Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Ran and I went shopping today. She wouldn't hold my hand through the crowds. If you know... if you understand... meet me where we first faced off. Please."

The stairwell was lit only by tiny orange maintainence lights, and the glow of streetlamps through a porthole and the door Conan had left open to its room. The light shifted periodically, the passing of a car far below, but other than that it was just the faint city glow.

Conan himself sat halfway down the first flight from the clock's engine room. His shoes, watch, and belt buckle sat three steps below, well out of reach but perfectly visible in the gloom.

The police should be staking out the roof of that hotel by now, he thought. Nakamori had laughed so rudely when he'd listened to the mini-cassette -- told Conan it was ingenious, such a crude lure that Kid might just walk right into the trap out of sheer disbelief. And indeed, Kid might yet do so, if he didn't know...

... but if Kid was the true mastermind he seemed, the genius with a photographic memory for details that Conan counted on in his ongoing pursuit of Kid, he would know that Edogawa Conan was not who he seemed. If he went a step further, just one...

"Tantei-kun?"

Conan's head jerked up. And there on the landing above, face shadowed and hands in his pockets, stood an oddly solemn Kaitou Kid. "You came."

A shrug. "Yes, well... never have been one to resist an invite, have I? What's up?"

"So much, really..." All of which had just sort of crashed down on Conan all at once. "I... may have a couple of favors to ask of you. So do you think you could call me by name? Just for tonight?"

"Only if you don't expect me to return the privilege."

"I don't."

"Okay... Kudo-san."

He knew. He truly, honestly knew, rather than simply following Conan here. "Shin'ichi."

Kid's pause rang with surprise. "... Shin'ichi," he echoed finally.

"Thank you," Conan murmured, letting his head drop back into one hand. He used the other to slide his glasses off and stuff them in a pocket. "I never get to hear my name anymore."

"Ah. Anytime, then."

They fell into silence after that, Kid apparently content to let Conan gather his thoughts. The light sputtered and dimmed further: a streetlamp outside had fizzled out. Timber creaked in the aging clock tower.

There was just so much -- Haibara was starting to hint that it would be easier to just grow up again, instead of step into an adult life with only teen experience. His parents had opened a new college fund, in trust for Edogawa Conan. Ran... Ran...

"You know," Conan began, the words almost surprising himself, "I always thought I'd get a way to fix this, and just pop back into my old life, but... it's been four years."

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it.

"So I'm eleven years old. And my classmates..." Gods, and he'd thought Ayumi-chan's crush had been unnerving four years ago. "... are getting pushy." He'd written about Ran, as much as he could... as much as Kid needed to fill in the blanks. He didn't need to open that wound any further.

"But I'm also twenty-one. I can't see my classmates as peers, not that way -- can't see past the law, past their ages and how young they all are. It twists my stomach to try. But I can't..." Conan shuddered at the other option. "God, how could I, with anyone who didn't know about me? The only ones who do are Heiji and you--" And Heiji would have the same problem Conan did. Conan just plain looked eleven.

The silence lasted just a half-beat too long for Kid to pass off as oblivious. "So you think so little of me, Shin'ichi?"

"No!" Conan all but yelped. "You're the only one I can think of who might be able to see past both the law and this... this face." The face and body of an eleven-year-old, and only the fact that it was Conan's own let him glance at it while bathing or changing anymore. Too young for comfort, not young enough to be ignored anymore. "If that makes any sense."

"That you think I can disregard your apparent age," Kid interpreted, "and the risks of doing anything with someone the age your papers say you are, and find you attractive rather than your body."

"Yes," Conan blurted with considerable relief.

Kid considered the boy for a long moment. "Are you even attracted to me?"

Conan opened his mouth to reply, then froze. He... hadn't actually considered that. But... okay, Kid was just the other side of sane, which was rather the point, but he was brilliant. The rush of chasing him was like nothing else -- far more frivolous than Conan's preferred cases, but the mind, and the freedom of knowing nobody was going to get hurt...

Slowly, he pulled his gaze to Kid, letting... making himself really look at the thief for a change.

"Physically..." Kid did cut a fine figure in that suit, didn't he? And he did enough crazy gymnastics in his heists that the suit couldn't be tailored to hide any flaws. "I don't know. I could be. For all I know, whatever face I saw would be calculated to appeal anyway. But mentally..." Utterly mad, barely predictable, eternally challenging... "God yes."

Kid's gaze pressed down on Conan. Then he shifted, the first move he'd made since his arrival, and set a foot on the top step. Conan crossed his arms, face warming as Kid approached -- he'd really said that, he'd just propositioned Kaitou Kid, and for all the evidence there was a chance that the Kid's madness wasn't what Conan wanted.

Kid went down on one knee on Conan's step, the damned hat brim shadowing his face still -- only two glints showed where his eyes were. A gloved hand lifted, brushed soft suede against Conan's jaw.

"This... won't be easy for me," Kid whispered, voice shaking just noticeably.

"Oh thank god," Conan gasped, before his mouth was covered by Kid's.

The Kid's lower lip was chapped, sticky with strawberry chapstick, and his glove warm, and so, so soft on Conan's face... Conan opened his mouth, because that's what people did in the movies 'Conan' wasn't supposed to be old enough to watch, drawing and swallowing the faintest startled sound from Kid.

... the sound wasn't all he'd drawn out of Kid, a flicker of tentative movement against his open mouth sending Conan's eyes flying wide. This... yes, this was supposed to happen, too, but it felt so odd--

Kid's eyes were closed. Conan's fingers tightened on Kid's hand -- Kid's eyes were closed. Conan's hand was centimeters from the monocle, a quick nudge would knock the top hat off, and Kid wasn't watching him...

He could unmask the Kid.

He didn't want to. Not like this. Not with Kid's tongue coaxing soft sounds from his mouth... not with Kid daring to give Conan the one thing he couldn't have.

Conan whimpered when Kid pulled away.

"You've been eating chocolate," Kid observed breathily.

"Yeah... are you okay?"

"Was going to ask you that."

"Good." And Conan pulled Kid down again.

-0-0-0-

It wasn't until Kaito had hung up his Kid costume and tucked the monocle into its velvet case that the evening caught up to him.

His legs gave out, buckling under him, and he landed hard on the floor. Gods. He'd just... and with... he'd just made out with Edogawa Conan. Edogawa Conan, detective, even!

That was not what was supposed to happen. Not that he could've ever guessed the conversation would take such a turn, but when Conan -- Shin'ichi -- had made his insane request, he'd been so sure that it was a trick. A chance to get Kid within reach, to capture and unmask him... Things should've gone as A. Kid accedes to the ridiculous request, goes down on one knee and kisses Conan. B. Conan waits until Kid is 'into it', completely distracted. C. Conan attempts to knock off Kid's hat, grab his monocle, and/or snap handcuffs onto him. D. Kid disappears in a burst of smoke, laughing and unsurprised at the betrayal. E. Kid flies away, uncaught and still masked, while Conan curses his failure yet again.

Conan was not supposed to have been so desperately lonely that his request was genuine. He was Kudo Shin'ichi, great detective of the east, a man whose life had been Sherlock Holmes, cases, and...

And Mouri Ran. Who he'd lost completely. Kaito was an idiot.

He'd gone in expecting Conan to want to talk, use him as some sort of Western-style confessor. Somebody the boy didn't have to face every day, who would keep his secrets and never think to use them as weapons.

Instead, he'd been propositioned. By an eleven-year-old. And it wasn't a trick.

Kaito buried his head against his knees and shook.

An eleven-year-old with the mind of a college boy... a sane college boy, not like Kaito.

Kid was a singular entity, a magician upon the stage. But when the audience packed up and went home, all he was left with was a darkened spotlight and an empty theater. Kid's madness, Kaito's madness, accounted for that. He lived in his heists, an entire Task Force devoted to him, crowds of hundreds cheering his every move. Even outside them, he had the more intimate audiences of passersby, classmates, a mother...

Edogawa Conan... what did he have? His parents couldn't be his own, his friends -- both adults and children -- were cut off by the barrier of his own contradicting ages; the police had enough trouble accepting Hakuba as a valid co-worker, it would be another decade before they thought of Conan as anything but a precocious child...

... but that was rather the point, wasn't it. He wasn't a child. Only in body...

And age of consent was arbitrary as it was, ranging from fourteen to eighteen in Japan alone. Some cultures, both historically and current, thought the ideal arrangement was between a pre- or early teen and an adult. Most of the laws were in place to prevent coercion of the more vulnerable partner.

Conan was damn well old enough to make his own decisions, even if he didn't look it. And he would certainly tell Kid if he didn't like something... so that was settled. What counted morally -- at least to Kaito -- was Conan's mental age.

"Tell me... are you even attracted to me?"

A startled look, slipping into a considering stare. "Physically... I don't know. Mentally... god yes."

Time to ask himself the same question. Was he-- no. No, could he be attracted to Conan?

Not that the evening hadn't proved he could -- narrow hips under his gloves, thin legs straddling his lap, the faintest taste of chocolate, oh gods -- to at least some extent... but he'd seen pictures of Kudo Shin'ichi, he knew how the promise of the child's features would turn out. Conan couldn't have any idea what Kaito looked like, not even a hint of his age... heck, Conan couldn't be certain Kid was male.

So, since 'mentally, god yes' was a good enough answer for Kaito...

"You are such a goddamned thorn in my side, Kudo," Kaito whispered, hearing only Kid's contrary fondness instead of venom in his voice.

... this was still going to be extremely difficult, for however long it lasted.

-0-0-0-

"Home."

The note had appeared in Conan's school locker, just a single word and no signature. He'd barely blinked, though, putting his outdoor shoes on top of the little card before the Shounen Tantei could spot it.

Given their mutual knowledge, the note could only mean one place: the Kudo mansion, all but abandoned -- his parents still paid the utility bills, and Agasa stopped in every once in a while to run the water clear, dust out cobwebs, and check for maintainence problems, but the house was mostly a focus for ghost stories and children's dares these days.

... Conan wasn't entirely sure why he'd cleaned his own room rather than the living room for the meeting. Or maybe he did, leaving his glasses and dart-watch on the freshly-wiped desk, putting fresh sheets on his bed -- his parents would notice strange stains on the dust covers draped over the furniture, and notice them even quicker on the actual upholstery.

Strange stains. If Kid went that far... if Conan...

He smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the bed's blanket.

"You look nearly as nervous as I feel," Kid murmured. Conan yelped, spinning to find the man sitting on the windowsill, ghostly and rakish. Moonlight gleamed on the monocle and an untamable grin.

... nervous as he felt? Conan felt tension he hadn't realized was there start to drain away. "I don't know what you're going to do," he told Kid honestly.

Kid hopped off the sill, cape swaying. "Plenty of things, eventually," he said lightly. "Nothing you don't like--" he stopped scarce centimeters from Conan, gloved fingers tipping his chin up. The grin vanished. "--since I fully expect you to tell me if and when to stop."

... it figured that Kid, who turned even the most innocent comments on heists into taunts, would be so contrary as to make that condescending wording completely, utterly serious.

Slight pressure from Kid's knuckle and thumb guided Conan to sit on the edge of the bed, Kid following to kneel on the floor, his stomach pressing warmly against Conan's knees. Conan's hands landed on Kid's arms as his mouth covered Conan's.

This kiss, despite the nerves Conan could feel thrumming under his palms, was softer than the previous encounter's had been, long and languid and deep... undemanding, as if Kid's words had belied intentions to only kiss tonight.

Conan's legs parted of their own accord, his ankles crossing behind Kid's thighs, arms trailing up behind Kid's neck, and he pulled himself closer. Muscles flexed under Conan's calf, Kid shying away before pressing back in.

"Please..." Conan whispered, muffled. Don't run, just this once... let me catch you for an hour, a night, a...

Conan's mouth slipped away from Kid's, moving lower, and suddenly the chalky taste of latex and thick makeup exploded in his mouth, Kid's jaw too stiff under his lips. "You're disguised!" he accused.

"Sensible precaution," Kid answered, wryly amused.

Damn, he was right. Kid couldn't risk letting Conan see his true face. Even the dark wouldn't hide it well enough, should the hat and monocle get knocked loose... a situation that would definitely occur, even by accident. Of course Kid had come in disguise.

"It tastes nasty," Conan muttered, more to himself than Kid. There was really only one solution he could think of. "You're a magician--"

"I can't do anything about the taste, sorry."

"Do you have any scarves?"

Kid froze, his breath hitching. "Shin'ichi...?"

"Scarves," Conan repeated impatiently. He didn't want the disguise, so he'd have to compromise.

Eyes wide -- apparently Kid was following Conan's train of thought -- Kid slowly dropped a hand to the opposite sleeve, tugging a string of knotted scarves from inside it. He detached a long, dark one, and dropped the silky length daringly into Conan's lap.

It took only seconds for Conan to fold the silk and slip it over his eyes, hearing Kid's breathing go rough as he secured the blindfold behind his head. "Take off the disguise," Conan said softly, dropping his hands back to his sides. If Kid wanted to flee now, there'd be no stopping him; Conan's legs were draped too loosely over Kid's hips, his ankles crossed rather than locked at the back of Kid's thighs.

Cloth rustled, the faintest rasp of something soft puddling on the floor. A click brought the bitter tang of rubbing alcohol to Conan's nose; Kid must use the childsafe variety of spirit gum to attach his disguises. More rustling, then, a sense of movement -- Kid bending to set something aside, hip pressing against Conan's knee -- and Conan heard plastic snap. A sandwich bag, he'd guess, and hopefully one with a wet washcloth inside...

His hopes were confirmed when Kid's lips returned to his, making Conan gasp -- they were cooler this time, and when Conan tried a careful lick at Kid's face, the skin was damp and only tasted faintly of the rubbing alcohol.

"Better?" Kid murmured into Conan's cheek.

"Much," Conan replied, hands trailing awkwardly up the finely-woven cloth of Kid's suit, suede gloves giving way to the smooth folds up Kid's arm, fabric bunching under the jarringly hard knobs on his shoulders...

Kid twitched again when Conan's fingers fluttered too lightly against the soft skin of his neck, tendons standing out, leaving a slight valley between them and the fine hairs at his nape. Conan's fingers drew upwards, carding through thick hair, short locks curling about his fingertips.

The hat was gone.

A sudden curiosity hit Conan, and his fingers slid lightly back towards Kid's face, discovering soft skin, a closed eyelid and the tickle of eyelashes instead of metal and glass. The monocle was gone, too.

He whimpered. Kid had unmasked -- completely... Conan surged up against Kid, tongue delving into Kid's mouth, swallowing a startled gasp. Kid rocked back on his knees as Conan pressed against him, arms catching around Conan in instinctive surprise, then pushed forward...

They overbalanced and toppled onto the bed, Conan's back thumping against the mattress. The move jarred their mouths apart, and Conan pressed his lips right back to the nearest patch of skin, working his way up the right side of Kid's jaw with tiny, suckling kisses.

"It figures," Kid rasped, as Conan found a particularly soft spot that needed attention, between the corner of Kid's normally-monocled eye and his hairline, "that you'd get turned on by clues. You are such a detective."

"You make that--" Conan curled a leg higher over Kid's hip, pressing a sock-clad heel against the strong curves he found there, "--sound like--", finding a trace of missed stickiness curving towards Kid's cheekbone, which just begged to be nibbled, "--a crime."

"It's certainly a waste," Kid muttered.

Conan made a dismissive sound, and returned to his work exploring the right side of Kid's face. It was probably ridiculous, but it was always hidden by the damned monocle, the glass gleaming solid white and blocking a quarter of that face at any hint of light. He couldn't see it, so he had to touch it, lick and nibble and prove it was real...

With his mouth busy doing that, Conan's fingers were free to rub through Kid's hair, and slide under the lapels of the white jacket, finding warm, hard planes of muscle under thin cotton...

... and the backs of both Conan's hands slammed flat against the mattress on either side of his head, wrists caught in a near-crushing grip. "Don't," Kid ordered, voice flat and harsh. "You don't know what you might set off." A pause. "Besides one of us, I mean."

... Right. Conan had disarmed, his dart watch and belt buckle a few meters out of reach on the desk. Kid's own weapons -- flash bombs, smoke grenades, pellets of sleeping gas, the razor-card gun -- were nowhere in sight, meaning they were still lurking somewhere within his layers of clothing. Though gods knew where, since Conan couldn't feel any suspicious lumps or bulges except the one brushing inside his thighs...

He was not panicking at the knowledge of what that was. He had his own, dammit.

Kid's grip on his wrists gentled -- still firm, but escapable now. "I still expect you to tell me when to stop," he reminded Conan.

