Drabbles/Meme

[what_we_dream]

Request Meme Drabbles! Hogan's Heroes, MGS, Sherlock, Hornblower, Magic Kaitou.
Pairings: Hogan/Newkirk, Otacon/Sniper Wolf (marginally) otherwise none
Rating: PG
Notes: Italic. I got a bit carried away with it. For those people who gave two prompts, I only did one this round but if I find myself at a loss for inspiration I'll keep the others in mind. I mostly wanted to post these before I forgot to do it. :D



rose_of_pollux Hogan's Heroes: Newkirk and LeBeau: Hurt/Comfort

“Et bien,” hisses LeBeau, tugging on his arm, “You just had to get yourself shot. You could not leave it for me, oh no. It would be so easy for you to carry me back, just a little load of potatoes on your shoulder –”

“Sack of potatoes,” interrupts Peter, breath coming in short, pained wheezes.

“Pah, whatever. Just a little sack of potatoes, no trouble at all. But no, that would be too easy. Newkirk decides it is better that he be the one to step in first. That he is an easier target, that he is trop grand, trop gross to carry back does not matter.” He shifts further under Peter’s shoulder, staggering slightly under the man’s weight.

“’S not my bloody fault. Blame a man… for tryin’ to look after ‘is buddy, would’ya?”

“When I must be your crutch, oui, I blame you. You and your stupid, headstrong, idiocy. Vraiment tu m’énerves, Pierre.”

“Eh?”

They hit a slight incline, the Frenchman panting nearly as hard as his British comrade as they struggle upwards. “And now… it will take us hours to get back… You need a doctor. C’est chiant,” he mutters, rubbing hastily at his eyes.

“S’alright, Louis. We’ll get there… ‘ventually. ‘N you can tell the colonel it was all … my fault.”

LeBeau forcibly suppresses the sob in his throat. “I will. Certainment. First thing I do… when I get back. Now stop talking and walk. I won’t let you … pin the blame on me… it by giving up here. Dieu me pardonne.” He hikes the Brit higher on his shoulder, grits his teeth, and forces the man onwards.

Et bien: And so
Vraiment tu m’énerves, Pierre: Really, you frustrate me/drive me nuts, Peter
C’est chiant: This is shitty/messed up
Dieu me pardonne: God forgive me

bugaloos Hogan's Heroes: Hogan/Newkirk: First Time For Everything

This war is all about firsts. The first time Peter shoots down an enemy plane, the first time he sees a German soldier in real life, the first time he watches a comrade die. He’s sick of firsts; they just herald reams of memories better left forgotten. He would rather remember the lasts.

The last time Peter steals anything is in the late fall of 1944. A troop of propaganda officers are in town, complete with the wages of sin – a briefcase full of marks. The colonel makes the plan, and Kinch gets the officers out on a fake call to interview an imaginary patriotic teenaged boy who captured nonexistent POWs, and LeBeau bakes the cake that gets him past the hotel proprietor, but it’s Peter alone who cracks the safe and carries the heavy briefcase home under his coat. He should be pleased to see the bills handed over to the Underground, to know that will fund weeks of local havoc. And he is, somewhat. But mostly what pleases him is to see the colonel’s smile when he produces the bag with a magician’s flare, and the pride glinting in his eyes as he motions Peter to give the bounty to Rapunzel.

The last time Peter kills a man is early spring, 1945, and the Nazis are falling back before the Allies on all fronts. The camp guards are nervous and jumpy, but compared to the Hammelburg branch of the SS they seem exceedingly calm and level-headed. He and the colonel are out on a drop-off run to a small village near Dusseldorf when their car breaks down only half a mile from the drop point. He runs ahead to get rid of their incriminating packet while the colonel stays behind to try to resuscitate the engine. When Peter returns it’s to find two cars by the side of the road rather than one, and see the red flags bright as new blood in the headlights. The Wehrmacht uniforms which were once enough to ensure safe passage are now more incrimination than protection; every able-bodied man is at the besieged Front. The colonel is standing with his hands on the car’s dark roof while the two goons shout at him from behind, waving his papers accusingly. Hogan moves to turn, and one of the soldiers draws his pistol. There’s an instant in which the colonel’s face pales, dark eyes flickering to the weapon, and the goon’s finger tightens. And then two shots ring out, and both of the troops fall. Newkirk strides out of the shadows, holstering his own weapon, and claps a shaking hand on the colonel’s shoulder. Neither one of them says anything; they just get the car started and get the hell out of there.

