little diner in the middle of nowhere – another thing Saguru had never known about America, how there were pockets of civilisation floating in utter nothing - and then the first bite, tang of sweetness and salt on his tongue, Shinichi grinning and telling him, it's good, huh? And then telling him, this is like, the only thing my dad can cook, and something inside him aching that this sweet boy had been so lonely growing up, was—
Had been like him growing up.
Shinichi watching him, watching him, tin of biscuits forgotten. "Something on your mind?"
"Always," said Saguru, "but first – shepherd's pie is glorious, you're just unused to the texture. Second, we should go back some day. They do that in films, don't they? American teenagers, driving across the country. Seeing natural wonders. Stopping in distant places—"
"Getting murdered by hillbillies and rednecks," said Shinichi, dryly but softly, thinking of it, Saguru can tell; the way he wrinkled his nose when he thought was one of the most endearing things about him, and Saguru wasn't strong enough not to watch it when it happened. Knew it.
"I'm sure, between the pair of us, we're more than capable of staying safe," said Saguru. He shifted back in his chair, looked at the pile of books between him and a good night's sleep, and then looked at Shinichi again, "besides," he said, "it would be nice to have some time just for us. I don't think I've ever been on a proper holiday that wasn't, ah—work."
Pause. Shinichi chewing on his raw dough, looking nowhere. Rays of chiffon sunlight poking through the window, spilling all over the road and the glitzy cars waiting for their owners, over the bullet-gray Thames and the distant bridge, the people staggering home after a night of partying. His table: crowded with murder reports and essays and books on criminal psychology and crime scene photography blotted out by the rough edge of a manila folder.
Shinichi put down his food, and said, "... you won't get sick of me by the first rest stop?" as if that was possible, as if it was logical.
Saguru snorted, and rose from his seat, crossed over to him. When he wrapped his arms around him, Shinichi stiffened, always immediately, and then sagged into his grip.
"Only if you insist on explaining football to me again," said Saguru, and then, "Of course not, Shinichi."
"It's a big step," said Shinichi, "taking a trip together." His thumb and forefinger picking flecks of dough, pinching it off, letting it go, pinching it off, letting it go, "I don't think anyone's ever spent that much time with me. And I—" huff of hot air, and then, "—we have a good thing here. I don't want you to get sick of me."
"You silly sausage," said Saguru, but not smiling. They'd never really spoken about the unspoken thing – that they'd both grown up with shadows for company, too --- strange to fit in (deru kugi wa utareru but that had never quite managed to happen) and then, coming across each other (May 20th 2014) thump of the heart and light inside his head and a voice whispering, well finally, there you are.
Shinichi squirmed out of grip, tilted his head up, gold-dust freckles all across his face. Wary and nervous and vulnerable, less silver bullet and more – something else. Something pliable. Something to protect.
"Let's go to bed," said Saguru, and helped him off the chair.
"Don't you have a lecture?"
Shrug, and padding down the hallway together second door on the right creaking open sixth floorboard squealing when he put his weight on it. Clothes rustling stripping dusting on the floor. Stretch of aching muscles, and Shinichi in the corner of his eye, pale as moonlight, spattered with freckles from head to toe, almost invisible unless he was close enough to really really really see them.
The bed settling around them, and silence.
"Do you remember when we met?"
Shinichi quiet. "Of course I do," he said. "It was May. You were dressed as Sherlock for the Cultural Festival. Analysing students, and helping run the host club. We got into an argument, and—"
"—then you mentioned the Granada series, and I forgave everything—"
A laugh. "I don't even like cultural festivals. Sonoko dragged me to that one. Can you imagine if I hadn't been there?"
"I would've met you on a case, then," Shifting of the bed as he turned to face him, looking at Shinichi in half-darkness. Shinichi with his arm underneath his head staring up at nothing not looking at him and ten thousand miles away in his head. "Shooting at Kaitou Kid. That would've been a much greater argument, let me assure you."
Shinichi chuckled a little, soft. "... I didn't like meeting you at first," he said, as if thinking out loud. "You were so – so."
"Annoying?"
"Yes. But good for me. Like me."
Saguru didn't say anything, and Shinichi didn't either, and then after a halting pause, "...It's – okay. Being lonely. It's okay when you're lonely because you've never met anyone like you before, and you think, maybe, that there's – all there is. That you're always going to be a bit different; you get used to it. But then someone comes along, and like an idiot, you realize that it's—" A pause and a breath and the moment suspended in amber.
In his arms, Shinichi shifted, huddled closer, face in his chest, and one hand clawed around the base of his back, not shaking but soft-feeling.