Conan took a deep, shuddering breath, more to start regaining control than to quell any panic. That had been a mere flash, there and gone the instant Kid backed off. "I know," he replied. "I should have asked the same -- you're no more ready than I am." Kid had unmasked, not disarmed.

A puff of a laugh. "In different ways, perhaps." He rolled off of Conan, twisting to lay fully on the bed, and pulled Conan to follow. "But I'll say stop for the night, then."

Mindful of Kid's reflexes, Conan buried his face against the knot of the tie, tucking his head under Kid's chin. His freed hands crept up to fist between them, curled fingers turned inward, back of the hands brushing the lapels of Kid's jacket. Kid's arms slid around Conan, fingertips stroking lightly through the few unruly locks at the nape of Conan's neck.

Slowly, the blindfold began to warm from the heat of Kid's throat.

And Conan's mind couldn't just shut up and enjoy it.

"Can I ask you something?" Conan murmured, surprising himself. "Without getting your usual mocking answer?"

Kid pulled up a bit, letting too-cold fresh air hit Conan's face. "I won't promise an answer," the tone sounded almost quizzical, "but no mocking one."

Good enough. "Why did you agree to this?"

Silence. "... maybe someday, I'll tell you."

Conan sighed. That hadn't been a mocking answer, but 'someday'... there might not be a 'someday'. But he'd have to take what he could get.

Which meant not scaring Kid off. Conan curled closer, stomped his curiosity firmly into the depths of his heart, and kept quiet until he dozed off in the wee hours of the night.

When he woke, Kid was gone.

-0-0-0-

A week later, three days after a Kid heist -- in which Conan had wasted two darts, almost gotten a white patent loafer in the face, been teased by Kid about hitting a growth spurt, and bounced off his own soccer ball, in that order -- Conan opened his locker to find another note. This one, however, he didn't manage to hide from the Shounen Tantei in time.

"Lost and found," Ayumi read over Conan's shoulder -- she'd shot up several centimeters in recent months, and currently Conan was the shortest of the Tantei. "Did you lose something, Conan-kun?"

"Not that I know of," Conan replied. Except his mind, for having started whatever-he-had with Kid... whose handwriting this was.

Genta peered over Ayumi. "Maybe it's a case? Somebody wants to meet you to ask for help, but it's gotta be really hush-hush--"

A thin fist intruded into Conan's vision, pinky finger sticking out and wiggling suggestively. "I think it's a giiiiiirlfriend," Mitsuhiko said slyly.

"Conan-kun!" Ayumi wailed, "It's not, is it...?"

"No!" Conan yelped, even as Ai-kun plucked the slip of paper from his hand.

Smirking, she leaned back against his locker, and said, "If I were evil, I'd inquire about a possible boyfriend instead," Conan felt his face flush bright red, as she cast him a wicked sidelong glance, "and then tease you mercilessly. But there's no time on the card, so it's not a meeting with anybody."

"Awww..." Genta and Mitsuhiko chorused, crestfallen.

Conan snatched the paper back from Ai-kun and stuffed it in his schoolbag. "It's just a note for the lost-and-found; I probably lost something with my name on it that's too big to slip into the locker." Because if Kid was crazy enough to be waiting in a glorified closet at Conan's school to make out, he was going to get kicked somewhere unpleasant...

"We'll go with you!" Genta said cheerfully.

... and then in the head, once that initial kick brought said body part within range of Conan's foot.

But when the five arrived at the makeshift office (a former closet in the administrative offices), the small space was empty, save for the usual shelves of lost objects. Most of these were gloves and scarves, scattered with a few notebooks and an assortment of charms and keychains.

Placed prominently on a front shelf, however, right at Conan's eye level and visible from the door, was an old, hardcover book. Somebody had looped a piece of string around it, a tag dangling free with Conan's name on it... again, in Kid's handwriting.

"Oh," Conan said hastily, making a show of checking his bag. "I thought... oops. Must've left it someplace. Thought it was in my bookbag." The other four stared at him, nonplussed, as he grabbed the mysterious book and shoved it in with his homework. "My bad. Sorry, guys."

"You should be more careful with your belongings!" Ayumi began to scold Conan, continuing in that vein as they all headed home, but the book continued to remain on his mind the entire trip.

Once at the Mouris', Conan managed to force himself to do his homework -- quick as it was -- before heading into his bedroom, shutting the door and pulling the mysterious book from his bag.

It was a deep brown hardcover, perhaps 250 pages long and obviously secondhand; its dust jacket had long since gone missing, the brown faded in spots at the corners and where a person's fingers would rest. A quick grasp at the cover proved that said hands would belong to someone older than Conan seemed, or at least larger than he was. The title was embossed in gold along the spine, Roman lettering that wasn't English, and the same was stamped without color on the left-hand cover. Western-style binding, then, to read in the opposite direction as Japanese books.

The first page had been neatly excised, probably with a razor, despite the well-loved condition of the book. The second had Conan's name neatly written under the title... which, unlike the cover embossing, had kana printed below the Roman lettering.

Arsène Lupin contre Herlock Sholmès
Arsene Lupin vs. Herlock Sholmes

Herlock Sholmes being an obvious play on Sherlock Holmes... Conan let the book fall open where it would, discovering -- unsurprisingly -- that a folded piece of paper had been tucked between the pages. The text on said page consisted of rows of the same language, French, alternating with Japanese, annotated with multi-colored grammatical and cultural notes in Kid's same handwriting.

This was... this was more than just Kaitou Kid's book. This was even more than just a favorite book -- this was an insight into the workings of Kid's mind, his own personal notes, marks of what he thought was important, what he needed help to remember, an entire language's worth...

Dear gods. What had Conan done to deserve this?

... somehow, Conan didn't think it was giving up his sight to the blindfold. Or, at least, not just that.

And there was still the folded paper to consider. Which, as Conan found out when he lifted it, was oddly heavy... he opened the first fold to find his two missing darts taped inside, with a rather comically startled-looking caricature of Kid with both darts in the hat.

Apparently, he had managed to hit the guy, if not anywhere the drug would work. Though you'd think that would inspire Kid to not give such over-the-top gifts...

The rest of the note was a sketchy map and a date. Saturday, presumably Saturday night, given Kid's proclivities.

... Conan had a date. The idea was almost laughable.

His gaze fell back upon the book, and he gulped. Almost.

-0-0-0-

Saturday night found Conan boarding leisurely down a sidewalk on his jet-powered skateboard. The jets were off, his foot jabbing occasionally at the increasingly-cracked concrete, as he followed the map into poorer and poorer neighborhoods. Places like this cropped up everywhere; once-fashionable streets giving way to low-income housing as trends moved on.

The streets grew emptier as Conan skated further into the maze of housing, shadows lengthening as the sun sank towards the horizon. But the map showed he only had another turn to make, and then he'd be... wherever it was Kid wanted him, a scribbled square on the map.

He coasted around the corner, slowing to a stop before the "square": a small, boarded-up theater. Grimy, peeling paint coated the building's walls; numerous roof tiles lay scattered about where they'd fallen, rotting leaves and bits of trash caught in their rough corners, unswept and ignored by the locals. About all Conan could say of it was that it didn't seem structurally unsound.

Kid wouldn't direct him someplace unsafe like that. Crime scenes, yes, but that was Conan's field of expertise. A building that was going to fall on his head, no.

So Conan kicked up his skateboard, catching it under one arm, and slipped into the alley, finding -- unsurprisingly -- a fire door hidden in an alcove, the padlock picked and hanging invitingly open. A quick pull on the chain gave him access to a pitch-black hallway. Clicking on his dart-watch's flashlight, he pulled the door shut behind him and headed into the gloom.

Floorboards creaked under Conan's feet, carpet squelching slightly -- the building was no longer weatherproof. His weak flashlight flickered over wallpaper hanging in tattered strips, an alcove with motheaten chairs stacked inside, and then the space opened up into the lobby.

Copper glowed dimly between the slats of the boarded-up front, showing the sun had just minutes left before it sank behind the buildings outside. He mostly ignored the ticket window, only sweeping the light across the floor beneath to see how far its broken glass extended, then switched his flashlight off to save the battery.

Only one place to find Kid in here, really. Conan turned sharply to the right and pushed through the nearest doorway to the theater itself.

The faint light was just enough to see Kid wasn't there -- or, at least, not anywhere visible -- before Conan let the doors fall shut behind him once more. But the light remained, a glance towards the ceiling showing a makeshift lamp made from a flashlight and a large sheet of paper.

Kid was most definitely here. Somewhere.

Conan propped the skateboard up against the raised platforms where traditionalists would sit seiza in their kimono, leaving the watch on the platform above it, then headed down into the aisle between the Western-style seating. He climbed onto the hanamachi stage extension with only the barest edge of unease -- something about this was almost silly, parading along the narrow catwalk like a pageant girl or model for Kid's eyes only...

... though the hanamachi was meant for dramatic entrances anyway.

... and there were a few other details about Kabuki stages that Conan knew. He stopped at the stage end of the hanamachi and crossed his arms.

"If you pop out of a trapdoor somewhere, Kid," he announced loudly, "you're getting a soccer ball in the face."

"What if I crept out of it slowly?" Kid replied, voice echoing through the room. It didn't seem to be coming from below, though, so Conan looked up... and there in the rafters, Kid sat perched on a piece of machinery. The man reached down, catching onto a hidden rope, and swung under the machine. His cape billowed as he glided to the stage floor in a screech of rusting metal, which made them both wince.

And then they were facing each other awkwardly across the stage.

Conan cleared his throat. "Why did you give me that book?"

Kid tilted his head, a hand lifting to adjust his hat brim -- and, incidentally, hiding even more of his face. "Is that the question you want answered tonight?" he asked, voice low.

"Y--" Wait. Did that mean Kid planned to answer something? "... no."

The hand dropped, revealing a smile that wasn't the typical manic grin. Kid crooked his fingers, beckoning, drawing Conan across the stage like a magnet. Then that same hand dropped onto Conan's shoulder, spinning him around and pulling, tucking the boy back against Kid's chest. Kid's arms draped across Conan's chest, and his cheek pressed against Conan's hair.

"Kid...?"

"Do you remember the time I accused you of being nothing but a critic?" Kid murmured, breath warming Conan's ear.

The hotel roof, where Conan had used a bottle rocket to summon the police and Kid had vanished in the glare of a flash bomb... while insulting the entire profession of detecting with a laugh in his voice. "Yes..."

"I hadn't seen you in action on a case before," Kid whispered.

Huh?!

"Don't get me wrong, you're still a critic." A chuckle tickled into Conan's hair. "But you behave like a showman. The crime scene is your stage, the clues your props, the suspects and police your audience... building up tension until you unveil your trick in a grand denouement... it's very classical of you. Holmes and Poirot would be proud."

"Um... thank you?" Conan jumped as teeth grazed lightly over his ear. What the hell... lips tugged, and a shivery jolt shot from his neck to the pit of his stomach. Okay, that was fine, Kid could do that all he liked.

"But," Kid murmured, still talking, that wasn't acceptable, "when the curtain falls, and the audience has gone, what are you left with?"

The chill in Conan's stomach suddenly had nothing to do with the wicked mouth toying at his ear. That was a low blow -- he'd told Kid, he'd said, he had nothing but his crime scenes anymore and that hurt.

Kid's arms tightened against his struggling. "Think, Shin'ichi. I'm not asking out of cruelty."

Conan stilled, tense and ready to twist, to kick, damn the man... fine. Think. He could do that. He stared blindly at the rows of empty seats, barely visible in the gloom.

Think. It was like a case, and Kid must believe he'd given Conan all the clues. So. What was left for him...

... no. What was left for a showman. Which, despite Kid's words, was a term far more suited to Kid himself than to Conan.

When the heists were over, when the crowds had gone home, what was left for Kid?

The answer was right in front of Conan's eyes, and under his feet.

"An empty stage," Conan whispered, "and a vacant theater." Just the week before, he'd asked Kid why he'd agreed... his hands crept up to cover Kid's. This was why: Conan's selfsame reasons for asking in the first place. "And, perhaps, a fellow showman?"

"Very good," Kid whispered.

But... "Why now...?"

Kid tsked. "Only one answer for you tonight, Shin'ichi." His hold gentled, voice lowering. "But I'll give you a clue. Don't expect complex motives from me."

No complex motives...? Conan twisted curiously, and found his mouth covered by Kid's.

Oo... kay. No more questions tonight. Conan opened his mouth under Kid's, one hand sliding into that thick hair and helping to hold Kid in place. The chain on the monocle brushed against his face, the clover-marked charm bumping against his collarbone.

Mm... yes, no blindfold, no disguises, even though one flashlight and a sheet of paper in a space this cavernous was just as effective for keeping Kid's face invisible.

Kid's hand slipped under his arm, gliding slowly downwards, his other hand twining with Conan's own and following. The move allowed Conan to curl closer, his hip pressing between Kid's legs, and almost let Conan ignore the hesitant fingers tugging his shirt untucked.

So not fair, but Conan wasn't going to try sneaking into Kid's jacket again for a while. Not until he knew Kid was disarmed.

Soft, thick, suede-covered fingers slipped under the fabric of his T-shirt, flickering testingly -- teasingly, almost ticklishly -- over a patch of skin. Conan shivered, arching into the touch, but... it wasn't right, wasn't...

"Can't get fingerprints off skin," Conan murmured, hinting. "Or cloth."

Kid hummed thoughtfully against Conan's throat. "Don't like the suede?"

"Yes... but..."

The lips turned up in a smile that Conan could feel, and the hand entangled in his own pulled away from Conan's stomach, fingers wiggling. "Go ahead, then."

Conan's breath caught in his throat. He tightened his hand and pulled, the white fabric sliding from surprisingly slim fingers, and dropped the glove with barely a pause. Kid's hand caught his own again, light calluses scraping over Conan's too-soft skin.

Had it been slightly brighter, Conan would've lifted Kid's hand to see it wrapped around his own. As it was, he angled his head to catch Kid's mouth in another kiss, and just allowed Kid to tow his hand along as long arms encircled his waist once more, Kid guiding Conan down as he sat seiza upon the stage. Conan wound up straddling Kid's lap again, this time facing out, Kid pressed firmly and warmly against his back.

"You... have this thing about me on your lap..." Conan half-complained into Kid's mouth, the angle uncomfortable now.

"Gets you at kissing level," Kid replied, nudging Conan's head to face forward so he could get at the pulse point.

"... oh..." Pulse point good. Pulse point very good, and if Kid started trying to cryptically guide Conan to answers again he was going to shove Kid down and try nibbling in the same spot. "...okay..."

Then warm, bare fingertips were edging under his shirt again, trailing lightly over his stomach and upward.

Conan's head lolled back against Kid's shoulder, the hard knobs of Kid's glider-cape a minor note against the mouth on Conan's throat, the hands pulling one of his own to trace the lines of his body under his thin T-shirt. Who knew that a nipple could catch under his palm, warm and pebbling and rolling in a way that curled in the pit of his stomach?

"You're going to have to borrow someone's concealer," Kid whispered.

And Conan cared... why? His free hand pulled Kid's head back down where it belonged, against Conan's throat.

Kid's hand untangled from Conan's, leaving it pressed against a nipple as Kid's wandered south.

... wait...

Firm and large, they rubbed slowly down along Conan's sides, then back up, shifting inward and down again. A pinky trailed just under Conan's waistband on the downstroke.

... wait--

A finger dipped into Conan's navel, another flicking at the button on his jeans.

--wait!

Conan couldn't ignore the thrum of alarm any longer. "H...how far are we going? Tonight?"

Kid's fingers circled around the button, toying with it, twisting... but not slipping it free. "This far," he said decisively. "A good show never throws everything at the audience at once." A pause. "That okay?"

No, his instincts yelled. Yes, his rational mind countered. "... just fine." Though Kid's hands on the button of his shorts were still indicating otherwise, even as Conan's breathing evened and slowed.

After a few moments, Conan turned on Kid's lap, Kid's hold slipping to hold him loosely, sideways. His hand reached up to touch Kid's face, finding a quizzically-raised brow under his fingertips before his palm slid down to cup the man's jaw.

Conan's final kiss that night was a promise.

TBC

Chapter Text

Conan’s sneakers pounded on the metal-grille stairs, footsteps echoing thunderously through the stairwell as he raced towards the southeast courtyard on the skyscraper’s roof. Kid already had the jewel; he would be heading for the roof now, unable to resist the shadows behind the automated spotlights and the grand exit.

Whoever’d had the brilliant idea to commandeer the building’s spotlights and aim them outward, without posting somebody in the spaces behind their glare, desperately needed to be busted right back to writing parking tickets. Preferably with supervision. Four courtyards, one on each corner of the building, and with Heiji home in Osaka that left only Inspector Nakamori, Hakuba, and Conan himself to get to the roof in time and have any semblence of a chance at even spotting the thief.