The last time Peter sees the colonel wounded is April 1945, two days before they’re liberated. With the Allies nearly at the gates, they run one last mission to knock out the local train lines and ensure that support can’t get to the area and turn Hammelburg into a war zone. But with Carter laid up in camp with a sprained ankle they lay the charges themselves and something goes wrong. Peter never knows exactly what, but somewhere between turning to look for the colonel and seeing him the night goes white, and he finds himself lying on his side in the cool dirt. It takes him nearly ten minutes to find the colonel – too long, much too long, the troops must be coming – and when he does the man is lying on the ground, unmoving. For an instant Peter thinks his heart will burst, will tear itself to pieces right then in his chest as he drops to the ground and gasps for breath. Then it finds a steady, if racing beat, and he reaches out a shaking hand to grasp the colonel’s arm. Hogan opens his brown eyes slowly, and Newkirk sinks back onto his heels as relief courses through him, heady as alcohol. He still insists on carrying his C.O. back to camp; they both complain all the way.

The last time Peter wonders if he’s the only one who feels this way is when he comes tumbling back into the tunnel after a mission gone wrong in every possible way, soaked bruised and dirt-covered. The terrified, searching look Hogan gives him as he hauls him to his feet at the bottom of the ladder tells him everything he needs to know.

The last time Peter addresses the colonel is July 1945, at his formal demobilization in London. Papers in his pocket declaring him a regular citizen, he steps into the colonel’s tiny office and salutes goodbye to Colonel Hogan.

From that day on, it’s Robert.

aohitomi MGS: Otacon/Sniper Wolf: I’ll Follow You Into the Dark This... did not turn out so pairing-ish. Sorry.

She should have been beautiful. Skin marble-pale, hair shining like spun-gold in the arctic sun, lips a deep painted red, she should have been captivating. Sleeping beauty, frozen eternally in her icy slumber. But under the handkerchief, she’s subtly wrong. Like a crooked mirror or a cracked glass, the perfection is marred and that is all he can notice.

Hal sinks to his knees in the snow, cold seeping up through his knees. Reaches out a trembling hand, and presses his fingertips to the barrel of the rifle with the hesitancy of a first kiss: it’s already cold as ice. He flinches away, and chokes on a sob.

That’s the way it should go. It’s what she deserves, a prince to follow her. It’s what he owes her, he who said he loved her, who did everything she asked of him, who begged Snake for her life. He should take her hand and accompany her, the solitary hunter who went alone even into death.

But this is no sleeping beauty, no romantic idea. And he is no prince charming, no faithful soul mate. This is a dead woman, and idealism means nothing to her. He is alive, and romanticism is nothing but a crutch to him.

Hal picks up her cold hand and presses it tight. Sheds more tears, because no one else in this icy hell has any for her. Then he pulls himself to his feet, and leaves her behind.

It feels like cowardice, all the same.

ningen_demonai Sherlock: John doing domestic stuff (of a kind...)

Sherlock, John has come to understand, operates on the “it was fine where it was” principle. John has nothing against this principle in theory. Rubber tree in the window-less bathroom; fine, it’s Sherlock’s to kill. Shirts hanging up to dry on the doorframes; fine, there are plenty of throughways in the flat. Recently removed dermoid cyst in a jar on the dining room table; fine, it’s Sherlock’s to use for his experiments.

