what_we_dream | Magic Kaitou: One Week (Reply)

Title: One Week
Series: Magic Kaitou
Pairing: Kaito/Aoko
Rating: G
Notes: Written for

vhasbls

Summary: "A round of questions. Seven days, seven questions. Anything you like, barring the one that I can't answer. I'll tell the truth, kaitou's honour."

Sunday

Kaitou Kid doesn't make mistakes. Aoko grows up knowing that, grows up with her father telling her it's how he'll prove he's better than the moonlit thief – when he finally catches him it won't be because Kid screwed up, it'll be because he's outplayed his quarry.

Then Kid is shot down over Osaka Harbour, and even if her father doesn't realise the difference, she at least knows that although Kid never makes mistakes he can still fall. She shouldn't care: it shouldn't matter how Kid is stopped, just that he is. But as much as she hates him, he's become a staple of her life. A laughing voice and mocking smile which, while frustrating as hell, have never endangered anyone. She wants her father back, not Kid dead.

Which is why, when on his escape from his current heist the ceiling his escape-line is anchored to crumbles and cuts him loose five stories over hard concrete while she's alone in the room, she leaps for the balcony doors. Slams them shut against the thin wire, and turns the lock. The small grappling hook at the end of the wire breaks free from the ceiling and whistles through the air like a knife as Kid drops into free-fall, and then slams straight into the closed doors.

They shudder violently with the full force of the thief's weight, straining against their hinges so hard she wonders for two horrific seconds whether they're strong enough. But the hinges and the lock hold, after and a few frantic heartbeats they sag back towards her, the grappling hook dropping as the line's cut. She has no idea whether Kid's in the hands of the police, but knows he is at the very least alive.

It takes nearly five minute for her heart rate to return to a regular pace, by which time she's learned from an embarrassed Sawara that Kid has escaped again. No one mentions the balcony doors.

She has a hard time going to sleep that night, the slow cracking of the ceiling's drywall replaying itself over and over before her eyes. It's stupid: she noticed, she acted quickly enough, she saved his life. But all she can think is: what if she hadn't? What if she'd been too slow, what if she hadn't noticed? What if Kid were nothing but a red smear on the pavement right now. It makes her stomach turn.

Consequently, when the light tapping comes at the window, she's not only awake to notice it, she's so highly-strung that she jumps. And then, turning slowly, stares at the curtains covering the glass. Again, there's a quiet regular tapping, like someone knocking very lightly with their knuckles. On her second-story window with no balcony and one-inch metal frame.

Aoko stands very slowly, looking around for some sort of weapon and only coming up with the metal baton for next week's school track rally. She steps over, raises it up above her head, and yanks the curtains open so sharply the hooks screech against the rail.

Kaitou Kid is sitting on her window frame. Or, more accurately, the very tips of his white shoes are resting on it, while gloved fingers hold onto the indented side of the building. Aoko startles and drops the baton; it lands softly on the edge carpet spreading out from beneath her desk. And then, eyes wide, she reaches out and slides the window open.

She should be screaming for her father, should be thumping on the floor, should be trying to signal him somehow. But she is perfectly aware that, as soon as she does, Kid will be gone like a flash.

Still, opening the window at midnight to say "Yes?" as if she were answering the door to a salesperson doesn't seem like quite the appropriate action.

Kid grins, all bright teeth and moonlight. "Ah, Nakamori-san. I hope I didn't wake you."

Aoko is abruptly reminded that she is wearing her pajamas. She is, right now, conversing with Kaitou Kid in her pajamas. All she can think is: Thank God I didn't wear a nightdress.

Kid seems not to mind her silence. He settles slightly, grin fading to be replaced by something approaching seriousness. "I came to thank you for your actions tonight. I realise that you can hardly have many reasons to feel sympathetic towards me, and that you certainly have no intention of helping me. That you acted against your loyalties makes me all the more grateful – and all the more guilty for having forced you to."

No one has ever said Kid's not gallant – she's impressed despite herself that he managed to avoid the condescension of praising her for her decision. Not enough to mitigate her underlying anger at him, though.

"I'm not a killer," she says, and absurdly is hurt rather than pleased when she sees him flush in chagrin. She tells himself it's his own fault for coming here, for implying she could have made the choice to see him dead. It almost helps.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, dark eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. "I didn't mean to imply that."

She knows Kid's a first-rate trickster, a master of deception and lies, and that it's completely demented to believe a single word that comes out of his mouth. She does, all the same.

"Why are you here?" She doesn't manage scathing, only a kind of lost uncertainty. As much as she wants to hold onto her anger, use it for support in the face of a man with twenty years of criminal experience, the sheer fact that she's standing in her nightclothes having a midnight conversation with Kaitou Kid is robbing her of her certainty.

Kid, for all his apparent chivalry, apparently isn't against using circumstances to his advantage.