With their luck, Kid would leap from the one they hadn’t been able to cover, and do a victory lap around the building on his damned glider to boot.

Conan burst through the door at the top of the stairs, skidding to a stop halfway to the retaining wall and their line of spotlights. No Kid yet. Good—

Fire lanced high on Conan’s leg. He fell to his knees, hand catching at his hip, the memory of a thunderous crack reaching his consciousness at the same moment as the wet under his palm. Crack, pain, wet – silenced gunshot, blood—

Something caught Conan’s wrist in a crushing grip, a beefy hand clamped over his watch, a man dragging Conan bodily to dangle above the ground.

Black ski mask. Sniper rifle, silencer. Heavy black trenchcoat, gloves. Part of Conan’s mind catalogued height, weight, and what little he could see of the Black Org member’s eyes, another part calculating the odds of using his weapons (the dart watch was trapped under the man’s hand; the shoes needed a manual revving up; the button on his belt buckle was almost too small to hit anymore, even without his fingers growing slippery with blood…) The rest of Conan panicked – Black Org! A sniper, he’d been shot, somebody had found out Kudo Shin’ichi was not dead, was Edogawa Conan and a conveniently helpless eleven years old…

The man stepped casually across the rooftop, swinging Conan out between the spotlights to hang over empty space, thirty stories’ worth.

“Yell nice and loud for help, boy,” the sniper ordered.

… yell for help?

A rifle like that was designed for long-range targets, not the three meters or fewer that must’ve separated Conan from the sniper.

The bottom dropped out of Conan’s stomach. The sniper was here for Kid; Conan was convenient bait to get Kid in range and coming closer. It was a radical change in tactics, nothing the B.O. had ever done before, and probably a flash of inspiration. Nobody had known Conan would be in this courtyard; he was just a random kid to the man.

Conan’s pain and shock was either translating as incomprehension or stubbornness to the sniper, who shifted his rifle to aim downwards. “Yell, or I start firing into the crowd.”

One flash of inspiration begat another. Conan whimpered deliberately, forcing himself to take a deep breath and dig his fingers loose from their grip over his bullet wound. His bloody hand crept up towards his belt buckle, fingers slipping on the metal. “I…” The terror was only slightly exaggerated. “Help,” he croaked – he was perfectly capable of screaming immediately, but he had to buy time, think Conan think…

His fingers scraped against the edge of the buckle and off it again. Out of the corner of his eye, Conan barely saw a flash of white: Kid, escaping via the southwest courtyard to the sound of his fans cheering on the streets and Hakuba’s cursing.

“Loud,” the sniper repeated, giving Conan a rough shake, eyes flicking off behind Conan’s shoulder, where Kid’s hangglider would have just opened.

If Conan shouted, Kid would turn back.

Conan was not going to let Kid get killed. Not for him. Not by Black Ops.

The sniper was going to drop Conan the instant he screamed anyway. No witnesses.

Conan’s fingers closed on the button.

“KID!” Hakuba’s voice, a note of real terror— dammit, he was just at the next corner of the building, he could hardly have missed seeing Conan hanging out over a hundred-meter drop…

The gunman smirked; the crowd below started shouting in horror—

Conan’s soccer ball slammed into the sniper’s face.

The crushing grip on his wrist tore loose, and Conan dropped.

One second. He caught a glimpse of Kid’s glider turning back.

Two seconds. Kid was too far: six seconds out, six to get back, more with the angle to match Conan’s fall. No trick could make up for the lack of an engine on the glider.

Three seconds. Conan blinked against the wind stinging water from his eyes.

Four seconds. A sudden updraft blasted against Conan’s clothes, blowing his glasses from his face.

Five seconds. A tangle of knotted scarves coiled around him. A sharp jerk, and something popped in Conan’s shoulder. Slamming against the Plexiglas windows, Conan blacked out.

Kid dived.

His line of scarves had caught on a decorative block jutting from the tenth story; the silk would hold for a while even against the rough corner of the stone, despite Conan’s weight. The knots, however, might not.

He didn’t bother to fold the glider, twisting to a near-vertical angle and flipping around so his body faced the building. Conan’s form swayed below him, a scarce four stories off the ground, one arm pointing up as if reaching for Kid, even unconscious.

One hand off the steering bar, Kid snatched a razor-edged card from his gun’s clip. One shot, one chance, impossible timing—the card screeched against the fourth-floor window, slicing neatly through silk and glass alike with barely a jolt. Conan dropped, limp, into Kid’s encircling arm; the card went flying off somewhere into the updraft.

Kid hauled backwards, kicked off the third-story window, and caught the wind barely five meters above the heads of his screaming fans and gasping TV crews. Conan’s weight sent the glider skittering another meter down before Kid could lean to compensate.

“Catch him! After Kid! Call an ambulance—“

No ambulances at Kid heists. Nobody gets hurt.

Kid’s shoes hit a power line, running its length in great bounds – the wind, where was the wind, he needed it back..! Leaping off the pole, he ran up the side of the next building, the glider angled to help push him down against steel and concrete as well as gravity. He jumped to the next, and the next, running up eight stories across three lower buildings between skyscrapers, then took off once more.

Something wet was seeping against Kid’s hip. He spared a glance, shifting Conan just enough to see blood running down the boy’s leg, a broadening stain on his shorts, the cloth sticking to Kid’s jacket.

Conan needed a hospital, but somebody would grab Kid, unmask him, drive him off, something while he was there. He couldn’t trust that it would be a doctor, nurse, or policeman treating Conan, guarding him after Kid ran – the Syndicate’s tactics had changed too drastically, they might have Edogawa Conan on their "witness, to eliminate” list.

There wasn’t anybody in Tokyo he could trust with Shin’ichi. Kid and Jii couldn’t identify or treat internal bleeding, couldn’t do anything for skull fractures—any fractures, really, not more than temporary first aid – basically, save for first aid and stitching cuts, Kid couldn’t do anything.

Nobody he could trust. Nobody who wouldn’t check for him in disguise if he guarded Conan himself.

Except… maybe…

Kid steered the glider onto a new heading, not far off his prior course – some subconscious part of his mind had already aimed him in the right general direction. At the shift, Conan whimpered, stirring in his arms.

“Stay still,” Kid told him.

“Wha…?”

“We’re going someplace safe.”

Conan came fully awake with a violent twitch, twisting his head to stare wildly up at Kid. “Black Org! It was… they’re after you—“

“I know. Don’t wiggle so much, the glider’s not designed for two.” Conan froze. “Thanks.” He angled the glider a bit further from the line of streetlights that he was following, tilting his head to help shadow his face. Conan was entirely too close, the lights too bright, and his lost glasses weren’t prescription; Conan would see more than Kid wanted him to, no matter what, but the only alternative was to abandon him somewhere to stagger to a hospital on his own.

No. Fucking. Way.

“I can’t take you directly to a hospital,” Kid told Conan. No need to explain his reasoning. “If you think you can hold on for a few hours, I’ll get you to one, but not yet.”

A long moment, and Conan cautiously edged a bit closer, pressing his hip harder against Kid. “I can make it,” he said stubbornly.

They flew the rest of the way in silence, shortly leaving the office towers and high-rise apartments behind. A quiet residential neighborhood spread below them, tightly-packed single-family homes slowly getting larger and more widespread as the pair glided through the night.

Kid landed in a good-sized back lawn, a broad swath of grass with a single large shade tree – unusual in Japan, both in size and lack of ornamental plantings. The house itself was a black giant looming in the dark, a gleam of light from a front room spilling through a hallway and into the back rooms of the ground floor.

“Where are we?” Conan asked, swaying as Kid settled him onto his feet and collapsed the glider frame.

“The home of an associate of mine,” Kid replied simply, pulling a large cotton handkerchief from a pocket. He handed it to Conan as he pulled away from the boy, a glance showing him that pulling away had torn the gash open again. Kid’s jacket had been getting stuck to the clotting. “Keep the pressure on the wound,” he added. “I’ll be right back.” He ghosted across the lawn, keeping half an eye on Conan.

The security system was relatively decent – a year or two old, no more, and as good as any residential building could hope for. Kid could’ve gotten past it with a toothpick. He disabled it and snuck inside.

A middle-aged woman sat in a front room; a blast of sleeping gas handled that. Kid left the canister on the table next to her, the gas leaking sluggishly, and shut the door tightly behind him. Upstairs was empty, the homeowners working the night shift and abroad, respectively. He grabbed a couple of items and headed back downstairs, where he found a well-stocked first aid kit under the kitchen sink.

He set up in the den, turning on a small lamp and draping his cape flat on the overstuffed couch, and hurried back outside.

Conan had sunk to his knees while Kid was securing the house. Kid scooped the boy up, ignoring his weak protests, and toted him into the building. He set Conan upon his cape, reached into the first-aid kit, and came up with a pair of sharp surgical scissors.

“Tell you what,” Kid murmured, dropping his left glove onto the table. Conan’s eyes went wide, pinned to Kid’s bare hand. “The guy might not know enough about residential security, but boy does he know how to stock a first-aid kit. Lie back,” he added, pinching the hem of Conan’s shorts with his bare hand.

With a wince and a raised eyebrow, Conan did so, helpfully stretching his injured leg as best he could. The blade of the scissors slid under the fabric, and Kid carefully sliced up the outside of the shorts. Conan’s movements had straightened the fabric out at the hip, letting Kid easily cut all the way to and through the waistband. Kid flicked the two panels of stained fabric aside, and took out a tube of antiseptic ointment and a long roll of sterile bandages.

“Looks like he just winged you,” Kid said, starting as best he could to clean the cut.

“Didn’t want me dead,” Conan muttered. “Just wanted to stop me long enough to grab.”

“Lucky you,” Kid responded. The ointment wouldn’t stay long with the blood still sluggishly flowing, but he could make do with some medical tape and thick bandaging. At least the wound was low enough to make wrapping around one leg feasible…

Conan stared as Kid gently wrapped his leg, one bare hand feeling for the delicate work, while the gloved one kept fingerprints off the various items in the first-aid kit. Kid’s eyes only flicked up a few times as he worked, each time meeting Conan’s for a scarce moment before darting back to the job.

He snipped out the square of bloodstained cloth where his fingers had pinched, dropping the scrap into a pocket with a faint smile at Conan. Minimal evidence. Then, one-handed, he guided Conan to put his weight on his other side, and manuveured the ruined shorts off.

“Up,” Kid requested, gloved hand getting out the scissors again. He helped Conan sit upright, then sliced along the top of the left sleeve, and up the front of the boy’s Tshirt. “Hope you didn’t like that shirt.” Conan snorted dismissively, and Kid pulled the shirt free and down Conan’s uninjured arm.

Bruises were already starting to rise, only faintly red yet, in long shadowy stripes along the boy’s thin torso. His shoulder was unmistakably at the wrong angle; Kid’s bared fingers automatically lifted to the joint, and Conan hissed.

“Dislocated,” Kid told him. “Wait til the hospital, or should I put it back now?”

“You sure you can…?”

“Think I’ve gotten through all these years of heists without having to replace my own?” Watching Conan’s face, getting a nod, Kid wadded up the cut shirt and held it up to Conan’s mouth. “Bite down. On three.” He grabbed the boy’s arm, twisting the muscles back into alignment. Conan’s face paled, but he held Kid’s gaze steadily. “One. Two.” Kid shoved, and Conan went gray, swaying forward onto Kid’s shoulder. “Shh. It’s okay. I’m done.” Plenty of bigger men would’ve fainted by now. Definitely not a child in that body.

Conan didn’t seem to be listening, barely conscious, teeth clenched on the rolled-up shirt and glazed eyes pinned to Kid’s hands. Kid wrapped the shoulder, pressed gently at and splinted the wrist, tried to check for fractured ribs – if there were any, they weren’t in the front, and Conan’s muffled cries gave no clues to the state of his back. His back was nothing but one huge bruise, darkening fast. Kid wrapped the ribs lightly, just in case.

Then he shook out the neatly-folded white yukata he’d swiped from a bedroom upstairs, swung it around Conan, and got the uninjured arm through one sleeve. The other arm, he didn’t want to budge… after a moment’s consideration, he simply draped the yukata over that shoulder and belted it to some semblence of modesty. The white would show it quickly if the bullet wound started to bleed through the bandaging.

By this time, Conan’s gaze was fluttering and unfocused. The impact might’ve left a concussion – Kid doubted it, since the boy had been relatively coherent through the process, but there was always the chance. But with the pain and blood loss, keeping him awake wasn’t going to be easy…

If it could or should be done at all. Perhaps it was time to be unconventional again.

Kid settled Conan onto his stomach on the couch, bullet wound facing outward so he could see it easily, and slid the boy’s head onto his lap. His right glove joined the first on the coffee table, and he laid his hand along Conan’s side – not his back, not as painful as that would be – and felt the narrow ribcage lift slowly under his palm, then fall.

He could monitor Conan’s breathing like this.

“Sleep well,” Kid whispered.

-0-0-0-

Five til four in the morning, and Hakuba Saguru wearily dragged himself out of a cab in front of his house, looking up at the single light glowing in the downstairs office window.

The housekeeper would no doubt be awake and waiting for his report. It was an unspoken understanding: the Hakubas didn’t hold with eavesdropping; the housekeeper was trained as a full confidential manservant, gender and titles aside, and firmly believed she must know all the family’s business as well as preferences to serve properly. So the Hakubas reported in regularly, all except confidential police matters, and she in turn served as faithfully as any nth-generation family retainer.

It was an excellent arrangement, save when Saguru got in at ungodly hours of the morning and only wanted to report to his pillow. So as he absently paid the driver and searched for his keys – finding them in the same pocket he always put them in – he tried to marshall his thoughts for a quick report.

At 8:37 pm, 11-year-old Edogawa Conan, the youngest and most unofficial associate of the Kid Task Force, plummets from one of the four thirtieth-story corner courtyards of the skyscraper targeted in Kid’s heist.

At 8:39 pm, Kid vanishes from sight on his glider, the child undoubtedly injured but safe in his arms. This last detail is contrary to all previous exhibited behaviors, as Kid has rescued at least three people in the prior five years and left them all for others to deal with as necessary.

8:43 pm: Saguru and a squad of officers discover a deflated soccer ball and a thin trail of blood on the roof. The soccer ball defies explanation. The blood trail leads from a spray near the center of the small space to the point where Edogawa had fallen from. There’s no possible object to have caused the injury, nor a weapon in sight. The investigation is upgraded to possible assault; Saguru privately upgrades it to possible attempted murder, as the Edogawa boy isn’t stupid enough to try to call for help by standing on the wall to yell, nor would that explain why he was standing backwards and silent.

9:17 pm: the police are alerted that every television station in Japan is airing the clip taken at the end of the heist, and so are two international channels. Police finish setting up a hotline and demand that every station reaching the Tokyo area include the number, in case anyone should spot Edogawa.

12:22 am: Hattori Heiji barges into the police station, having just barely caught the last, fastest, most expensive train from Osaka. A well-meaning clerk sends him in to “match testosterone with the Inspector”. Bets are exchanged, but the two fail to shout each other out, or outshout each other, despite valiant efforts on both parts.

1:14 am: Hattori is kicked out of Nakamori’s office and sent to the foremost Kid expert of his own generation. Somebody, namely Saguru himself, has failed to mention that he and Hattori only grudgingly get along. Metaphorical fur flies.

1:45 am on the dot: audiovisual forensics delivers a digitally-enhanced frame from the police’s own cameras, several of which had been focused on the spotlights. The photograph clearly shows Edogawa’s shoes dangling over empty space, and a masked figure holding him out over the drop. A shadowy protrusion in the glare of the lower-right spotlight is tentatively identified as a rifle.

1:45 am and 12 seconds: Hattori blows up.

1:45 am and 15 seconds: Nakamori follows suit.

1:53 am: Saguru manages to get the scorecards out of the Task Force’s hands before the two ranting detectives can spot them. (Hattori wins for creativity, due to the exotic flavor of his Kansai expletives.)

3:06 am: Hattori stomps off to terrorize the hospitals in a spiral search pattern from the skyscraper. Saguru takes the opportunity to bow out, as he has a morning Criminology seminar to attend.

3:58 am: Saguru reaches his doorstep without incident to anything save his abused wallet. Cab fare is horrendous.

Saguru closed his front door behind him with a quiet sigh, and bent to toe off his shoes. Nobody should ever have to deal with a Kid heist, a kidnapping, and Hattori Heiji in the space of only eight hours.