Where John draws the line is at items which rocket right past bizarre, disgusting or unsanitary on their way to lethally toxic. Severed head in the fridge, ammonium and bleach bubbling happily away in connected beakers, dead birds decomposing in plastic tupperware aligned by size. It’s hit or miss as to whether Sherlock will acknowledge the possibly distasteful nature of these experiments, but it’s certain that he won’t clear them away on his own. So in the interest of humanity in general and himself specifically, John gets a pair of bright orange needle-proof gloves, rubber apron and fitted N-95 respirator mask from the hospital and a easily bleached plastic container to keep them in. Thus equipped, he makes biweekly inspections of the flat.

-------------------------------------------------

“It was fine where it was,” Sherlock informs him when he removes a rotting bat from a petri dish in the detective’s own bedroom.

“Apart from the myriad of other health risks rotting animals carry, bats are often rabid,” John replies, and seals it up in a biohazard bag with a generous portion of red tape.

“Of course they are; why d’you think I was letting it decompose? I need to find out at what stage the infection can be passed on to other predators.”

John rolls his eyes and throws it out.

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“It wasn’t bothering anyone,” says Sherlock, when he confiscates the tiny sample of mercury from its un-corked jar on the kitchen table.

“It evaporates, Sherlock.” He labels the bottle and puts it in an empty tool case to be dropped off at the hazardous materials disposal site later – somehow one or the other of them ends up dropping by at least once a month.

The detective doesn’t look up from his crossword, just pens in an answer while responding with a complete lack of concern: “Only if you’re careless.”

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“John, what the hell have you done with the scorpion?” Sherlock storms in from the kitchen, sounding cross.

John looks up from his position on his hands and knees, peering under the couch with a torch. “That would be the scorpion that just scuttled under the couch, would it?” he replies with bland sarcasm.

“Unless you’ve brought another one into the flat today, yes. Did it have freckled pincers?”

“What? There’s a scorpion loose in the flat – and why the bloody hell is there a scorpion in the flat in the first place – and all you want to know is whether it’s freckled or not?”

“John, it’s quite important.”

“Then why didn’t you notice?” John takes up the broomstick he pinched from Mrs. Hudson’s broom closet and prods it into the dark space beneath the couch; he thinks he can hear the quiet clacking of claws on woodwork.

“I believe it may belong to a rare species originating in Greece which can sometimes change elements of their pigmentation in times of severe stress or uncertainty –” says Sherlock, all in one breath, before John cuts him off.

“Which would explain why I found it in the microwave, would it?”

“And as I said it’s really quite important, as if I’m unable to identify it a child may very possibly die,” finishes Sherlock.

John pauses, the tip of the broomstick dropping to rest against the floor with a clunk. “Oh. Right. Um, yeah.” He closes his eyes tight, tries to visualize the creature in the few shock-filled seconds he saw it as it swarmed down from the microwave and across the kitchen floor. “Yeah, I think it did? Brown on gold, sort of?”

“Excellent,” says Sherlock, and walks off to text whoever it is he’s in correspondence with. John turns back just in time to see the scorpion scuttle off in the direction of the open door.

“Bollocks.”

the_wykydtron Hornblower: Hornblower and Bush: Unappreciative and Giggling

“Tonnant is signalling, sir,” shouts the seaman at the wheel, over the din of cannon-fire and splintering oak. On the quarterdeck, Cummings turns to the flagship with a white face, eyes huge and rolling, as his twitching hands reach for his code book and glass. The captain turns to look for the message, the blood high in his cheeks and his eyes shining fever-bright as they always do in battle. And Bush knows in a flare of rage and shame that the answer won’t be there waiting for him.

If they hadn’t been in the middle of a battle, Bush would have caned the damn young gentleman himself right then and there, whatever the captain had to say about it. As it is, though, he can only shove the boy right out of the way and turn keen eyes on the Tonnant’s halliard. Pauses for a moment to spell out the alphabetic, and then: “All ships focus fire on Victoire,” he reads aloud in a booming voice. Hornblower gives him the briefest of nods as he turns to direct the port battery. Bush hauls Cummings up only to send him down to the gundeck with new orders. There’s no time for rest, although later there sure as hell will be time for punishment.