"I came to thank you," he repeats. "I would offer you jewels if I thought you would accept them, but as I know you won't it would be a rather underhanded gift. In fact, I can't think of much that you would accept, or that I could give. Myself in handcuffs isn't on the table, I'm afraid." Here he grins. She crosses her arms.

"I don't want – or need – a reward for helping the one person in the world I can't stand."

Kid doesn't flinch, but she sees him stiffen like a plant in a sudden frost. His head lowers infinitesimally, brim shading his eyes in an even darker shadow.

"I apologize, Nakamori-san. It seems I can't keep from putting my foot in my mouth around you. I didn't mean to – I didn't intend to offer you a prize for betraying your principles, but rather a chance to, well, get back at me."

Aoko raises an eyebrow. "I could just push you off the windowsill," she points out.

Kid looks up, eyes widening, and then to her surprise bursts into quiet laughter. "Yes, if you'd prefer, you could do that," he admits, glancing down. "But I think the hydrangea might resent it. No, I was thinking of something less physical. A round of questions. Seven days, seven questions. Anything you like, barring the one that I can't answer. I'll tell the truth, kaitou's honour."

"I should trust that?" It's her first, immediate thought and she voices it. The second is: How is that a thanks, or an apology? But she's not in the top percentile of her grade for nothing, and the answer comes nearly as quickly. It's a surprising offer, and a dangerous one. He must know how smart she is. Must know just how badly she could hurt him with words; much worse than she could with blows. An offer, in fact, designed for her.

"I'll swear by anything you like, but you must know I don't take my work lightly."

She does. It would be easy for him, so easy, to turn to real theft. Not to return the gems he steals, not to provide notice, not to hold to pacifism with an iron fist. So easy for him to hurt people, much easier than following his code. But he doesn't.

"Alright," she says, slowly. "One week, seven questions. Question one: Where's tonight's necklace?"

Kid grins, and lets go of the building with one hand. Gives it a flashy wave, and opens it. In his palm gold glistens in the low light. He offers it to her as if it were worthless. "Take it, and the question, as a bonus."

"You think I want to explain how I ended up with it? Just – just return it, okay?"

Kid waves his hand again, and the necklace disappears. "As you wish," he answers, tone mocking for the first time this evening. "See you tomorrow, Nakamori-san."

She opens her mouth to answer, and he leans back and lets go of the building. It takes all her self-control not to scream; she leans out after him, both hands gripping the sill tightly. In the darkness below, there's no sign of a white suit. There's also no sound of a body hitting the hydrangea, or the concrete path beyond it.

Aoko sighs and drops to her knees. Maybe when she wakes up tomorrow, this will turn out to have all been a dream.

She starts thinking anyway. Just in case.

Monday

Aoko's just turned in for the night when the soft knocking comes at the window. She's ready for it this time, and pulls a bathrobe on before opening the curtains.

He really does look ridiculous, perching there on the sill like some kind of over-grown dove. She opens the window with an unimpressed look.

"Good evening, Nakamori-san," he greets politely. "Have you thought of a question for me?"

Do you need psychiatric help? is prominent, but somehow seems like a waste. The answer is so obvious.

She crosses her arms and shifts her weight, eying him steadily. "How do you afford it all? How many of your heists do you profit by?" Not by any means the worst she can do, but she wants to get a feel for his answers, for his truthfulness. The pessimist in her points out that, if he lies, she'll probably never know.

"Most of my equipment is recycled," he answers, slowly. "I picked it up free from … a sympathetic source. The one-time use stuff is pretty cheap, if you know where to look and how to make it up yourself. If I don't return an item, it's because its owners didn't come by it honestly. Even then, I usually give it away somehow – apart from my good intentions, the kind of things I pick up aren't generally items any fence would want to touch. I've only sold two pieces for personal profit."

Aoko opens her mouth, but Kid's already tipping his hat to her. And then, standing up abruptly, he grabs the overhanging roof and hoists himself up and out of sight before she can comment.

Tuesday

She doesn't bother changing for bed, just sits at her desk working through some homework until he taps at the window. With the desk light on this time, she can see him much more clearly. He's wearing his monocle as always, despite the darkness of the night, and his grin seems all the sharper for the extra illumination.

"Sorry to keep you up. I'm afraid I'm a night owl."

The lines of Kid's face are different from the last time she saw him in decent light, and she knows he's wearing a mask or at least sculpting putty. It's a logical precaution; he's sitting only a foot away from her, and at that distance the monocle doesn't create enough asymmetry to hide his features.

He leans casually against the side of the window, watching her with an expression of genuine interest. Everything about him is calculated to ensnare, to captivate and romance - Aoko knows that. Any other girl would probably be swooning in her position. But no other girl has lost her father to Kid without his even dying. She straightens her spine and asks her next question.