There was a note on the step up into the hallway proper.

Shhhh! Edogawa’s sleeping. Keep an eye on him for a bit; he should manage for a few minutes, but just in case.
I called the ambulance while you were coming up the walk.
- KID

(P.S. – my apologies to your housekeeper for the sleeping gas.)

… strike that. Nobody should have to deal with Kid and Hattori in the same eight hours, period. Saguru rushed, sock-footed, into the living room, then the den, and stopped short.

Conan lay on his stomach, dwarfed by the largest couch in the house. His head had been angled comfortably on a pillow; his clothing had been switched out for a yukata that was far too large for him. One of Saguru's yukatas, in fact, a white one patterned with small blue waves, which he didn’t wear and kept folded in his underwear drawer upstairs. (Kid had raided his underwear drawer – as if he didn’t harrass Saguru on a regular basis as it was!)

Creeping closer, trying not to wake the boy, Saguru took in more details.

A bloodstained belt buckle and a watch, its face cracked, lay on the coffee table next to a drained plastic cup and the first-aid kit the Hakubas kept in their kitchen. The dregs in the cup were orange: Saguru’s father kept orange juice in the refrigerator. Conan’s glasses were nowhere to be seen. Saguru turned his attention back to the child on his couch.

The white of the yukata wasn’t a particularly good choice, though likely a deliberate one: without a yukata slip, it showed deep shadows the entire length of Conan’s back, faint under the thin cloth and livid where it had slipped off his shoulder. Said shoulder was wrapped in a temporary bandage and splint, the wrappings disappearing under the wide sleeve.

Conan’s other hand peeked out of the other sleeve, fisted and resting on another two sheets of paper. Saguru tugged them free, reading the longer one first.

To the doctors:
Bullet wound, outside upper right thigh: cleaned and bandaged, bled considerably.
Dislocated shoulder, left: relocated, immobilized.
Possible broken wrist, left: splinted.
Deep bruising, entire back, left wrist; partial arms, chest, hips, left leg: untreated.
Possible fractured rib(s): wrapped.
Possible concussion: tried to keep him awake, make sure he keeps breathing.
Blood loss: drank 2 cups juice, have left cup on table.
NO more painkillers til 6 am.
His clothes are in plastic bags by the back door.
- KID

The second one read, simply:

Hakuba –
Burn this note. Assume the station’s bugged.
- KID

Saguru's hand froze where it hovered over the pocket with his cell phone. Bugged…? Because of this fiasco? Before it? That made little sense: who would need to bug the station to find out about Kid heists, or Edogawa’s involvement in them? The boy had been making headlines since he was six for his uncanny ability to anticipate Kid. Kid himself was starting to become a major television event. Who would need to bug the station? Who could without the police finding it?

In any event, he needed to phone in, call off the search for Edogawa. But if the station was bugged, it was no great leap to assume the phone lines were also tapped. His number could be traced to the nearest cell tower, and his own address was a matter of public record. A few minutes’ deduction would be all it took. Bugged…

After a moment’s consideration, he shook Conan on his uninjured shoulder. “Edogawa-kun.” The boy grumbled and winced sharply. “Edogawa-kun. Wake up.” More soft, pained sounds, even as Saguru pressed his phone into the boy’s uninjured hand. “Do you know Hattori’s cell number?” A bewildered groan, bleary blue eyes focusing slowly on the keypad. “Hattori Heiji, Edogawa-kun. His number. Could you dial it for me?”

“H’kuba-san…?”

“Dial Heiji-kun for me, please. Heiji-niisan.” Just to make it clear to the child.

For that, he got a baleful, if half-awake, glare, and Conan thumbed out the number. Saguru took the phone back, politely not watching the boy slump back into the cushions.

The line was picked up on the first ring. “Moshi moshi, Hattori-kun,” Saguru greeted.

“Who the fuck—Hakuba? Didn’t ya go home? Get off my line--!”

“Edogawa-kun’s been found,” Saguru interrupted flatly, letting himself be smug at the sudden stunned silence. “The ambulance should be here in another minute or two; they’ll probably take us to Beika Hospital.”

“Ambulance? He’s not at a—where the hell are ya?! Kid didn’t leave him in a ditch or somethin’, I know he didn’t--!”

“Indeed not, Hattori-kun. Kid left the boy upon my couch—“

“YER COUCH?”

“— with his wounds treated to the best of his ability. Please call the station—“ Faintly, Saguru started to hear a siren; the ambulance. “—and Hattori-kun? Assume the station is bugged.”

“Been assumin’ that fer years, dumbass. Thanks. I’ll meetcha there.”

The line clicked off, leaving Saguru blinking at the reciever in his hand. Years…?

What did Hattori and Kid know that Saguru didn’t?

-0-0-0-

Conan drifted slowly out of a haze of drugs to the sound of near-unintelligible shouting. He didn't care to decipher the racket, save to mark Ran, Mouri Kogoro, Heiji, and another man, whose voice was far quieter and therefore unidentifiable, though no less upset.

Something heavy and rock-hard rested over his stomach, on top of a thickly-padded wide belt around his waist; more of the padding encircled his elbow, a thinner strap crossing his chest.

... those would be the cast on his wrist, and the sling immobilizing his shoulder. Right. He vaguely remembered the doctors putting them on, after an exhaustive session in an X-ray machine early this morning.

Kogoro's voice suddenly went muffled. Footsteps squeaked a protest on linoleum, and Ran's voice hissed, "We will discuss this later," just before a door slammed.

Conan didn't have a chance to wonder what they were talking about. Another sneaker squeaked against the floor, someone spinning on a toe.

"I can't believe ya said that!" Hattori snapped. "Keep Conan? Ya don't even know the guy!"

Keep me?

"It's a perfectly logical solution!" Hakuba answered sharply, a note of blank bewilderment hiding in his voice. "Kid entrusted him to me--"

"Kid is a lunatic! Ya say so yerself! Ain't nobody sane gonna turn over an eleven-year-old to somebody he don't know, cop or no cop!"

Keep me?

"Hattori-san, you're being unreasonable..."

"Yer being stupid! Logic's dumb when it comes ta dealin' with kids, and moreso with this one! Ya don't know the first thing about him! Yer treatin' him like a--"

Conan groaned.

"Conan!"

"Edogawa-kun?"

Slowly, Conan blinked open his eyes, flinching at the stark white light reflecting from the ceiling. "Ow..." he muttered, rolling his head towards the sounds of Hakuba and Heiji's voices. Hakuba was sitting in one of the visitor's chairs near the wall. Heiji stood before him, looming over him, though now both their faces were turned towards Conan, the fury of their argument wiped away in open concern. "Heiji? When did you get here?" He'd called Heiji, he remembered that...

"About midnight." At Conan's startled blink, Heiji added, "Live national coverage." He stepped over and rapped a knuckle lightly against Conan's head. "Ya think I wouldn't be on the first train outta Osaka, seein' that? Gods, kid, I thought ya were dead..."

Heiji's hand was shaking slightly, Conan noticed, as it flattened out, carding heavily through his hair. "Tougher than I look," Conan mumbled, looking away.

"Ya don't need ta go tryin' ta prove it!" Heiji blasted.

Conan flinched back into the pillows. "Noisy," he muttered, rubbing an ear with his good hand. He hadn't meant to scare Heiji so badly... not that he'd meant to get thrown off the side of a building in the first place.

And Heiji was eyeing him narrowly, unmistakably a Don't give me that 'I'm just a poor little eleven-year-old' crap, buddy, I KNOW you! glare.

"You guys know falling wasn't my idea, right?" Conan asked, addressing the question more to Hakuba, who was watching him with an unnerving stare.

"Indeed," Hakuba replied. The stare didn't lessen -- if anything, it sharpened, and Conan found himself rather wishing to edge away. He glanced at Heiji, but the Osaka boy was being no help, glaring and starting to bristle once more at the blond detective.

Was this how Conan's suspects felt under his own keen stares? Because something about Hakuba's gaze said that he knew something was fishy... and he hadn't been giving Conan that look the evening before.

"Edogawa-kun," Hakuba finally said, just as Heiji opened his mouth to speak. Conan jumped. "Please explain to me why I am missing a rather important seminar due to Kid's deviant behavior last night."

Conan felt himself go a shade pale, even as Heiji burst out, "Geez, ya got a way with words!" His hand twitched violently towards Hakuba's head, though he didn't smack the half-British detective. "'Deviant behavior', are ya tryin' ta scare the guy?" He turned to Conan. "Jerk means do ya know why the hell Kid didn't leave ya at the scene for the cops ta handle?"

"... oh." So Kid hadn't left evidence of anything incriminating. Not that Conan could recall anything less than innocent occuring this time; Kid hadn't even kissed him goodnight before Conan had passed out, either time Conan had been awake. "I suppose... no. Maybe..." Maybe what? Conan's mind raced for an excuse, something other than their shared loneliness, Kid's 'empty theater', since that would involve mentioning their meetings and worse. "He'd do the same for the Inspector, or Hakuba-san... wouldn't he?"

Hakuba's gaze bored into him. "Unlikely."

Conan tried to shrug, then winced. "Well, no, he wouldn't carry you off on that glider, because you're too big. But I'm sure he'd give you first aid--"

"Not with an entire squadron of officers available to do so. Edogawa-kun, you must realize that Kid's behavior is completely outside his normal range. If you can shed any light upon the matter, it is within your best interests to."

His best interests...

"Hey! Tryin' ta bully him won't work!"

... best interests. Somehow, that was giving him an idea. "Heiji-kun's right, Hakuba-san. But Hakuba-san isn't attempting to bully me, I think." Conan took a deep breath, then faced Hakuba directly, meeting his gaze in a way that a Westerner would take as honesty rather than contempt. "I was being used as bait to lure Kid close. Kid was at a good angle to see the killer."

Hattori snapped his fingers. "Of course. So Kid was runnin' from that masked guy, not takin' Conan on purpose."

Except, Conan thought, that wasn't entirely true. Kid hadn't seen anything except Conan falling -- the glider hadn't finished its turn until after Conan had knocked the sniper out with his soccer ball. A single second... Kid had deviated from normal, taking Conan like that.

Why?

Obviously it was the relationship, but it wasn't supposed to be like... they were staving off each other's loneliness, that's all, so the risk Kid had taken made no sense. It would've been far safer for Conan's health and Kid's identity to leave Conan behind.

If Kid had merely panicked... but Kid didn't panic, he thrived on adrenaline. So he hadn't somehow forgotten to let Conan go.

"Conan?"

None of this made sense. Not the way Kid had risked fingerprints in Hakuba's own house...

"Edogawa-kun?"

... or how he'd let Conan pass out -- how had he expected to make sure Conan kept breathing?...

"Shit, are the drugs still affecting him?"

... or, really, why Kid had still been there when Conan woke up halfway through the night, in the home of one of the people sworn to catch him...

"They shouldn't be... Edogawa-kun!"

Conan snapped back to himself, losing the train of thought. "What?"

"Whoa," Heiji said, holding both hands up in surrender. "Ya were spacin' out there. Ya okay? Want the nurse? There's some more juice around here, the docs said to make ya drink some..."

"Heiji," Conan growled.

"Sorry. Ya just look so sma..." Conan glared at Heiji. "... er, pale. Ya lost some blood there, remember? And Ran-han couldn't find yer spare glasses... ya do got some, right?"

"Yes..." They weren't that hard to find. But if someone was searching hastily in a panic, he supposed they could be missed. "Top drawer of my desk, in the back."

Heiji frowned, but before he could say something else, a knock came on the door-jamb. "I have a special delivery!" a cheerful, female voice sing-songed. Distracted, Hakuba and Heiji glanced at the door as a pretty nurse entered the room. She held a large bouquet of frilly pink peonies -- with something white that Conan couldn't quite see in the center -- delicately in her hands. Conan silently blessed whoever had sent the flowers, the nurse who brought the flowers, and, for good measure, the florist who had arranged the flowers... even if they were pink.

"Who is it from?" Hakuba and Heiji demanded in unison. Conan rolled his eyes. He hoped he had never been such a pest when he'd visited people in the hospital.

"It's from a..." The nurse peered at the small card. "Kido-san?"

"KID!" all three blurted. Heiji lunged, snatching the flowers from the startled nurse.

"Sir!" she protested.

Heiji sat down next to Hakuba, tilting the bouquet so they could both examine it-- and pink mist hissed into their faces.

"Sleep well," the nurse said, as Heiji and Hakuba slumped against each other. Then she turned a toothy grin on Conan... one he knew all too well. "How are you feeling?" she asked with Kid's voice.

Conan stared, as the pretty nurse took the bouquet back, dumped a small capsule out of it into her hand, and tore the paper off to set the flowers in the hospital's vase. Capsule and paper vanished, and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

Dark blue eyes -- nearly violet, obviously contacts, Conan noted, with pretty two-fold lids -- settled on his face, and Kid's hand cupped Conan's cheek. The tips of Kid's fingers were the only part of his hands painted with latex, and his hand's strange pattern of callouses -- part acrobat, part hang glider, nicked from his razor cards and faint from wearing gloves -- was better proof than Kid's voice of his identity.

"Kid..." Conan repeated, letting loose tension he hadn't been aware of.

"Enjoying the attention, my young detective?"

Conan sighed. "No. They woke me up and then they wouldn't shut up."

A chuckle. "Sounds about right for them. Did you see the news? They're still playing our clip-- you're listed in stable condition."

"Our clip?" Conan asked blankly.

"Sure!" Kid smiled again. "Other couples have songs--we have a news clip. I'm a hero, you know." Kid-the-Nurse took a moment to preen, then looked at Conan critically. "You look exhausted."

"I am no--" Conan was interrupted by a yawn. "Or, possibly, I am," he admitted.

"Well then," Nurse-Kid said cheerfully, "I'd better sign your cast quickly and get out of here, I guess." She stood and reached behind Conan, flattening out the bed, then pulled a sharpie marker from a pocket and slid behind Conan to sit on the top edge of the mattress. Then she blithely lifted his head onto her lap.

"Hey!"

Kid offered him a wicked grin, leaning over to unstrap his cast and start drawing little boxes on it. "I don't like writing upside-down."

And that meant loaning Conan his... her... Kid's lap? That was completely improper, intimate, reserved for dating and married couples...

Conan's gaze fell to the strange grids Kid was drawing on his cast. Grids... puzzles?

It figures that you'd get turned on by clues. You are such a detective.

This was more than just Kaitou Kid's book. This was even more than just a favorite book -- this was an insight into the workings of Kid's mind.

Kid settled him onto his stomach on the couch, bullet wound facing outward, and slid Conan's head onto a firm, warm pillow. His right glove joined the first on the coffee table, and he laid his hand along Conan’s side – not his back, not as painful as that would be – the weight light as Conan's ribcage lifted slowly under his palm, then fell...

Kid had unmasked -- completely... Conan surged up against Kid, tongue delving into Kid's mouth, swallowing a startled gasp.

Don't expect complex motives from me.

"You've been courting me," Conan breathed.

"Saa... you figured it out." Kid started blacking out random boxes in the larger grids, nonchalant.

Figured it out? And Kid could just sit there doodling while he flat-out said... admitted... that he'd been romancing...

Conan's mind sheered off at that, and he stared blankly up at Kid. Pretty-nurse Kid, who'd never disarmed, never relaxed, never let Conan see more than a dim profile and a slim hand... was...

...was...

...was still making no sense! Though if he was developing an emotional attachment, that would explain why he hadn't left Conan at the scene, and why he'd stayed.

It fit all too well with their 'empty theater'. But it shouldn't. That hadn't been the agreement...

Kid finished, and fixed the straps back in place over the cast. "That should keep you occupied for a few days," he murmured, tucking a folded-up sheet of paper into the chest pocket of Conan's hospital pajamas. A small case dropped onto Conan's lap. "I brought your spare glasses, by the way. Not that you need them, but Hakuba-san doesn't know that." Latex-painted fingertips brushed against Conan's cheek, down to tip up his chin, and Kid paused. "You don't want a kiss right now, I suspect. Too much to think about, ne?"

Too knowing a gaze... Conan looked away. "No. You can--"

"No." Kid held up a length of cloth and changed the subject. "Here. You couldn't yell for help, but I... well, you can decide whether I scared you or made you angry."

Couldn't yell for... oh. Conan opened his mouth, and let Kid gag him. A final slide of fingers against the edge of the silk, Kid's eyes bright; Conan blinked, and Kid was gone... and something soft was looped around his unbroken wrist. A scarf, dark blue and all too familiar, secured his hand to the bed's safety rail.

A reason to have not grabbed and unmasked Kid while the older detectives were unconscious, just as the gag he'd agreed to was reason not to call for help.