-------------------------------------------------

“Rendez-vous, rendez-vous,” screams the Frog on the quarterdeck, slashing at the captain with his cheap cutlass. All around them is chaos, seamen grappling barehanded with French soldiers, officers duelling with French boats crews, both maintops full of marines firing down at either ship. Bush, enraged by the violation of the quarterdeck, slashes through his enemies like a man possessed. But the sight of Hornblower being ordered to surrender by a mere seaman sets him mad with rage. Using his own sword like a cudgel he beats a messy path through the melee, hardly aware of the fact that he’s bellowing like an ox. He descends on the dirty little man like a whirlwind, cuts him down mercilessly with a single powerful blow.

The captain, face pale as milk against the dark of his hair, gives him a shocked stare which quickly hardens to emotionless resolution. He doesn’t acknowledge his lieutenant, simply pushes past him and strikes down a man dodging around the hourglass. Bush moves off to dispatch the men trying to take the wheel.

----------------------------------------------------

By the time they return to the ship, the remnants of the tower keep have doubtless cooled, scattered around the ruined stump in a radius of several leagues. Bush ascends first, thoughtlessly pulling himself up the side of the ship with the aid of her supportive roll. He doesn’t even have to look to know that the captain isn’t on deck; the atmosphere is always different when he’s absent.

Bush descends into the dark hold of the ship, heavy burden under his arm, to knock at the captain’s cabin. Hornblower’s voice welcomes him from inside, and he passes the sentry and enters the low room with his head bowed.

“Ah, Bush. You were successful?” There is no curiosity in his eyes, as is only to be expected. The roar of the tower exploding must have been heard for dozens of leagues, and the triumphant cutter visible to the ship for a good half hour before reaching her.

“Yes, sir.” He pulls the awkward bundle from under his arms and lays it on the table before his captain; the French flag, hauled down from the destroyed building. Hornblower flushes slightly, although whether with embarrassment or excitement, even Bush can’t tell.

“I see. Yes.” He reaches out a delicate hand to brush long fingers across the coarse cloth. All at once he nods and looks away sharply. Glances up to meet Bush’s eyes, and gives a faint glimmer of a smile. “Well done, Bush. Congratulations.”

Bush feels his heart swelling with the praise, far more heady than liquor, and far rarer. “It was nothing, sir,” he says staunchly. “Entirely due to your plan.”

“Nonsense. You’ll have a letter in the Gazette, I should think.”

Bush flushes now, becoming flustered, and shakes his head. “T’weren’t difficult, sir. I’d have rather you had the honour.” He means it: Hornblower gets far too little recognition. Sometimes it makes Bush sick to read through the crowing reports of captains who are far richer and more famous than his own captain, and by comparison nothing but incompetent schoolboys. At least, he feels unhappy and irritated about it, although his well-trained mind would never allow him to consider it in such a mutinous fashion.

Hornblower indicates the flag, eyes bright and earnest. “Well, you’ve brought me back my share of the prize. I’m pleased, Bush.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bush’s face opens into a generous smile, and Hornblower’s widens in answer. That alone is more than enough recompense for him.

vhasbls Magic Kaitou: Kaito, Aoko: Aoko Finds Out (aaand kind of wrote a fic again...)

Aoko saw a sparrow struck out of mid-air once. A falcon circling high above spotted it flying above the wide Sumida river swept down on it, wings tucked in tight as a diver’s arms, bright yellow talons outstretched. The sparrow swerved at the last second, and the falcon shot right by it, scoring its wings cruelly with its claws without catching it. And the sparrow tumbled down out of the air, struggling to keep itself aloft, beating pitifully against the wind and failing. By the time she had run along to the spot on the shore where it landed, the falcon had returned for its prey and there was nothing but a few drops of blood to mark its place.