"Do you feel even a shred of guilt? I don't mean regret for the lifestyle or concern about being captured. I mean genuine guilt for thieving, and for all the time and money honest citizens have spent trying to catch you." For all the years my father has spent trying to catch you.

Kid regards her for a few beats, eyes searching, and she knows he's not playing for time. He pushes gently away from the window's side to face her evenly.

"Yes. I do. Not for stealing – not for the immorality or the illegality. But for the sacrifices that it's caused it others? For the pain it's caused others? Yes."

Aoko steps forward sharply, flaring, "Then why don't you stop? Why do you keep stealing when you're hurting people, when you know it? When you regret it?"

Kid's smile shifts to one of pain. "Only one question a night, Nakamori-san." He stands and steps back into thin air. She snarls, and slams the window after him.

Wednesday

She has the window open waiting for him, sitting facing it with the desk light on. He swings down from above in a move that would have shattered the window if it had been closed. Aoko almost asks how he knew it was open, but that would waste a question and she can answer it well enough with speculation.

She doesn't bother waiting for his usual quip, just leans back with her arms crossed and asks him straight out: "Why? Why do you keep doing it when you know what it costs, when you regret it?"

Kid isn't smiling now; his face is closed and almost distant. None of the flirt, none of the smart-alec. Nothing at all, in fact.

"I could say it's for the public good. There are some real crooks out there, Nakamori-san, and I make sure they don't get their grubby hands on gems they don't deserve. It's a reason. The truth? I'm no saint, no philanthropist." He tilts his head, and the light of the lamp catches the monocle, disguising his expression. "I'm out for answers first, and revenge right after that. Plain and simple." His voice is cold and cutting, hard as diamond.

She stares, arms falling limply to rest over her stomach.

He smiles, grimly now, all broken iron and nails. "I regret the costs. But I can't forgive or forget the wrongs I'm chasing."

Kid drops back into the night and she stares after him, wondering whether he had known he wouldn't be the only one hurt by his offer.

Thursday

Aoko almost doesn't answer the tapping when it comes. Almost pretends to be asleep, or at a friend's house, or anywhere that means she isn't here. In the end though, she gets up out of bed, flicks on the light and opens the curtains. Kid looks surprised at her robe and pajamas, but doesn't comment when she slides the window open.

"How old were you, when you started?" she asks, quietly. Kid's expression of surprise doesn't fade, and she knows he was expecting a different question.

"Sixteen," he answers.

Sixteen. A year younger than her. She tries to imagine herself balancing school and thievery; tries to imagine herself doing what he does at all. The planning, the preparation, the skills. She shakes her head. He must have been a child genius, or raised to this life from the cradle. No wonder her father's had no chance.

Sixteen, and suffering something devastating enough to make him turn to this life for revenge. She can't meet his eye. In the end, she hears his shoes scuffle on the sill, and then he's gone.

Friday

Aoko stays up reading a book with the window open and a sweater on against the cool breeze drifting in. She looks up when something white flashes in the corner of her eye, shutting the book and putting it down.

Kid looks tired tonight. She's not sure why she thinks it, his expression is as game as ever. Maybe it's his posture, maybe the slight uncertainty in his, "Good evening, Nakamori-san." Maybe the way his hat is drawn further down over his eyes than usual.

Aoko had been meaning to ask him about his training, about how he picked up his skills. For some reason, though, her mind rebels. She doesn't want to sit here, grilling him. Not when he feels so weary.

She doesn't want to hurt him.

"Who's your favourite band?"

It's a stupid question. A very stupid question. Of all the things she could ask, only what's your favourite colour could be more ridiculous. But she sees puzzlement and then something like relief light up his face, and feels some of the tension leach out of her own shoulders in sympathy.

"You want me to tell you who my favourite group is?" he asks. It's the first time she's ever heard incredulity from Kaitou Kid.

Well, she's stuck with it now. She nods, firmly. "Yes. Come on, tell me."

Kid blinks, brow furrowing in thought. It shouldn't be as endearing as it is. Gods, she's going soft. Crumbling. Maybe this was his plan all along, get her off-guard by offering her a chance to get back at him and then secretly weasel his way into her good books. But for the life of her she can't think what he would hope to get out of it. He must know she would never use her influence on her father – and more than that know that he would never listen to it. Not in this matter; he never has.

"I suppose… I'm quite partial to DOES at the moment."

Kid listens to pop. Not just pop, but popular pop. Aoko feels like her mind has been blown.

"I – you – you listen to pop?"

"I shouldn't?" Kid grins. "I keep up with the times, Nakamori-san. I wouldn't be successful if I didn't."

Somehow, Aoko has trouble equating success in thieving with remaining current in the culture scene. She doubts her father has heard of any bands more recent than SMAP.