Angry or scared, Kid had said... Damn well he was going to be furious. Kid hadn't even taken his kiss!

Conan's eyes cast about the room for a distraction -- Heiji was stirring, so it would be another few minutes before he threw off the sleep gas -- and lighted on the flowers Kid had delivered.

Kid's flowers were peonies -- a devil-may-care attitude, risk-taking, the meanings due to their appearance in a traditional set of gambling cards, and both of which fit Kid to the hilt -- but it was unusual to have so many unopened blossoms in a bouquet. The entire arrangement was ringed with buds: ability to keep a secret. And there was still that central flash of white, which hadn't been the gas capsule.

Peonies didn't come in that shape. Conan squinted, peering closer.

A lone, waxy chrysanthemum was tucked deeply within the mass of pink blossoms.

Declaration of...

No. Conan wasn't going to finish that thought. Not until he'd figured out why Kid was bothering to court him. That wasn't what he'd asked for...

... right?

-0-0-0-

A couple days after being released from the hospital, Conan sat in his room, hunched over one of Ran's old physics textbooks and slowly finishing one of the puzzles on his cast. If Hiroshi's balloon had risen that far after dropping a 1-kilo sandbag from it, he was... approximately 20 kilos, and therefore... likely about 7 years old, and in violation of a federal regulation regarding the age of the pilot of a lighter-than-air vehicle.

Ha ha. Very funny, Kid.

Conan wrote the regulation's number in that grid, finishing that puzzle, and turned to the largest one.

The last clue for this puzzle was a haiku, describing a sharp turn in a path, and the space it fit in was only two characters long, starting in "ya". After careful consideration, Conan turned the paper on its side and matched the poem's shape to the kanji for "mountain". The second kana for "yama" went into the blank space.

Really. Kid was slipping: the grids were much too small to be particularly challenging crosswords, though at least the clue riddles were typically obscure... for the word puzzles, anyway. Several of the grids -- all the plain white ones -- had been numbers instead, with clues like the balloon problem. Three days, working sporadically, had brought Conan to the point where he had only one math puzzle to go, and no crosswords.

Which, since Conan was getting the shoulder immobilizer off tomorrow, was probably exactly how Kid had timed it anyway.

Which meant that he would have to find some other way to get his mind off Kid's revelation. Unbidden, his gaze slid towards a stack of books under his bed -- he'd managed to sneak the chrysanthemum out of Kid's bouquet before anybody else had noticed, and before the bouquet had been confiscated as evidence. The blossom was now folded between several layers of paper, near the back of the bottom book in the stack.

He still wasn't sure why he'd done that, or if it would preserve the flower at all. But he couldn't just throw it away... it was a clue.

The phone rang.

Conan tore his eyes away from the stack of books, half grateful and half resentful for the distraction.

It rang again, and he picked up.

"Moshi moshi. Edogawa-kun?"

"Hakuba-san." Dammit. If he was calling to ask about Kid again... "How can I help you?"

"Inspector Nakamori just recieved Kid's next heist note." Conan bolted up straight, as Hakuba added, "However, it is merely a date and time: next Monday, at 7:43 pm."

"So we should know the address and target already." From what Kid had delivered in the past few days... which wasn't much.

"Correct. I was curious as to whether you've recieved anything other than the puzzles on your cast since the last heist. The research department here is at a loss to find anything encoded into the notes Kid left for me regarding your injuries."

"Other than the flowers? No." Kid had only given those and the puzzles, but... "Wait. I think I might have something," Conan murmured, tucking the handset between his shoulder and chin. Hadn't he just been thinking how oddly small the puzzles were? And there were so many. Surely Kid was brilliant enough to make them all one large puzzle, or two if he wanted to keep numbers and words separate...

Why didn't the number grids have any blacked-out spaces?

"Hakuba-san. Do you have a copy of my cast's puzzles handy?"

Papers rustled on the other end of the line. "I do."

"The 5x5 word grid, there's only one black square per row and column, and none in the last row or leftmost column." As was true of all the word grids: one black square per row and column, some rows or columns missing black spaces altogether. "One across is 'uta', and two across is 'tsuki'." Four kana, one black square between. "'Ta' is two kana before 'tsu', so if you put the missing kana 'chi' in between..."

"I believe I see what you're implying. The next row's black space, using this method, is 'yo', the one after that is 'ta' -- or, more likely, 'da', since the two surrounding kana have dakuten marks -- and the last is 'ku'."

"Chiyoda-ku," Conan said. "Chiyoda City." The address was in the black spaces of Kid's crosswords. He quickly began marking the kana for the other puzzles. Ma-ru-no-u-chi... wasn't that a major financial district?

"I suspect that if we add the numbers in each row and column of your number grids, we shall obtain the building and block numbers as well. Thank you, Edogawa-kun. I'll bring this to the Inspector's attention promptly."

Conan hummed an absent acknowledgement, already adding numbers to get more of the address. Was this series a 1-1-2, an 11-2, or a 1-12? He needed a map. Did Marunouchi even have an 11th block? Maybe the decimal points in some of the answers corresponded to hyphenation...

He barely noticed when the phone began to beep its notice of a broken connection.

His latest round of puzzle-solving was interrupted by a knock on his bedroom door, at which point he noticed and dropped the phone back into its cradle. "Conan-kun," Ran said politely, poking her head in. "You have a postcard. It came in the mail." She offered the glossy card to him, picture-side up: an image of a public garden somewhere, bright flowers and a winding footpath before a large tree.

Conan took the postcard with a nod of thanks, flipping it over.

Sat. the 16th
9:30 pm
Dinner will be provided.

A tiny four-leaf clover was marked in the bottom corner.

Conan felt himself go cold. A date and time, no address, from Kid; just like the police note. His gaze dropped to his cast. The puzzles, the damned puzzles, held an address from the horizontal rows... and one from the vertical columns. Kid had put their next meeting place in an official police heist note.

An official police heist note that the police had. One to which Conan had just given them the key. This was very bad.

All the dangers Conan had come up with, should they get caught -- the accusations of pedophilia, the media frenzy, Conan's lost reputation as a skilled detective and the surety of being thrown in therapy -- he'd set aside in light of Kid's skills with deception and misdirection. How on earth could he have been so wrong, have underestimated Kid's daredevil risk-taking this much? He should have known better! The man was willing to take up with Conan in the first place when it could have so easily been a trap, could still so easily be a trap...

Except there wouldn't be any trap if Kid won him over, would there? If he succumbed to Kid's courting, if he -- they -- developed an emotional attachment beyond what Conan had proposed...

Now Kid was making sense, in that respect. The book, the consideration, the flower... all because it was safer for Kid to make this serious. He wasn't making sense with the damned puzzle note, though. Adding security with one hand and taking it away with the other -- the police were sure to stake out both addresses, the unused one for days after the heist, and Hakuba was already suspicious of something. He'd lurk even longer than the police.

Not that any of it would stop Conan from going. Kid had something up his sleeve-- Conan had to find out what.

-0-0-0-

The streetlamps sputtered fitfully as Conan coasted slowly under them on his skateboard. It had been a long two weeks since the skyscraper -- his shoulder was still a bit weak, and his wrist ached, but the bruising was barely a series of yellowing shadows under his skin anymore. That had been enough excuse, though, for the Task Force to stick him with the squadron watching the second site at last week's heist; a quiet park, rather than the bank that was logically Kid's target.

Conan's foot lowered, toe skidding on the concrete to draw him to a stop under one lamppost inside that same park. Kid had surprised them all, leading the bank squad here to this lamp, which he'd stood on top of, laughing his fool head off as the past few months' heists rained down upon the hapless officers. Conan hadn't been hit. Hakuba had been clobbered neatly with a bag containing one of the larger necklaces.

From this point under the lamp, the park sloped gently downward, delivering a panoramic view that matched the postcard Kid had sent him. No doubt Kid had picked this lamp to end his heist atop of specifically for that view, so that Conan would see it and know what part of the park to come to. Exactly where remained a question, though.

Considering the risks of meeting, Kid would've picked a spot that was hidden from this vantage point... which led to the logical problem that Conan couldn't see it from here.

However, the large tree was as good a place to start as any. It wasn't quite a focal point, but it framed the cityscape neatly and drew attention for that. Plus, a strategically-placed pile of mossy boulders on the far side of a gravel "river" blocked the base of it from sight.

Conan kicked up his skateboard, catching it under his arm, and headed down the cobblestone hill. (More accurately, he picked his way down the hill, since the gently sloping path was designed to be uneven, so that visitors would be pleasantly surprised when they looked back up from watching their step.) At the bottom, he paused a moment -- the footpath curved away from the rocks and tree, leaving the only access via a strip of grass and gravel, and only groundskeepers were allowed off the paths.

Only groundskeepers and, no doubt, phantom thieves who delighted in trespassing and rulebreaking.

His footsteps crunched on the gravel river as Conan circled past the boulders. They turned out to be set in a hook shape, cradling a tiny patch of grass in the darkness under the tree and out of sight.

A flutter of white billowed in the branches above -- Kid's cape, still attached to the thief himself.

The thief who lov--

Not thinking about it.

Conan took in the details as analytically as he could. The thief had one leg dangling from the branch, white dress shoe peeking in and out from the loose folds of his cape as his foot swung slightly. His other leg was drawn up, hands laced loosely over his ankle; his left cheek rested on that knee. The damned monocle reflected the quarter moon at Conan, the weight of Kid's watchful gaze behind it.

He looked... peaceful. Oddly so, considering all that had happened... maybe he was asleep instead of watching Conan.

"Kid?" Conan asked quietly. "I'm here."

Conan could see the lazy smile appear on Kid's lips. "I can see that," the thief drawled.

Definitely awake, then. Knowing that, it didn't startle Conan when one gloved hand slid from the grip on Kid's ankle, raising slowly to his shoulders. The sound of two snaps shot through the night, and the cape slithered down into Kid's hand. With a flick of his wrist, the fabric billowed and drifted to lie flat at Conan's feet.

Conan blinked blankly at the pristine white fabric. The note had said dinner would be provided... a picnic? He glanced back up at Kid just in time to see the man's fingers catch on his hat brim. The hat came sailing neatly after the cape, and Conan's brain came to a screeching, shattering halt.

He could see Kid.

Oh, the monocle was still in place, and a sliver of the man's face was pressed and hidden against his knee... but the quarter moon was still near the zenith, and the Tokyo cityglow was bright enough to mask the stars. It wasn't that dark among Kid's tree branches.

Kid's hair was a mess.

Conan bent sharply to pick up the hat, not looking at Kid. The abrupt movement caused his glasses to slip down his nose, and he pulled them off impatiently, stuffing them into a pocket. He didn't want to know that Kid's hair was as unruly as it had felt so many weeks ago, soft and clean between his fingers... that it was dark brown rather than pure black, a hair caught in the hatband and curling on the white cape...

... that Kid had thrown the hat because a pair of bento and a thermos were underneath it. Conan blinked yet again, staring down at the incongruous stack of plastic boxes.

Out of the corner of Conan's eye, he saw the toes of a pair of white patent leather shoes. Kid had slid out of the tree and was standing next to him. If he just looked up, he would see almost all of Kid's face in the bright moonlight; certainly enough to identify him. The monocle couldn't work without the tilted hat brim adding shadows.

His fingers clenched on that brim, sending aches up his fractured wrist. Kid was supposed to be making this situation safer for himself, not throwing off half his disguise to perform a magic trick. Unless he was wearing a mask underneath... but dammit, Conan had said he hated that.

The shoes moved out of range. Arms slid over Conan's shoulders, Kid pressing warmly against his back... and making no move towards the hat in Conan's hands. Skin brushed against the nape of Conan's neck: a nose, a broad expanse of cheek.

Okay, no disguise. There went one theory down the drain. So Kid was going to either stay behind Conan the whole time (how would they eat like that?), or he would blindfold Conan (again bringing up the problem of eating; if he planned to hand-feed Conan, Kid was in for an unpleasant evening)... or he was waiting for Conan to offer the hat back, to prove that he wasn't trying to get Kid's identity.

Except Kid's arms loosened after the initial hug, and he turned Conan in his arms. Conan barely managed to keep his eyes down, staring at the top button of Kid's jacket as his arms fell to his sides. Still, Kid made no move towards the hat.

Bare fingertips carded through Conan's hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Why?" somebody asked; it sounded like Conan.

"Because you came," Kid answered simply.

Because I... what?

"Why?" Conan repeated, and this time, Kid didn't mock him or deflect the question.

One fingertip tipped up Conan's chin, the thumb brushing delicately over Conan's closed eyes; the other hand pulled Conan's empty fist open before his nails drew blood. "Because," Kid murmured, "if I'm going to be a fool, I'm going to make it worth my while. And you came."

Gods. The world tilted, and suddenly the past two weeks made sense. The flower to declare Kid's intent of 'making this worthwhile'. This address given to the police, to remind Conan of the risks of his proposition. Even the attempt on Conan's life, meant to get at Kid and with the side effect of scaring the living daylights out of Conan, had probably dictated the timing for Kid. Any of it could've frightened him off... but Conan had come back.

And Kid was taking that as proof of... something. Something that was enough to deserve Kid's identity in answer.

All because Conan couldn't stay away. Because he'd lost everything, and propositioned Kid, but Kid had to go and make things complicated--

"Saa... no shame, now." Lips fluttered over Conan's eyelids. "I never had to agree."

-- and Conan couldn't stay away. Kid had never had to agree. Conan couldn't blame him for any of this mess. It was all Conan's fault, and Kid was...

Kid's tongue trailed wetly down Conan's cheek.

... Kid was...

Wet lips pressed against Conan's, tasting of salt.

... Kid was right. It had to be worth something. Subconsciously, he'd known that somehow... which was why he couldn't look. Not yet. It wasn't right yet.

Conan raised his hand, fumbling the hat back onto Kid's head himself, and drew away. "Dinner's getting cold," he mumbled. A stupid excuse: dinner was a picnic, it was designed to get cold.

He could almost feel Kid shutting down, the man straightening and pulling further away. Conan stepped forward to stay close. "I'll see someday," he promised. "Just not tonight."

Now Kid sounded confused. "Why not?"

Conan tried to articulate the tangled mess of emotion and thoughts in his head. "Because I ... came back, but I didn't know why. And I need to earn it, I guess." And there was something he needed to do first, if he was dealing with Kid's heart instead of his calculating mind.

He might be a bit... unskilled in the relationship department, but he wasn't that much of a cad.

Conan opened his eyes slowly, and saw Kid give a thoughtful nod. He'd tilted the hat low over his face, leaving only his mouth and chin out of shadow. "In that case," Kid said, after a moment, "Let me explain our dinner selections. This evening, we have a lovely vegetable tempura..."

-0-0-0-

The snap of Shin'ichi's cell phone closing echoed with finality through the room, the handset slipping through Conan's limp fingers. It landed on the folded-back sheet half-covering the couch, sending up a puff of dust.

That was it, then. He may as well get rid of the old phone now; the last person who needed the separate number... wouldn't. Shin'ichi was effectively gone.

Ran...

Dammit, his face was wet. He yanked his glasses off and scrubbed his fist briskly over his eyes, then pressed the bridge of his nose against a knuckle. Breathe.

She'd cried. He hated making her cry... but that was all he'd been doing for the past four years. Nearly five by now. This was long past due. And since Kid...

This was what people called a blank slate, he supposed. He certainly did feel blank now, but nowhere near as substantial as a slate. Rice paper, more like.

Fabric whispered behind Conan, the faintest breeze stirring the dust, and arms slipped around him from behind. Of course.

"How long have you been there?" Conan murmured.

Kid shrugged, the motion rolling over Conan's back. "Not long." He paused, gaze heavy on Conan. Or maybe that was just Conan's own weariness dragging his head down -- he'd had good reason to avoid this call for so many years. Kid sighed, and sadly, flatly added, "I wouldn't have asked you to do that."

Had the words been accusatory, or triumphant, or anything other than just as drained as Conan felt, Conan might've lashed out. As it was, he could only sag further against Kid. "I know." But... that was exactly why he'd done it. "I had to. I gave her up long ago, I just didn't want to tell myself that. Or her. And then there's..." you. Conan didn't finish the sentence.

Kid's face buried itself in Conan's hair, breath stirring the strands. "She's been a part of your life for so long," he murmured. "A part of your identity is defined as her childhood friend, the person she cares for... the man pulling inexplicably away for her own safety."

Conan couldn't answer. Yes, all that and more, and that had sounded like personal experience. His hand lifted, clutching at Kid's wrist. "I want to lie down," he whispered, barely audible to his own ears.

"What was that?" Kid asked.