She watches, hidden away in the shadows of a nearby building, as Kid tumbles out of the air in dizzying, desperate circles so like those of the tiny sparrow. The glider’s huge canvas is ripping as he falls, the drum-tight silk slashed through by gunfire. At the last minute a huge gust of wind sweeps down the streets, blowing her hair across her face and slamming Kid towards the unyielding side of the Mitsubishi UFJ bank. He disengages the glider in a flicker of white as of a sail suddenly furled, and drops straight out of the sky with the lithe grace of a cat. He hits the ground in a roll and comes to a stop in the gutter, hat and monocle lying on the ground nearby and mantle stretched behind him in long torn shreds. On the roof of the building, bright spotlights are already searching for him. When they find him, she knows, they will pin him sure as a bug to cork and then the bullets will rain mercilessly down.

Aoko waits for Kid to stand, waits for him to leap to his feet and disappear with his usual style; in a burst of smoke, perhaps, or more simply melting away into the shadows. But he doesn’t. Instead, he crawls hesitatingly to his hands and knees, stumbles, and falls hard. Catches himself on his elbow with a jolt that rocks him, and gives a breathless, haggard gasp. He drags himself up again, but can’t rise to his knees.

Something in her chest twists, heart beating painfully against the sudden stiffness there. The spotlight skates along towards the thief, cutting through the darkness with a butcher knife’s sharp precision. Before she knows what she’s doing, she darts out of her hiding place and crosses the sidewalk. Tackles right into Kid, and pulls him out of the approaching path of the searching beam.

Aoko doesn’t wait for her heart to calm, for the exhilaration of success to pass. She pulls herself to her knees and wraps her arms around the thief’s shoulders, dragging him up with her. He’s smaller than she had expected, shorter and slighter. In her mind, Kaitou Kid is a tall, imposing figure. But here in her arms, he’s not much taller or bigger than her. There’s no time to be surprised by that, although she does feel a wave of thankfulness: she could never have lifted a man of her father’s size. Aoko pulls the thief’s arm over her shoulders and wraps her other arm around his waist, forces him up with her.

Kids not a dead weight, though. He’s trying to stand, to help her. He finds his feet with the uncertain awkwardness of a newborn colt, propping himself up with stiff joints rather than properly-bent ones, and leaning heavily on her. She turns them in a wide stumbling circle and drags him towards the safer shadows of the alley. Kid’s breathing hard, pulling air in in harsh, sucking gasps, but his movements begin to smooth as they walk. By the time they gain the safety of the alleyway, he’s leaning on her more for guidance than support, and by the time they cross through it to the street on the other side he is hardly limping.

It’s only when they get there, the adrenaline in her veins beginning to burn off like morning fog, that Aoko thinks to look up at the man she’s saved. And it’s only when she does so that she notices they’re standing in a soft pool of light cast by a streetlight, and that Kid left his hat and monocle behind him in the gutter.

Or rather, Kuroba Kaito did.

Aoko stiffens, and Kid must realise that something is wrong because he looks down at her and sees the shock on her face. He reels back, eyes widening with real horror, and jerks an arm up to block her sight. The movements throw him off balance and he stumbles away, hits the wall behind him with a soft sound of pain. And still he tries to turn away from her, shadowing his face with his arm and closing his shoulders as if to duck away.

In another circumstance, she might have felt betrayed. Might have felt rage and distrust and hurt, seeing her best friend revealed as the one man she has always told herself she hated. But right now all she can see is Kaito, so hurt and pained with his white suit stained dark shadowy red in the poor light, and still so scared and ashamed that he’s trying to shrink away from her.

“Stop that,” she says, as something very calm and practical inside her pushes all her uncertainty far into the back of her mind, and reaches out to pull him away from the filthy wall. “They’ll come after you in a minute. Do you have other clothes?”