"See you tomorrow night," he says, while she's still trying to fit this into her mental image of Kid. Trying to imagine him sitting around plotting his latest heist with Shura playing on the radio. By the time she looks up, he's gone.

Saturday

Kid looks much more his usual self when he shows up, eyes shining and movements quick and easy. She positively, definitely does not feel relieved.

"I want to know," she says, standing easily in front of him, "why you disappeared for eight years, only to return last year."

His smile doesn't waver, but she sees the shock flash in his eyes as bright as if he had been shot. He freezes right up, even his breathing, all the signs apart from his easy-going expression suggesting deep hurt.

His reaction staggers her almost as much as her question did him; she nearly reaches out. But he's already recovering, loosening up and blinking away the shock. She wonders how it is she's seeing all these things now; she never sees any of it in him when he's goading her father, or on camera.

"I," he begins, and then stops. "It was," he tries, and runs out of words again. Shakes his head – she stares in shock – and then tilts his hat up so that his face is unshadowed. "Do you really want to know?" It's not a warning, it's a veiled plea.

She has no answer, mouth dry, but he continues without waiting. "No, that's unfair. Sorry. I – the reason Kaitou Kid disappeared eight years ago is that he died, Nakamori-san. Was murdered, in fact." He says it lightly, as if discussing the weather, but she can hear the strain in the words. Can hear him dragging them out of his heart, exposing something very personal in plain sight. "The reason I showed up is that I found out about it."

Aoko can't move. Feels like if she shifts her weight, if she blinks, if she breathes, she'll break. Kaitou Kid, her father's rival, the man he spent his whole life chasing, is dead. And this, this kid is walking in his shoes.

Kaitou Kid is a seventeen year-old. Is her age right now.

All the heists, all the cocky attitude, all the quips at her have been given by a kid. A kid who's become a thief to avenge his – what? Father? Brother? Friend? – to avenge someone's murder. A kid who's only been active for a year and has already run rings around the Tokyo Metro, has outsmarted Japan's brightest detectives.

Has been shot and sent plummeting into a freezing harbour.

"I'm sorry," says Kid, again. She looks up and realises there are tears in her eyes. Doesn't know why. Doesn't know why her chest hurts, why it's hard to breathe. Why she hurts for him.

"I won't come back tomorrow," he says, softly, shifting preparatory to disappearing. Her hand snaps out and she grabs his sleeve, only fully realising what she's done when the silk is between her fingers. She can feel his weight, feel that she's the only thing holding him here.

"You promised," she says. The words sound guttural, forced through the tightness in her throat. "On your honour as a kaitou."

Kid bows his head. "So I did," he answers, face hidden. She lets go, silk slipping through her fingers, and he falls away.

Sunday

Aoko's standing on the other side of the room with her back to the window when he shows up, scuffing his feet on the sill. She knows he does it on purpose. She doesn't turn around; doesn't want to see him. Knows if she does, she won't ask.

"Who was he? Kaitou Kid is the one you're taking revenge for, right? Who was he?" Her voice very nearly doesn't waver.

There's a long, empty pause. And then, gentle as snowfall, "My father."

Aoko closes her eyes. How many genius, magician, gymnastic boys are there in Tokyo who lost their father when they were eight? Whose fathers were genius magician gymnasts?

"He was my father, Aoko," says a soft voice, right behind her. Says Kaito's voice, right behind her. She never hears him when he doesn't want her to.

Aoko turns around so fast she almost loses her balance on the wooden floor, eyes flashing, and beats her fist against his chest. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me you – you idiot?"

He catches her wrists gently, and she stares into his eyes. He's not wearing any make-up tonight, and even with the monocle she can trace every line of his familiar face. "I'm sorry," he says, voice low. She doesn't know if he's apologising for not telling her, for offering what he did, or just for being Kaitou Kid.

"You know how much I hate him." Her throat's closing again, stomach painfully tight.

He nods, resigned. "I know."

"You know what he cost me."

He nods again.

She pulls in a deep, choked breath. "Your father was really murdered?"

"Yes." He whispers it so quietly she hardly hears. She closes her eyes and leans forward, forehead resting his collarbones. Slips her arms around him, and holds him tight. It hurts, hurts so much. Reminds her of a black dress and a black-framed photograph, and her mother's seat empty at the dinner table. Of the gaping hole in her chest it took her years to close.

"Aoko –"

"I won't tell." She raises her head and loosens her grip. Stares tight into his face, and sets her shoulders. "But once you find them, you turn them over to the police. You turn them over, and you stop. No more Kaitou Kid. Right?"

Kaito smiles, just a tug at the corners of his lips. "On my word as a kaitou?"

"On your word as Kuroba Kaito."

Kaito drops his hands on her shoulders and pulls her close. Presses a kiss against her forehead, and then whispers, "Promise."