But Conan wasn't able to speak again, his heart in his mouth. He'd given up so much already, bared so much to Kid's scrutiny... there had always been the chance Kid wouldn't understand why Conan hadn't officially broken up with Ran before now. He was just so tired... So, he deliberately shoved backward hard, overbalancing them. Kid yelped as they tumbled backwards onto the couch. A massive plume of dust went up, setting them both coughing.

Okay, that had been a dumb idea.

"I take it," Kid coughed again, hard, jouncing Conan, "That you don't plan to go home for a while."

"Can't," Conan answered breathlessly. He gasped and sneezed on the dust; he really needed to clean here more often. "Not yet. I'd have to pretend I didn't know what's wrong, and ask." Kid's fingers interlaced with his, ungloved and squeezing gently. Conan took a deep breath, managed to not sneeze this time, and pulled Kid's hand up to press against his face -- though blocked a bit by his own hand, he could still press his lips against the fold between thumb and forefinger.

He really just wanted to stay here for a long time with Kid. On Kid, pinning the other man to keep him here, if he had to. Kid might not vanish if Conan didn't hold him down, but he wouldn't feel real somehow... Conan flipped over, pulling Kid's arm over his shoulders.

It was all that kept him from falling off both Kid and the couch when he found himself nose-to-chin with himself. Or, rather, Kudo Shin'ichi, albeit with bedhead hair. No hat, no monocle, no infuriating grin...

After a moment's shock, Conan hissed, "That's not funny."

Kid's free hand wound around Conan's, wordlessly pressing his palm to the Shin'ichi-face.

Bare skin, warm and soft. Conan felt his stomach clench, even as he pulled his hand loose from Kid's and ran his fingers over that face. Bare skin on the forehead... the nose... over the eyes, that same shade of dark blue-violet that he'd thought were the nurse's contacts, only a few shades away from his own... the cheeks, as he'd already felt... the mouth and jaw...

"Oh my god," Conan whispered.

The corner of Kid's mouth twitched upwards. "The resemblence is uncanny, isn't it."

Uncanny barely began to describe it. Tense, Conan continued to carefully touch Kid's -- oh gods, real -- face. There had to be makeup, latex, something...

As he studied Kid's features, he started to take note of subtle differences. Kid's face was slightly wider, rounder -- just enough that he looked like Shin'ichi had at seventeen, not like Shin'ichi should at twenty-one. His mouth, quirking a grin when Conan brushed too lightly over a spot under his jaw, was also wider, and more expressive. His nose wasn't really a match, but similar enough to be easily overlooked.

He stared, horrified, into Kid's eyes, too shocked to remember that it was rude. "You..." But what could he say? What was there to say? Kid's real face... Kid looked like Conan should, like he'd had a brother...

Ew. No. Just an extremely disturbing resemblence. A... what was the Western term, a doppelganger.

"Can you still do it?" Kid asked softly.

Conan couldn't think of a reply, but one slipped out anyway. "I've been doing it." Kid's raised eyebrow told him that wasn't an answer. "I..." gave up Ran for you. "You're..." mine. Conan's throat closed, and he shook his head wordlessly.

"We're in this too deep?" Kid guessed.

Conan squeezed his eyes shut. Yes. That was as close as words could get. "We are," he choked out, managing to emphasize the plural.

Kid's hand unlaced from Conan's, fingertips sliding along his jaw. "It gets easier with time," he murmured. "To see past the face, I mean."

Conan shuddered, then slumped onto Kid's chest, face resting against Kid's neck. The man's breath tickled heavily at Conan's ear. "Promise?"

"Thief's honor," Kid swore softly.

It wasn't Shin'ichi's face. Kid's was different, he could study it until there was no mistaking who was who. "Then I can do this."

-0-0-0-

A couple days later, it was hot and sunny, and Conan's teacher sent the class to eat lunch outside. The Shounen Tantei found a small bit of shade near the outside wall -- a second-rate spot, but there weren't enough trees to shelter everybody, and at least they'd managed to claim a place on the grass instead of concrete.

Conan couldn't really appreciate the sunshine, or the upcoming break that had most of the class in high spirits. He picked at his food, only listening out of habit as the three youngest Tantei talked excitedly about midterms and summer plans. Agasa was arranging a Tantei camping trip, Mitsuhiko was going back to a favorite park to watch fireflies, Genta was waiting for the next Gomera movie...

... and Conan just wanted the vacation to come so he could stay home and rest for a while. Spend hours in the Kudo mansion, with his books and his old life, not having to watch Ran be less upset than he'd expected. Long summer days without school would give him time to be alone, to get used to Kid-his-doppelganger, to keep his cover, to recover from everything, to...

... to...

... to figure out why Ai-kun was staring at him like that. Conan glanced down at himself, not seeing anything that would warrant such a strange look. His fly was closed, his shirt buttoned properly, he was fairly sure Kid hadn't left hickies since before the skyscraper incident, so what--?

The bell rang, and he put his chopsticks back into his barely-touched bento, closed the lid, and stood. A quick tug at his sleeve slowed him, kept him from rushing back to class with the real kids, and he cast a wary glance at Ai-kun as she fell in beside him.

"Is this about the formula?" she asked quietly, without preamble.

Conan blinked. "What?"

"You've barely eaten this week," Ai-kun said, gaze dropping to his lunchbox pointedly for a moment. "They're going to notice soon."

'They' meaning 'Ayumi, Genta, and Mitsuhiko', Conan understood. But... although he was eating, at odd hours, they'd go prying into what was wrong. That was dangerous, whatever they discovered -- Ran, Kid, Black Ops...

"Yes," Conan lied flatly. "Yes, it's about the formula." It technically was, sort of. Ai had invented the apotoxin, had held out hope of a cure... and had quit work on it, leading to the entire fiasco that was Conan's existance in general and these past several weeks in particular. He could emphasize that and keep any hint at more -- like Kid -- out of it. Why shouldn't he be angry at Ai, anyway? "I've also been leaving my phone behind and going out to get some space," he added. "Is that a problem?"

Ai was silent for a moment. "No," she finally said, looking away. "No problem at all. I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you are," Conan replied. Hm, that came out a bit more snappish than he'd intended. But it worked. "You don't mind growing up again."

That earned him a sharp glare. "You're right," she said coolly. "I don't anymore."

Leading right into a reason for his recent behavior. "Well, I hope you're happy, then," he told her. "I broke up with Ran."

Ai stopped short, even as Conan continued on. "Conan...?"

But Conan didn't look back.

-0-0-0-

After classes, a short session of cram school, a murder that Conan solved almost by rote, and a good hard cleaning of several rooms in the Kudo mansion -- namely, the kitchen and the library -- Conan sat slumped, spent, in the corner of one couch, a book open in his hands.

He hadn't actually turned a page for several minutes.

What had he been thinking earlier? He'd manipulated that whole fight, as easily as he manipulated suspects into revealing clues and breaking into confessions, but it hadn't been justified. Protecting his relationship with Kid... he could've done that without being vicious. Which he had been.

But he had reason to be angry! She'd given up on the cure, so many years of work and hope and she'd just... quit. Just like that, with little more than a shrug and an infuriatingly calm "and what would we do with it?"

What probably rankled most was that Conan had failed to come up with a good answer to that question.

The Black Org was still out there, still going strong, still thought Kudo Shin'ichi was dead. They couldn't take up their own names with the Org around... and even with new identities, what could they do? They were getting too old to go back to high school and pass as actual teens, so forge more identity documents, fake high school credentials, step into a college life without the underlying experience? Cut ties with what support they got from Agasa, the Mouris, Conan's parents?

Stop being a great detective, never appear in the parts of Japan where he knew any of the police -- ignore the dead that seemed to pile around him? Give up his friendships with Heiji, Takagi, Ayumi and Genta and Mitsuhiko...

That wasn't any better than just remaining Edogawa Conan and Haibara Ai. So all they could do with a cure was... nothing.

And if he just repeated that daily for the next umpteen years, maybe his heart would get the idea.

He sighed and pressed more tightly into the upholstered corner of the couch, gaze drifting away from the marks blurring on the page. Ai was right, and he was wrong, and he'd lashed out at her too hard under the guise of protecting Kid.

Something heavy and cold settled on his head, and Conan blinked, tilting his head back. Somehow, he was completely unsurprised to see Kid -- monocle gleaming, hat nowhere in sight -- looming over him.

"Do you actually have a life?" Conan asked, openly curious, as Kid reached down to tug Conan's hand up. "Or do you just have a talent for popping up at the most dramatically opportune times?"

What clapped around Conan's wrist was most definitely not Kid's hand. "Both!" Kid chirped, as Conan gaped at the wide, heavy, bejeweled woman's bracelet between his arm and Kid's firm grip. "I'm in college, and I put in a lot of work on my timing." A second bracelet clicked onto Conan's other arm, and suddenly Conan recognized them as the contents of the safe-deposit box Kid had cleaned out at his last heist.

The heavy thing on Conan's head must be the headdress, then.

"Kid," Conan bit out. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"Hm?" Somehow, the book disappeared from Conan's hands, and the necklaces wound up draped around his neck without either of Conan's wrists being freed from Kid's grip. "Playing." A pause let Conan sputter, before Kid continued, "And getting your attention."

"This is that poor little Hindu girl's dowry!"

Kid beamed. "That's better," he approved. The infuriating lunatic. "A lively Shin'ichi is much more himself than a sulking one."

"I'll show you lively," Conan snapped. "And I am not sulking."

Kid raised an eyebrow eloquently.

After a long moment, Conan looked away. "Okay, maybe I'm brooding," he admitted. "A little. More like cogitating, really."

"Sulking," Kid sang.

Obviously, Conan was not going to convince Kid otherwise. "Get this stuff off me," he groused, flopping back against the cushions.

"Nope," Kid replied, sliding around to the front of the couch, the trailing end of a silk scarf firmly in his grip, keeping Conan from removing the jewelry himself.

... when had Kid tied his wrists together with the scarf, anyway? Under the stolen bracelets, no less!

Kid settled against Conan's lower legs, pinning them against the couch. "I'm having fun," he continued, tapping Conan's nose. "You look very amusing in all this."

"So glad to entertain you. Let go."

"What's wrong?"

"You're decking me out like a doll, that's what!" And getting his DNA all over the jewelry, not that Kid would return it with so much as a single cell left for evidence.

Kid shook his head. "Liar. You were upset before I ever showed up."

"So you thought making me mad would help. Brilliant. You're such a genius."

"It snapped you out of your funk," Kid retorted. "Now what's really wrong?"

"You're treating me like a child," Conan tried.

"If you're going to sulk like one instead of answer, I don't see why I shouldn't." Kid's eyes flickered stern for a moment. "You don't have to tell me what's so heavy on your mind, but an 'I don't want to talk about it' is better than a lie."

Just prove my maturity here, thanks, Conan thought sarcastically. He just couldn't stop being a jerk today, could he? "I had a fight with Ai."

Kid tilted his head. "What happened?"

"I've apparently been acting strangely since you." At least the whole week, maybe since the skyscraper, maybe even since he'd first considered propositioning Kid at all. "She called me on it."

"And you...?"

Conan cringed and looked away. "Told her off for giving up on a cure, and then about Ran."

"That doesn't sound too bad... relatively speaking."

Well, put like that, no. "I may have also implied that she stopped work for selfish reasons," Conan elaborated, mumbling, "and that she bears sole responsibility for ruining my life and hurting Ran. Though not in so many words."

"'May have'?" Kid asked pointedly.

All right, fine. "Did."

"And is that what you meant to do?"

"... not exactly." Not at first, not entirely, and not quite so harshly. "I wanted to give just enough valid reason that she wouldn't go digging deeper and find you."

Something warm flashed through Kid's eyes, but all he did was lean up, coming nose-to-nose with Conan, and say, "Then all you have to do is apologize. She's a smart woman; since you mentioned Ran, she'll have figured out that you have reason to be short-tempered." He paused, mouth quirking ruefully. "Er, pun not intended."

"Is it really that simple?" Conan asked plantively.

"Not really. She'll probably make you grovel a bit for revenge and then forgive you." Kid shrugged. "But an apology's a start to the groveling."

Conan lifted his bound-and-bejeweled wrists. "Does that mean you'll get this jewelry off me now?"

Laughing, Kid proceeded to strip Conan of the jewelry, and then got down to the business of distracting him thoroughly.

TBC

Chapter Text

Conan chewed thoughtfully on a slice of leftover pizza -- the remains of the latest heist note, Kid's grinning logo having been thoroughly decimated five times over by a hungry Task Force -- coasting along on his skateboard as Hakuba dragged him by the hand through university crowds, following a map inset on a photocopy of a university flier. (Hakuba had insisted that he couldn't waste time making sure Conan didn't wander off or searching for him if he did; Conan was making him pay for that.)

Pizza. That had been the entire note -- a stack of boxes from a campus pizzeria, a flier with a menu and an exhibit ad taped on top, and five large pizzas with the toppings arranged in Kid's signature. A thorough questioning of the restaurant's kitchen staff (Nakamori averaging 85 decibels, and topping out at an impressive 89-decibel bellow that had won Officer Matsumoto the office pool) had revealed only that a young woman had made the order, paid in cash, and been caught on tape. The tape itself had been useless; Kid's chosen disguise had been a heavyset foreign girl, who'd winked at the camera while the cashier was counting out her change.

Conan had yet to figure out how Kid had managed to make himself look Caucasian.

Hakuba paused at a crossroads, then turned left, Conan in tow. The university's new Archeology Department lay before them, sweeping curvilinear lines and rakish angles making it seem more a piece of modern art than a functional or efficient building. Sunlight gleamed off the tinted glass panes of the front, and spilled over onto wastefully broad concrete steps.

"Somebody didn't tell the designer what 'archeology' meant, did they, Hakuba-san?" Conan asked brightly.

Hakuba cast a despairing glance over his shoulder before pulling Conan-and-skateboard up the handicapped ramp and through the door.

It was considerably more dim and crowded inside than out, the tinted windows cutting the sun's glare, and the Task Force mobilized in full. Extra squads tapped for Kid-duty this week mingled with campus security, anxious faculty, and rubbernecking students. Early reporters tested camera angles, taking notes and snagging familiar faces on the Force for statements. High overhead, a colorful flock of replica antique stage costumes soared through the atrium space.

"Wonderful," Conan muttered. "Just what we need, a security risk in the artwork." They'd never spot Kid in that mess.

"Agreed," Hakuba said, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. He spotted whatever he was looking for, and towed Conan in that direction. "Nakamori-keibu called in an old classmate of mine again," Hakuba confided as they pressed past the masses of people, "for his opinion on the dramatics that are required of Kid's M.O., or some such nonsense. Kuroba-kun!"

The man turned, his almost-solemn expression breaking into a welcoming grin when he spotted Hakuba, and Conan felt the blood drain from his face.

Oh my god.

Kaitou Kid, in jeans and a rumpled Tshirt, grinned at the pair of them. "Heya, Hakuba-san. Have you seen this place? It's a magician's dream for street shows, tons of quirky angles and tiny blind spots--" His gaze fell on Conan, and he blinked. "Who's this?"

Hakuba was watching the pair of them intently, gaze sharp and heavy as Conan gaped up at Kid. "Kuroba-kun, meet Edogawa Conan. Edogawa-kun, Kuroba Kaito."

Kuroba Kaito. A name. Conan had Kid's name-- and Hakuba was going to notice Conan's shock and get suspicious. Conan had to cover for this fast! What was he going to do--?

"Something wrong?" Kid -- Kaito, the man had a name and it was Kaito -- asked.

"You look just like my cousin!" Conan blurted. Oh thank god, he'd said something that made sense.

Hakuba blinked.

Kid's grin relaxed almost imperceptibly. "I'll take that as a compliment. Pleasure to meet you. You're the kid who keeps almost catching the bandit, aren't you?"

"Yup!" Conan forced a grin onto his face and hoped it didn't look as sickly as he felt.

Kid cast a glance at Hakuba, who looked rather crestfallen, then leaned towards Conan, not-so-quietly murmuring behind his hand, "I think Hakuba wanted you to catch me. He thinks I'm Kaitou Kid."

... Hakuba was a rat bastard. No wonder he'd insisted on dragging Conan around by the hand. Introducing Conan to Kuroba Kaito Kaitou Kid personally, trying to catch them both... He was going to get 'accidentally' kicked somewhere delicate in the next dogpile-on-the-bandit he and Conan had with the Task Force.

"I'm not, of course," Kid continued, blatantly lying to Conan's face. "I've got alibis for tons of Kid heists -- heck, a couple of times I've spent the entire heist handcuffed to Hakuba himself!" Kid winked, then changed the subject, brandishing a flashlight that appeared from thin air in his hand. "Allow me to show you gentlemen the spots Kid's likely to find irresistable."