He doesn’t answer her directly, doesn’t look at her, but moves away from the wall with his back to her and pulls off the white suit jacket. Slips the tie from around his neck with a whisper of silk, and then rips off the blue shirt. Underneath is a dark long-sleeved shirt. The pants follow, revealing tighter black pants in a soft material. He begins to bend to pick up the discarded clothes, but she stops him with an irritated sound and does it herself, scoops them up and folds them in quick, efficient movements, the darker blue shirt wrapped around the bright white suit. The mantle is a wreck, all torn silk and crooked bars, and she kicks it against the wall and leaves it. She tucks the clothes under her arm and grabs Kaito; he stumbles and falls against her, but follows.

They walk in silence through the bright streets of Tokyo, slower than they would normally have, Kaito trying to disguise his limp and breathe at a normal pace. They descend into the greater safety of the subway as soon as they can, and Aoko feels a burden lift from her as they pass the turn stalls without any opposition.

She finds Kaito a seat in the first car that comes, stands in front of him while he sits with slumped shoulders and his arms wrapped over his stomach, head tilted to keep his face in shadows. He tenses when they bump over rough connections or around sharp turns, but his face isn’t too pale and his breathing is evening out.

It’s a lot easier to concentrate on the situation, on Kaito’s health, on the smoothness of the ride, than on the insidious topic nibbling away at the corner of her thoughts: He is Kaitou Kid. Your best friend, the boy you grew up with, the one person who knows how much you hate the thief. The one person you trusted more than even Dad with that knowledge. The one person who knows exactly how much Kaitou Kid has cost you. He is Kaitou Kid. The farther they go from the bank, from the bloody sidewalk and Kid staggering like a wounded animal, the harder it is to keep from thinking about it. The harder it is to keep the anger and betrayal from crystallizing in her veins, from freezing her stomach and tightening her throat until its hard to breathe. She turns away from Kaito and stares at her reflection in the dark window: she looks terse and nervous, hair dishevelled and clothes rumpled. She straightens them as best she can and forces herself not to grit her teeth or tap her fingers on the support pole.

Kaito gets up on his own when their station comes, stumbling without falling when the train pulls to a stop, and exiting without issue. She follows him out and onto the escalator, stands behind him just in case he gets dizzy. He doesn’t.

They walk back to her house in the same silence, but it’s harder now, with sharp biting edges. Kaito’s staring straight ahead with an expression of determination, walking without her help. She finds herself tense with growing rage, feels her shoulders begin to ache with it.

Dad, of course, isn’t home. Hopefully he’s out trying to catch whatever bastards shot Kid out of the air, although if they’re daring to be firing off machine guns in downtown Tokyo she’s not sure she wants Dad chasing them after all. Either way the house is silent and empty, but it’s still a comfort to her. The familiarity of a place she’s lived in all her life and knows she can trust. But then, she’s known Kaito all her life as well.

“Do you need a doctor?” is the first thing she says to him, while watching him toe off his shoes stiffly as he leans against the wall. She had always thought Kid would wear lace-up leather shoes, but it turns out he wears slip-on ones – probably both more convenient and practical. A snapped shoe-lace at a heist could be a disaster.

“No,” he says. And then again, as if the silence is bothering him, “No.”

She leads the way into the kitchen – easier to sit on chairs than the floor – and puts the bundle down on the counter. Opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of energy drink; pours two glasses and puts one down in front of Kaito. He stares at it for a minute before taking it in an unsteady hand and drinking; he miscalculates the angle and some spills down his shirt.

It’s almost surreal, sitting there in the dark kitchen, just her and Kaito drinking energy drink with Kaitou Kid’s costume on the counter beside them. It probably would feel a hell of a lot more surreal if she was less angry. The rage that held off earlier has finally come in to roost in its entirely, and she is crackling with it. Can hardly stop herself from slamming her glass down on the table.

“So,” she says, biting the word off the bitter sentence to follow. “Tell me.”