"—It's worse to be lonely," said Shinichi, "and know there are people out there who are like you."
"Mmh," said Saguru, raised his hand and let it curl in the edges of his hair. "May I say how thrilled I am that you don't count Heiji as 'one of us'."
A knee in his stomach, Shinichi snorting. "Shut up," he said, "that's not what I meant."
"I understand."
A pause, and then quieter, "...people don't like being around me, I think. I mean. My parents are – busy. But you've got to wonder—" Another pause, and then mumbling, and he heard 'me' and 'if it's' and 'could'.
And Saguru couldn't think of anything to say was drowned in remembering in being four years old and at the edge of a playground where children laughed and screamed and whooped and knowing that he couldn't step one step away from Baaya he wasn't a part of it he wasn't—
"I like being around you," said Saguru. His hand lifting, stroking the top of Shinichi's head, cradling it for him.
"You're supposed to," and less boldly, "but we've only done visits. Weeks here and there. What if you—what if we go on a trip – long trip – and you realize—" The sentence faded. "—I don't want to be lonely again."
Saguru could feel his heart rattling, Shinichi's breath wavering against his throat, pushed back so he could see him, sulky-mouthed, eyes averted, embarrassed-but-miserable, and he didn't expect it to feel like a knife between his ribs (which he did have experience of), like drowning, to see Shinichi looking as though he was—
"It's stupid, huh?" Shinichi glanced up, looked away again, flushing to the roots of his hair. "Nevermind. Think that dough gave me salmonella or something."
"I'm not going to leave you," he said, "and salmonella doesn't affect the brain."
"Saying stupid things," grumbled Shinichi, rolling over, stuffing his face into the pillow to avoid looking at him.
It was heartily immature of him. He should have given him his space.
Saguru rolled over and planted all eighty kilograms of himself on top of Shinichi's back. The gasp for breath didn't worry him overly much. He was genius enough, he thought, to be able to tell when Shinichi couldn't breathe.
"Oof," Shinichi squirming, "get off, you lug!"
"No," he said, folded his arms on the pillow and buried his face into Shinichi's hair.
"Can't breathe."
"Good, you don't need to breathe. You just need to listen to me."
More grumbling and shifting and squeaking of the springs.
"I love you," said Saguru, "madly. I've never – I mean, I have nothing to compare it to, so I can't – say I've been in love before, and thus there's no scientific—what I mean to say is--" This had been much smoother in his head, had had a road to go down; now that he was faced with the possibility of saying it, reassuring Shinichi, he didn't know where all his words had gone, "—I love you, more than I thought I'd love anyone. I think you should move in. I think we should get married. I think we'll live a very long and happy life, and I think --- I think we should go on a trip together. Be stupid, for once." He hesitated, rolled off of Shinichi, and knelt up on the bed next to him, "—I think—we can take it slow. Move in together, and go somewhere together, and spend all our time together. Half here, half in Japan, or depending on whose work takes priority, or something – but I don't think we'll, um. Break up, or anything."
Had he said too much? Not enough? Oh, Christ, actually smothered him?
Shinichi shifted up on one elbow, looked at him. Furiously flushed, his hair awry, wary eyes, not sure if he should believe him, not sure if it was okay to believe him.
"...Do you really love me?" said Shinichi, "you haven't – before, you don't—"
"I spend every moment of my time when you're not here remembering when you were," said Saguru, "if that's not love, I don't know what is. My life seems infinitely better when you're around me. Even if I'm—"
"—doing the same things? Working on the same cases?" Shinichi sitting up, and all of a sudden, shifting forward, throwing his arms around him, knocking him back. Mumbled: "I love you too."
Saguru hesitated.
Then he wrapped his arms around him.
"Move in with me?" he said.
A burbled, soft laugh. "Is that your idea of taking it slow?"
"I'm English," said Saguru, "it's this, or invading a small continent and laying claim to a patch of land for you. Besides, I think--" it's time it's needed I don't want anything more than this.
Shinichi raised his head, and hesitated. "Give me time to think about it," he said, "give yourself time to think about it. It's late, and you're tired. Sleep on it?"
"I'm not changing my mind," Saguru warned, but he said nothing more than that, cuddled up closer, and slept, eventually.
Upon waking, turning to smack the blaring alarm clock mute, his hand falling across paper. Squinting awake, sitting up, patting the lightswitch for—
Two tickets, London to Boston, leaving on the 23rd of June and newspaper clipping, circled in red ink, time, date, be there, this house is next to a football pitch. Love you.