Would those turn out to be the places Kid didn't appear at all, or the ones Kid-- Kaito planned to use, just for the challenge of the extra security they were going to add on his own recommendation? Conan wondered, as Kaitou Kid ushered them off into the bowels of the building.

"Soooo..." Kaito drawled, as he twisted up into a crawlspace, "any idea what Kid's after?"

"None," Hakuba answered, boosting Conan up so Kaito could help him climb in. "There aren't any gems here right now."

Kaito scooped Conan onto a steel beam out of the way, hand lingering a second longer than necessary on Conan's hip, before he bent to offer Hakuba a helping hand. "Then what's with the big new security system? I heard some bigwig boasting about it the other day -- said Kaitou Kid himself couldn't get past it."

And you took that as a challenge, Conan realized, and don't actually HAVE a target.

"That explains a lot," Hakuba muttered. "The security system is likely to protect a lot of extremely fragile, personal manuscripts that reveal more about the day-to-day lives of the people than any eye-catching set of valuable minerals."

Kaito's eyes went solemn. "I doubt he'd be after those," he told Hakuba softly, though catching and holding Conan's gaze with his own. "The risk of destroying them would be too great."

And Kaitou Kid wouldn't ruin such priceless work just because some conceited idiot didn't know to keep his mouth shut. "Right," Conan piped up, pushing himself to his feet and balancing carefully on the wide beam. "He'll grab something that won't break if he drops it or has to go bouncing all over the place."

Kaito laughed. "'Bouncing all over the place', like an overgrown rabbit or something." He stood easily, dusting off his jeans. "I like that."

"It's likely anything in the vaults will be damaged if removed or handled roughly," Hakuba said dourly, as he followed the two of them unsteadily towards the atrium roof support struts, "But perhaps we shall be fortunate enough that he only intends to leave a message crudely scrawled upon the interior of the vault door. 'Kilroy Kid was here' or some such."

"Now there's an appealing idea!" Kaito approved. "No damage except to people's pride. Let's see, if I were to write an amusing remark... off the top of my head, 'Kid hearts heists.'"

"Senryuu," Conan offered. That type of poem was more suited to dark humor and human situations than haiku, which required nature and seasonal words. And considering that he and another detective prodigy were 'unwittingly' chatting with Kaitou Kid as he showed them various ways he could break in and hide for a heist... humor was definitely called for right now.

Kaito hummed thoughtfully. "A senryuu would take a bit longer to come up with."

Hakuba made a skeptical sound in the back of his throat. "You do realize that if a senryuu or a 'Kid hearts heists' is found scrawled inside the building after the heist, I'm going to suspect you far more strongly than ever before?"

"You say the sweetest things, Hakuba-kun. I didn't think it was possible for you to suspect me more strongly! But," Kaito spun on the ball of his foot, waggled his hands and made a mock-scary face, "how do we know that Kaitou Kid isn't within earshot, listening to our every word, right now?"

Conan couldn't help it. Much to his later mortification, he burst into giggles.

-0-0-0-

After they chased Kid from the heist scene, an inventory proved he'd taken nothing. However, he had scribbled a note on the interior of the climate-controlled vault's door, using a Sharpie from one of the upstairs offices. Contrary to what he'd laughingly suggested up in the rafters of the building, it contained no poetry or hearts.

Brand-new archeology building with state-of-the-art security: 500 million yen
The services of the Kaitou Kid Task Force and attendant squads for one shift (8 hrs.): 1 million yen
Five large supreme pizzas plus drinks: 11,000 yen
Knowing when to keep your mouth shut about who can't beat the security: Priceless

Technical: 9.3
Creativity: 9.5
Betting pool winner: Edogawa-kun

The Department unanimously voted to leave the note in place for future historic value.

-0-0-0-

The air still echoed with the twelfth toll of the foreign church's bell, as Conan jimmied the lock on the gates of Beika Elementary and coasted through. He'd spotted a flash of white outside the window on the train coming home from the university; it was worth a shot, to find someplace private yet open to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. Or at all, in fact; what with having to pick the locks on the entrance and roof doors, and climb the four stories between, Conan stepped onto the roof to find the thief perched casually above him, atop the stairwell's overhang.

"You broke into your school," Kid breathed, amazed.

Oh, that was just too much. "Everybody does it," Conan snapped. "What the hell was that tonight? You almost gave me a heart attack... Kaito." Kid bowed his head, and all the fight went out of Conan. "It was sheer luck I managed to say something that'll check out," he muttered.

"I thought it was admirably quick thinking," Kid told him.

"Well, it wasn't." Conan sagged back against the stairwell's wall, crossing his arms and rubbing his face. "A little warning would've been nice... I wasn't ready for your name."

Kid slid down from the overhang, landing silently beside Conan. "I didn't have a chance to call," he admitted, mirroring Conan's stance. "I... well, you've got my name, you could find out that's my school. I have a noon class and take late lunches, so Nakamori snagged me right out of the cafeteria barely half an hour before you arrived."

"You knew you were classmates with Hakuba, that you know Nakamori, that he's consulted you on Kid heists before..." At Kid's questioning look, Conan added, "Hakuba told me that much before he spotted you. It was only a matter of time."

"You just told me that you weren't ready for my name," Kid pointed out. "The rest of the information would've been as much as telling it to you... but you're right. I could've thought of a way to mention we might meet as civilians."

If Kid was willing to bend to admit mistakes on his part, Conan could too. "It wouldn't have done much to lessen my shock at coming face-to-face with you, anyway." He slumped miserably against Kid's side. "I guess."

Kid's arm lifted, looping around Conan and enfolding him in the cape. Conan glanced up, seeing his own too-pale face reflected in the monocle, and laced his fingers with Kid's. A long moment passed, with Kid gazing up at the stars and Conan watching Kid.

"For that split second," Kid whispered, "while you were staring and hadn't yet figured out what to say... you scared me, too."

I scared him... too. Conan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it wordlessly. What could he say to that? 'Sorry' didn't fit; Kid had scared him just as badly. 'Good' was worse, too vindictive.

Shaking his head, unsure of what he might mean with that, he burrowed closer against Kid, squeezing the hand he'd captured, and turned his face to watch the night sky with Kid. He picked out constellations, what few were visible against Tokyo's light pollution, and looked for shapes in the silvery edging of the clouds near the waxing moon.

Eventually, though, Kid shifted, regaining Conan's attention. "Ran-san's going to be wondering where you are," Kid sighed reluctantly.

True. "Not if I call and tell her I missed the train."

Kid shook his head. "Go home," he murmured. "I'll meet you at the arcade next week."

Conan blinked. "The arcade?"

"You and Kuroba Kaito were formally introduced and hit it off," Kid pointed out. "We can go to fun places now as well as private ones."

If they didn't flirt until Conan looked about sixteen, anyway. "The arcade, then," Conan agreed. "Call me about when."

Kid pressed his lips lightly against Conan's. "I will." The cloak billowed before Conan's eyes, and Kid vanished.

-0-0-0

On Sunday, Conan and the Shounen Tantei had a day out. They visited an ice-cream parlor in the blinding heat of the afternoon, solved the case of the body that crashed through the umbrella of their cafe table, and then caught the new anime movie before dinner. By the time Conan got home, it was getting dark fast, heavy clouds swallowing up the sunset and the wind picking up the scent of rain.

He'd just started to toe off his shoes in the foyer when he spotted the pile of mail waiting to be sent. From the sounds in the living room-office, the TV blaring out commentary on a horse race, Kogoro wasn't going to get the bills paid on time. Again.

Conan sighed, scooped up the envelopes and his skateboard, and headed back out. If he was quick enough about it, maybe he'd get the mail to the box in time... and maybe he wouldn't get soaked, either.

It was unfortunately too dark to use the solar jets by now, but he gamely kicked the skateboard into high gear and shot off down the sidewalk. Minutes later, he reached the pair of outgoing-mail boxes servicing this neighborhood. A quick, triumphant peek inside -- the joy that he could finally reach the handle at all again, much less peer into the box without standing on tiptoe, had yet to wear off -- assured him that the post truck hadn't made its pickup.

His hand was still in the mail slot when the looming clouds opened into a massive downpour. Conan cursed, losing his grip on the handle of the spring-loaded door. It slammed closed on his fingers. Conan hissed and yanked them loose, instinctively blowing on them hard and pressing the fingers into his mouth -- a stupid thing to do, really. He hadn't been burned or cut.

He pulled his hand back out and waved the fingers in the pouring rain. This time, he examined the digits closely, noting that they looked okay. He'd certainly had worse falling wrong in muddy soccer fields.

Something abruptly blocked the rain. Conan blinked, craning his neck up to peer through water-spotted glasses.

"Hakuba-san? What are you doing here?" The British detective stood just behind Conan, his umbrella held out to cover them both, and a manila envelope under one arm. He raised an eyebrow, and Conan added, "This mailbox is pretty far out of your way. And there's no stamp on that envelope."

"A characteristically excellent deduction, Edogawa-kun," Hakuba replied. "As it happens, I have been looking for you."

"Oh?" Why didn't that sound good?

Hakuba nodded, tipping his head minutely down the sidewalk. "Walk with me."

It wasn't a request. Conan kicked his skateboard up under one arm, holding it between them as he fell into step next to Hakuba. The umbrella tilted to cover them both against the blowing rain, despite the difference in their heights.

Hakuba gazed straight ahead, seemingly oblivious. Conan didn't buy it for a minute. There was something... a sense that the other was considering his approach, composing his opening sentences.

Conan's fingers itched to reach for his dart watch. He had three shots with this latest upgrade... but darting Hakuba would be stupid on so many levels. Best to just hear the man out.

They turned the corner, and Hakuba took a leading breath. "I first realized something was amiss the night of your fall from the skyscraper."

Conan's hand twitched -- fortunately, the one on the far side from Hakuba, out of his sight.

"It was not so much Kid's uncharacteristic behavior; you had a plausible explanation for that. However, both Hattori-kun and Kid revealed a suspicion of covert monitoring devices within the police station. It seemed a most intriguing anomaly. What, I wondered, could both Hattori Heiji and Kaitou Kid have in common that they would have such information?" Me, Conan thought, dread curling in his stomach. Even Kid's few Osaka heists had occured with Conan present.

"I began to investigate," Hakuba continued, voice flat and too cool, like a sword weaving hypnotically to shred at Conan's composure. "Examining secondary possibilities and discarding each as unlikely. Naturally, Kid could very well be an associate of Hattori's in his civilian guise, but Hattori's psychological profile indicates that he wouldn't knowingly consort with criminals. Kid's profile indicates a similar, albeit opposing, tendency to operate alone and away from the law. He is extremely unlikely to be within the force, or in an organization that would monitor the police.

"But I digress. After eliminating all other plausible possibilities, I returned to my primary hypothesis. That being that, as the two revealed their mutual knowledge due to that attack, their information centers upon... you."

"Okay, stop," Conan blurted, suiting word to action. "Just stop." He turned to glare up at Hakuba, hands clenching on his skateboard. "You investigated me?"

Hakuba's gaze dropped to the manila envelope under his arm. "And more, besides." He slipped the envelope loose, pulling a folder out from inside it. "I verified the identity of the cousin you claim is missing. I uncovered a complete lack of evidence that you've ever attempted to locate him." His eyes flicked back to Conan. "Your own profile indicates that you would never leave the matter of a missing person in someone else's hands. Allow the case to be worked on by others, yes; not work on it yourself, no."

Crap. Conan knew he'd missed something.

"So your missing cousin, isn't. Except that he seems to have dropped off the face of the planet, without any missing persons reports being filed. By that point, the matter was becoming," Hakuba switched to English for a moment, "'curiouser and curiouser', to quote Carroll. Hattori and Kid both know something about you that would necessitate a third party bugging the station. There was a third party at the skyscraper, directed at Kid, yet their mutual concern was you. Then your cousin..." Hakuba trailed off, shaking his head.

"I've learned not to underestimate the potential for absurdity where Kaitou Kid is concerned. Therefore, I took it upon myself to test an outlandish hypothesis." Hakuba held the folder out. "Imagine my shock when the results supported it."

Hand shaking, Conan accepted the folder. He pressed the wet skateboard against his side, elbow holding it in place, as he flicked on the tiny light in his wristwatch with the thumb of his other hand.

The bottom two-thirds of the topmost paper inside showed an all-too-familiar chart. The top third...

Edogawa Conan. 174 cm. 58 kg. 400 IQ. A+ type blood. 20-21 yrs.

Conan swallowed past a lump in his throat. It was right there, in damning black and white. There was no need to ask Hakuba where he'd gotten Conan's DNA. His clothes from the skyscraper, the bloodstained shorts and bandages, were still in police evidence boxes.

20-21 years.

"Oh my god," Conan choked out.

"Edogawa-san," Hakuba murmured, the words snapping Conan's attention firmly back to the British detective, "I would appreciate an explanation."

Conan stared, mind -- for once -- utterly blank. Here-- now-- in the middle of the street where anyone could have a directional mike pointed right at them?

Hakuba looked away, coughing uncomfortably. "White noise generator," he muttered behind his fist, carefully not looking at Conan. "It's been on the whole time; you probably haven't noticed with the rain. If my theory is accurate, I've already said enough to get us both killed without it, besides." A sharp look. "Haven't I... Kudo Shin'ichi-kun?"

Conan nodded dumbly.

"How?" Hakuba asked. The question was almost pleading, eyes suddenly fierce with a sentiment Conan recognized all too well: the need to understand, to know what had happened, that drove him -- and Hakuba, and Hattori -- to be detectives.

Hakuba needed to be told.

"Once..." Conan's voice cracked, and he bit his lip. Deep breath. Try again. "Once upon a time, there was a criminal organization with a poison that vaporized body mass and played havoc with the activities of a host of genes..." Slowly, Conan went through the gun transaction, being caught, the one in ten thousand freak occurance that let him survive.

The Org's bombings. The murders. The 'accidents' that weren't. Vermouth's disguise mastery. Hattori's discovery of the truth. The temporary cures.

He didn't mention Ai. She didn't need another blow to her cover.

"... I don't know when, or how, Kid found out. I wasn't even sure he did know until that night." The night of the proposition, but Hakuba would assume the skyscraper.

Wait.

"We had an encounter before I was shrunk," Conan added, musingly.

He... didn't necessarily need to hide the proposition.

"Kid could very well have identified me by my ability to chase him."

Conan might be the best at nearly catching Kid, but it was Hakuba who'd studied the thief's psychology.

"He's always been fascinated by me, ever since I was six again."

The man was a scientist as well as a detective; Conan was not. He'd catalogued the ins and outs of Kid's insanity, every quirk, every moral present or absent in the thief's head, and understood the extent of Kid's madness in a way that Conan couldn't... as if Hakuba saw the proverbial forest while Conan saw only the trees.

In addition, Hakuba was logical to a fault. He'd understand that Kid was inclined to not see Conan's apparent age, once proven that it didn't match the reality. Conan could explain it all to Hakuba.

Conan could give Hakuba Kid's identity, enough evidence to get a warrant, without ruining both their reputations with pedophilia.

His stomach churned at the thought. After all this... Fair and square in a heist was one thing, but...

... but...

... Conan swallowed, feeling the sour burn of bile instead of the previous lump in his throat. Not like this. He didn't want to catch Kid like this.

Not couldn't.

Wouldn't.

Conan stared at the lessening rain in utter shock. Wouldn't. "Here," he whispered, handing the folder back to Hakuba. "You'll need to burn this, and any existing copies. Pulverize the ashes. Scatter them in the garden. Make a backup of your hard drive, every computer you used to get these results, without this data. Melt the old drives. And never say that name again... I'm Edogawa Conan. Kudo Shin'ichi's dead. The Black Org say so."

And neither they, nor you, are getting to Kaito through me.

-0-0-0

The last time Conan had skated through here, he'd been petulantly forcing a clueless Hakuba to drag him along the sidewalk, and nobody had given them more than a passing glance. Foreign students were more numerous at universities, and nobody paid any attention to kids... unless they were alone. Which, this time, Conan was. He was extremely out-of-place on the campus.

He bypassed the soaring-glass-monstrosity of the Archeology Department, coasting along a handicapped ramp that circled the building and spilled out into a small plaza fronting the student union. In the back of the union building, a skywalk-topped archway connected Fine Arts classes to the Western-style auditorium. It was here that, according to the schedule database Conan had hacked, Kuroba Kaito should currently be having a lab.