Kaito finishes drinking – the glass is empty when he puts it down – and glances at the dark lump of clothes on the counter. Looks back to her, slowly.

“What do you want to know?” his voice is rough, as if he’d been smoking, or drinking alcohol, or hadn’t spoken in a week. Or been dropped off the side of a building.

“What do you think?” she snaps, tartly. “I’ve known you forever, for my whole life. And all that time you knew what I thought. You knew how much I hated him – what he took away. You were the only person I ever told. And now – now –” her throat closes up and she chokes to a halt, eyes tearing up in rage. “How could you,” she spits past it, and has to stop. Grabs the glass and takes a long, cold drink. The liquid burns as it passes her throat.

“It was an accident,” he begins, and seeing her eyes flash hurries to continue: “The first time, it was an accident. It was back when Kid first came back, you remember? It wasn’t me, at first. But then I found this door in my house, a secret door behind – it doesn’t matter. And there was this room, full of the stuff. Kid’s stuff, all there. The suits, the glider, smoke bombs, card gun, everything. I never knew, I swear, Aoko, but my dad must’ve been Kid. And I found the room, and the stuff, and I knew Dad must’ve been Kid so whoever was out there now was a fake. So I decided to go find out who was pretending to be him.” He swallows, and turns the empty glass in front of him slightly on the table.

“I can’t tell you who it was – it’s not my secret – but it was an old friend of my dad. Of Kid. He saw me and thought –” Kaito stops again, takes a breath before continuing. “He thought I was my dad. And then these men showed up, these smug, stupid bastards. And they, these fucking –” He looks straight up, and in the poor light shining through the windows his eyes flash like mirrors, “They killed him, Aoko. Those bastards killed my dad, because he was trying to stop them getting something important. Maybe he was a thief, but he was a kaitou, and we have morals. They’re a bunch of murderers, and he was trying to stop them. And they killed him, right there in front of us, and made him look incompetent.” He stands up abruptly, so fast that he slams into the table and curses under his breath, high and broken. Turns away and pulls in deep shuddering breaths. Aoko kneads her fingers into her thighs, eyes wide and stinging.

“So I kept going,” he continues after a minute, in a low voice. “Because I’m going to find them. I’m going to find what they want, and destroy it so that they can never, ever get their dirty hands on the fucking prize they want so badly. And then I’m going to destroy them.”

“Kaito, you can’t –”

“Oh, I won’t kill them,” he says, and she thinks she can hear a trace of bitterness there. “Kaitou don’t wound anything but pride, and they never kill. I’ll just track them down, and pull their whole stinking operation out into the light of day, and see them rot in prison.”

Kaito stands with his back to her for a few moments, calming, before turning around. He sits down slowly, and puts his hands carefully on the table in front of him. “But everything I’ve done – everything I’ve become – is unfair to you. I knew that when I decided to be him, knew what it meant. Knew I was avenging my father at the cost of yours. That’s worse than unfair, worse than cruel. I became to you what those bastards are to me, knowing exactly how you felt. And that makes me worse than them – much worse.” He breaks off to grit his teeth against the high whine rising in his throat. Aoko starts to reach out to him and stops, hand trembling over the tabletop. “And despite that, despite everything, you saved me tonight. Not knowing who I was, not knowing anything except that you had every reason to hate me. And now you only have more. Maybe you should have left me out there.” He smiles wryly; she bristles.

“Don’t say that,” she snarls, rough as a lion’s snarl, and sees Kaito’s surprise. “Even if I didn’t know, what, do you think I’d have left anyone out there to be gunned down in front of me? That you’re surprised is no complement.”

He sobers, though, and straightens. “Sorry. But I meant it. You had no reason to, and you helped me anyway. And that’s – it means a lot, Aoko. Even if it didn’t, I still already owe you more than I can give, and more than you would take.” He smiles, a forced, crooked smile. “You should go to bed now. It’s already 2, and you have school tomorrow.”