Conan's eyes passed incuriously over the posters on the glass doors as he kicked up his skateboard and entered the building. Hm. He'd never heard of the upcoming play... it looked to be a mystery, so it might be worth coming to see. (Though The Sinister Favorite wasn't a very good title. If the killer wasn't the only left-handed character in the play, Conan would eat his hat. So to speak.)

The auditorium wasn't quite a madhouse of tech-crewmen rushing around, but that was because Conan was coming in from the back of the theater, where the audience would. Up on stage and in the catwalks overhead, power tools screeched, people shouted, and hammers pounded out a bewildering cacophony. There was no sign of Kaito, so he was probably backstage.

Conan slipped down the center aisle, ducking under a ladder and around a door -- probably a piece of the set -- leaning on it side against the seats, then headed around to the stairs on the side of the stage.

A large hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Bit lost, kid?" a friendly, rough voice asked.

Conan peered up at the muscular student who'd caught him. "Uh, no." Was that a pincushion strapped to his wrist? And a tailor's tape measure hanging around his neck. "Looking for Kuroba Kaito?"

"Makeup," the burly guy told him, jabbing a thumb across the stage. "Other side of the stage and straight back. If you find the costume room, you've gone too far."

"Thanks."

"Keep it quick, kid!" the man called after him. "He's working!"

Working in makeup. Why was Conan not surprised? He jogged across the stage and past the curtains. Straight back... yyyeah, there was no missing the brightly-lit table along the wall here, a cheap mirror helping to reflect the lights back onto the two figures before it. One, the actor, sat in a plain folding chair. Bent over him, a tin of greasepaint in one hand, stood Kaito.

As Conan approached, Kaito straightened and leaned over to grab another color.

The handle of a large pair of scissors stuck straight out of the actor's eye. Conan must've made some faint sound of shock, because Kaito and the actor both suddenly looked up, Kaito's eyes widening a fraction more than the actor's lone surviving one. "Hey," Kaito said, not missing a beat, "Edogawa-kun, great timing." He gestured at the actor. "C'mere, tell me how this guy looks."

At this distance, it was easy to tell the wound was latex. It didn't have quite the right organic look. But onstage... "Almost dead," Conan informed him.

"Shoot," Kaito muttered. "I'm supposed to be making him look all dead."

"The sitting up and breathing part isn't helping with that," Conan said, deadpan.

Kaito blinked, and the actor grinned. "I'm working on that," he told Conan solemnly.

"And these need to be angled more upwards," Conan added, pointing at the gleaming metal of the scissor handles. "You've done damage, but the blades only nicked the bottom of the brain. If they hit at all. You might've only gotten the sinus cavity."

"You have no idea how hard I worked to prevent the scissors from drooping like that," Kaito grumbled, as the actor's friendly smile fell away.

"Sorry."

"Um?" The actor gulped. Conan suspected his face was rapidly going pale under all the makeup.

"Oh, right." Kaito turned his hand palm up, gesturing. "Edogawa Conan, our victim, Tobako Kemuri. Tobako-san, Edogawa Conan, detective." Conan could hear the lingering teasing in that word, but he doubted anyone else could. "We met at the Kid heist the other week. Edogawa-kun mostly works murders, though."

"He asked me to consult on your makeup," Conan offered. Tobako's one visible eye didn't show any sign of believing that. Conan offered up his most childish grin. "I haven't seen 'stabbed through the eye' since I was eight, though," he said in a similarly cheerful voice. The actor's composure slipped further, as Conan added, "It's really hard to do. Lots easier to put an icepick or hammer through the temple."

"Ah," Kaito said, stepping away from Conan and circling behind Tobako, "but our killer gets him from behind. Excuse me, Tobako-san." And Kaito made a fist with his left hand, pulled on the actor's forehead with his right, and mimed stabbing right through the eye on Tobako's upturned face. "See? Easy."

Conan nodded thoughtfully. "I see. That works quite well." He paused, gaze flicking from Tobako's wild-eyed expression to Kaito's face. "But you still need to angle the murder weapon more upwards."

"I'll get right on that," Kaito replied, grabbing a little bottle out of the mess on the makeup table. "Let me get this off Tobako-san," he popped the top, tipping clear fluid onto a soft cloth, "and we can get to working on that."

The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol reached Conan's nose as Kaito began wiping around the edges of the eyepiece. The last time he'd smelled that...

Kaito shifted, glancing at Conan before deliberately tipping the right side of his face into shadow.

Conan still had the blindfold from that evening. He couldn't let himself see Kid's face then, because he would've been tempted... no, would've been obligated to sit down with a forensic artist and turn the resulting portrait over to the Task Force. Which, he now knew, would've had Hakuba and Nakamori slapping cuffs on Kaito within the hour.

He wouldn't have had a problem with that, then.

Now, though... now that he'd had to face a very real opportunity...

Kaito set the eyepiece aside, and wiped down Tobako's face with a fresh side of the cloth. "All set. Go wash up, and I'll see you again tomorrow." Tobako gratefully fled, and Kaito began packing up his supplies.

Conan stole Tobako's seat, pulling it closer to the table, and rested his head on one hand.

"Being heavy-handed with the metaphor?" Kaito asked, in a lower, softer voice.

Conan glanced around the noisy, busy backstage area. "Yup." Not their empty theater, this. "Thought I'd come to you in your natural habitat," he added simply. "Return the favor." Because their previous encounters had been in Conan's life or neutral territory. Except for the first one, and Hakuba's intrusion, they'd also all been on Kid's terms.

"I appreciate it," Kaito said, stuffing brushes handle-first into the tiny chinks between bottles. "What prompted it?"

"There was something I needed to tell you."

Kaito's hands stilled. "Sounds serious."

"Hakuba found me out." Pause, give Kaito a second to process that. "His DNA analyzer includes age in the data."

Kaito's expression turned so strange as to be unreadable. It wasn't Kid's mask, but something very close to it. "That explains why he's been back to his old tricks recently." At Conan's quizzical look, he explained, "Eyeing me funny."

Conan blinked. "I thought he always eyed you funny." He'd certainly done so at the heist.

"Yes, but it hasn't been the," Kaito mimicked Hakuba's voice, "'my less-than-esteemed high school and possibly professional adversary' look." Kaito thought a moment. "Now that I know why, it was more a 'can I definitively deduce whether you treated Edogawa-kun as an adult because you're aware he is, or because it's part of your natural behavior patterns?' look." Switching back to his own voice, he added, "Which is rather a mouthful, but he's in love with his own vocabulary when you get him going."

Conan raised an eyebrow. "I don't know anyone like that," he said dryly. This was getting away from the topic... and he still couldn't read Kaito's expression. "You realize that it was... possible," if he'd ignored his heart, "that I could've told Hakuba everything?"

"I haven't been arrested yet," Kaito replied. "I was wondering if you'd realized." He shrugged, turning back to rummage needlessly through the bottles. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you did."

"I would've," Conan shot back. Kaito's strange expression cracked. "I thought of it, even. And I..." felt ill at the thought. Still do. "Wouldn't. Won't. Do it."

"You would've. You wouldn't. You won't." Kaito didn't look confused, exactly, but he didn't look as if he quite understood, either. And, really, Conan could've put that much better.

He took a calming breath, and said, "I would've blamed myself. I realized I could-- that I had the capability and opportunity, but not the desire, to turn you in. So I won't turn you in. Unless you get caught fair and square in a heist, which is entirely different and don't think I won't still be working as hard as always to capture you fairly."

Kaito smiled slowly -- not manic or mask-like -- just smiling. "I'd be slipping if I thought that," he said. Then he took Conan's hand, and turned back to the latex eyepiece they were supposed to be correcting.

Well, at least he didn't need me to spell it out, Conan thought, fingers curling around Kaito's.

He never did. That's what made them work.

- fin -

Chapter Text

A few days after discovering Kid's name, Conan stumbled to lean against the safety rail on the back of the pad. His heart pounded in his ears, breath coming hard and spots flashing before his eyes.

A large cup intruded into Conan's field of vision, blocking out the arcade's colorful, blinking spotlights. Conan's gaze followed the hand holding the cup, up the arm attached to that hand, and ended on Kid -- Kaito's -- teasingly sympathetic face.

"Thanks," Conan murmured, grabbing his cup of ice water and holding it to his head. The styrofoam was just thin enough that it felt good; a blessing on a muggy summer night. Though the arcade had air-conditioning, it wasn't really enough to fight August heat, the evening crowds, and some bozo -- namely Conan -- trying to duke it out against Kaitou Kid on a Dance Dance Revolution machine. And losing badly: Conan hadn't done better than a B, while Kaito was double-A's across the board.

"You're secretly a jackrabbit on espresso, aren't you," Conan observed mildly, pressing different sides of the cup to his cheeks. Mm, cool...

"I practice," Kaito replied. Conan snorted at the thought; yeah, he could see the similarities between Kid's DDR footwork and his heist bouncing. Not. Kaito added, "Would you do better if I dropped a soccer ball on your pad?"

Actually... "Probably," Conan replied.

He was not prepared for Kaito's sudden grab at Conan's belt buckle. "Hey!" Conan yelped, nearly dropping his drink as the soccer ball popped out into Kaito's hand.

Kaito tossed the ball neatly onto the center square of the dance pad. "Another round?"

Conan stared. Then he took a long, deliberate sip of his ice water, leaned forward, and set the cup on the ledge next to the screen. "You," he said, "are going down."

Kaito's gaze flicked below Conan's belt. "Promises," he replied with equal intensity, feeding yen into the machine. He turned away with a smirk, stomping out a song selection as Conan sputtered.

The music started up, and Conan quickly kicked the ball into place. If Kaito had the time to dare to flirt in public... well, Conan would put a stop to that right now.

He won that round, barely. The next round, they tied with double-A's, though Conan's score was a couple hundred points lower than Kaito's. Midway through the third round, Kaito idly remarked, "You know, that thing's kinda perverted."

Conan didn't glance away from the scrolling arrows, dribbling his soccer ball around the pad and half-watching his combo number flash higher. "What thing?"

"The buckle ball."

The wha-- Conan's brain made the connection and the reasoning behind it in the same instant, and he missed several steps. Belt buckle. Ball that popped out and inflated right at Conan's waist. Perverted. "No, I didn't realize," Conan answered, praying to his ancestors that his face wasn't as red as Kid's necktie, "and thank you, I'm never going to be able to use this again."

The game terminated itself, blocky letters scrolling "FAIL" onto the screen with appropriate canned booing. Conan glanced from the darkened screen to Kaito.

"You did that on purpose," he accused.

Kaito smirked in response.

Conan growled back, and stalked off to buy an ice pop. On second thought, forget stopping the other boy. He'd play Kaito's games and win.

The rest of the night proceeded along those lines. After the ice pop nearly gave Kaito a nosebleed, Kaito dared Conan to a para-para game, and danced in the row behind Conan.

Conan was wearing summer shorts. Kaito was entirely too smug about losing.

In turn, Conan dragged him over to the karaoke machine. That was his turn to be smug about losing, smirking at Kaito's rather pained smile. Kaito raised a brow, and promptly found a shoot-em-up game featuring music-note targets. Then Conan pulled him over to a game starring a bumbling thief. Kaito beat him at it. Afterwards, they beat each other several times at a hang-glider game, then at car racing, then motorcycles.

Eventually, they ran out of games to get back at each other with, and stumbled out of the arcade, leaning on each other and laughing almost too hard to walk. Kaito steered Conan off in an odd direction, neither towards the train station nor the Mouri agency.

"Where are we going?"

Kaito raised a finger, bangs shadowing his eyes and Kid's grin stretching toothily across his face. "That's a secret!" he caroled.

"If you turn your hair purple I will strangle you," Conan promised. He'd watched Slayers once too often with Sonoko squealing in Ran's ear about the male characters. The crossdressing episodes, he'd blocked out of his mind from sheer trauma.

Kaito -- now clearly Kid, despite the casual clothes and missing monocle -- turned off into a narrow alley, stained concrete walls rising high to enclose a rusty-looking fire escape. He jumped lightly into the air, catching hold of the bottom rung of the escape's ladder, and pulled it down on well-oiled hinges. "Quietly, now," he murmured. "People live in these rooms."

Conan paused, but followed Kid with a muffled curse. He'd long since given up on not following Kid; it was just something about Kid, Conan couldn't stay away.

The ladder raised softly back into place, on springs that couldn't possibly have been original to the old escape. Conan gave Kid a stern, suspicious look.

Kid merely beckoned, and began climbing the stairs on thief-silent feet. Conan followed.

Soon they reached the top of the building, a flat expanse lacking more than a low retaining wall and a too-small heating unit off to one side. The towers of downtown Beika spread across the horizon, reaching tangles of train tracks and roadways towards them, sparkling with distant, multi-colored lights. A strong wind ruffled at Conan's hair, bringing the bass and guitar from someone's radio far below, the melody drained by distance.

Kid stretched, breathing deeply, at home in his element. Previously-unnoticed tension melted from his posture, and he sighed. Conan imitated him -- The roof smelled of heat, baked concrete losing the day's sun slowly. They were both going to stink soon here, too, though right now Conan smelled more of arcade food and smoke than overheated muscles and sweat. The wind was blowing quite a lot of that away.

Somebody downstairs had an herb garden; another had a coffeemaker on, probably settling in for a long night.

"I found this place," Kid said quietly, calling Conan's attention back, "flying on my hang-glider. There's plenty of landing space, good wind, limited building access, no windows with a view, and no security cameras." Kid's grin shifted to a leer as he fell out of his stretch. "So. About that ice pop."

Conan backed a step away, mock-wary. "You were asking for it."

"It was strawberry."

Well, yes. That had been the point. "... really asking for it?"

Kid's leer widened. Conan backed away, Kid matching him step-for-step until Conan bumped up gently against the heating unit. His breath caught, as Kid's hands settled on either side of Conan's head, arms boxing him in against the smooth metal.

"Now where are you going, little tease?" Kid breathed, the silly phrase made warmer by his own amusement. He leaned in to kiss Conan.

Conan dropped into a crouch, snickering as Kid's mouth landed on the unit. It was a cheap ploy, but the look on Kid's face when he craned his head down was worth it. Conan grinned.

Kid chuckled, also dropping to his knees to trap Conan again. "Funny," he said, deadpan, resting his forehead against Conan's.

"Payback," Conan corrected. He hooked an arm behind Kid's neck and pressed upwards for the promised kiss.

Kid drew back, grinning.

That was the one problem with payback. Escalation.

Conan growled, yanked hard, and flipped Kid underneath him. One leg over Kid's hips, his free hand knotted in Kid's shirt, he captured Kid's mouth with his own. Overbalanced, they fell, and their heads clonked against the heating unit with a reverberating clang.

They froze, staring into each other's wide eyes. Then a door slammed down below, audible through windows open to the summer heat, and in the ensuing mad scramble Conan didn't realize they weren't running for the fire escape until Kid had already thrown a rope out.

"I can't use that!" Conan hissed.

Kid, already half-over the side, tossed a pair of thick white gloves at him. Conan yanked them on, grabbing hold of the rope angled sharply away from the wall from Kid's own grip, and clambered out over the drop.

The rope creaked alarmingly in Conan's grip, swaying as Kid rappelled skillfully down a wide expanse of windowless wall on this side of the building. His weight didn't allow for Conan to do the same; Conan improvised, catching the rope between his sneakers and sliding down hand-over-hand.

When they were some two stories down, a metal plate crashed overhead. Conan glanced down to meet Kid's shadowed gaze. Kid's impossibly huge, devilish grin gleamed in the light, broken by a gloved finger held to silence.

Trapdoor, Kid mouthed, before stretching carefully away from the wall. He angled his head awkwardly, breathed deep, and opened wide.

A cat's yowl echoed from another side of the building, rising to match every twist in Kid's facial muscles.

Well. That was one way to make sure the curious tenant didn't look over this side of the building. But hadn't Kid said there wasn't any roof access?

After several tense minutes, the trapdoor clanged once more, and Kid returned to sliding down the rope. Conan flexed his hands, one after the other, and followed much more clumsily. At the bottom of the rope, Kid helped Conan regain his balance, then tugged at the rope. It vanished in a puff of smoke.

Conan eyed the fading mist. "By the way, why did we do that?"

"Do what?" Kid asked.

"Run."

Kid smiled. "Top floor tenant's a real grouch," he said. "Guess I would be too, if I wasn't allowed to booby-trap the fire escape." More lightly, he added, "You'd think he got 'punk delinquent teens' up there all the time."

"We could've taken the fire escape." Kid raised an eyebrow, and Conan reconsidered. Kid, use a normal and therefore predictable means of escape. "Right. Nevermind."

Kid laughed. "Come on. Walk me home."