“So do you,” she challenges, suddenly afraid and not sure why. Something’s changed in Kaito, like a switch being flicked, and she’s not sure what it is. Not sure what’s happened. He just keeps smiling that stupid, bitter smile.

“Go to bed,” he says again. “I want another drink.” He doesn’t move to get it, though.

“You can stay here if you want,” she offers slowly, puzzled, “but I think you should go home. Dad’ll be suspicious if he find you here.”

There’s no change in his expression, no flash of emotion. Not even a flicker in his eyes. But she has known Kuroba Kaito for eighteen years, and although she might not always know what he’s thinking – quite frequently apparently, as shown by tonight’s revelation – sometimes she can follow his line of thought so fast it’s as though their minds were running parallel.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, stiffening.

“Go to bed, Aoko.”

“Kaito, you idiot, don’t be a moron. I don’t want – I don’t want you arrested.” Because that’s his plan. His stupid, ridiculous, demented plan. To sit here, until Dad comes home and catches him red-handed with Kaitou Kid’s torn clothes and injuries to match, and turn himself in. As payment for some kind of absurd debt.

“It’s what –”

“If you say something stupid like ‘what I’m owed’ I will come over there and punch you, Kuroba Kaito. Do you think seeing you behind bars would make me happy? Do you think you can repay this – as if this were something you could pay for – by hurting me? Because that’s what would happen if my dad arrested my best friend in my kitchen and locked him away for dozens of counts of Grand Theft. I should punch you just for making me spell it out to you,” she ends in a choked whisper, wiping at her eyes.

“Aoko –”

“What you want – what you need from those men. I understand that. You know I do, you know if Mom had – you know I do. So if you have to do this, if you have to find those bastards and ruin them… I understand. But Dad’s been chasing you – and your dad – for twenty years. It means everything to him. He’s happier now than he ever was before, thinking he might catch you again. And he never will, will he?”

Kaito shakes his head; there’s no smile on his lips now, just resignation.

“Even if he could… if he caught you, and found out who you are, who the old Kid was… He was your father’s friend. He likes you. Putting you away would tear him apart. It’s not just me I don’t want you to catch him for. It’s for him.” She stands up, walks over to the counter and picks up the clothes there. Walks back with them and puts them down on the table in front of Kaito, and stands staring down at him. “Until this whole damn thing is over, Kuroba Kaito, don’t you dare let him catch you. If you need help, if you need anything, you can come to me. But don’t you ever let him catch you, and make him choose between his friend and his job.”

Kaito nods, slowly.

“And afterwards. When it’s finished, and those bastards are locked up, you’ll stop. Kaitou Kid will disappear, right?”

He nods again, more surely this time. “Yes. Kid’s mission is to stop them. When they’re gone, he’ll go too.”

“Fine. Then when it’s over, and Kid is gone, then you can tell him. Because if you don’t he’ll pine away for the rest of his life waiting for him to come back. You tell him then, when you can promise that he’ll never have to chase Kid again and choose between compromising his job or his friend.”

“Aoko, you –”

Outside the front of the house, a car’s engine approaches, and stops. They freeze, staring at the front of the house. Then, before Kaito can react, Aoko dashes out of the room. She returns an instant later with his shoes, and he stands and grabs his clothes. He knows the house nearly as well as she, and heads automatically for the back door. Opens it and steps out, waits for her to put the shoes down and then steps into them.

“Promise me, Kaito. All of it. Not because it’s what you owe me, or on a kaitou’s word, but because it’s the right thing to do.”

He nods, face in shadow. “I promise.”

“Then I’d better see you at school tomorrow.”

Before he can answer, she shuts the door in his face and locks it. Sprints through the house and up the stairs just as she hears the key in the front lock. By the time her father comes in, tired and despondent after another failed chase, she’s safe in her room with the lights out. The only proof Kaitou Kid was here tonight are a pair of empty glasses on the kitchen table, and a faint stain on the counter.