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[personal profile] what_we_dream
Request Meme Drabbles! Magic Kaitou, MGS, DCMK, Saiyuki.
Pairings: Dave/Hal, Sanzo/Goku Nakamori/OC
Rating: G
Notes: Some travel and my internet crapping out resulted in this being later than I wanted. BUT I STAYED UP LATE TONIGHT TO DO THEM, HOW COULD THIS POSSIBLY GO WRONG?


[livejournal.com profile] ningen_demonaiSugarless GiRL, Magic Kaitou: Kaito, Aoko

Aoko never begins conversations about Kid after heists. She just sits, lips growing thinner and thinner and eyes growing narrower and narrower, while her classmates fawn over his name as if it were gold. Eventually, when her lips are so pursed as to be white and the veins are throbbing in her forehead, Kaito takes it upon himself to broach the topic, solely to keep her from exploding.

“I saw the heist last night,” he drawls, leaning upside-down over the back of his chair to stare up at her. “That Kid’s got some moves.”

“He does not have moves.” She slams her textbook down on the desk in emphasis. “He has a slinking, smarmy, snake-like slither.” In her fury her tongue skids over the alliteration. “Sliding down that drainpipe like some kind of disgusting slug.”

Kaito winces just slightly around the eyes, but it doesn’t impact his bored tone. “Geez, Aoko, don’t burst a blood vessel.”

She snorts, but gives him a haughty look, the effect of which is ruined by her flushed cheeks. “He’s not worth it.”

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

Another heist, another news report, another terse morning. Aoko writes out the morning homework with a pencil pressed so hard against the notebook it leaves impressions ten pages deep. Kaito, writing quicker and with far less strain on his wrist, finishes first and swivels in his chair to lean his elbows on the back rest.

“Did you see the heist? No slinking around this time; those were some crazy aerial stunts.”

Aoko’s pencil snaps; she doesn’t look up. “He looked like a seagull caught in a squall.”

Kaito hardly pauses, doesn’t visibly falter. “And what a jewel, huh?”

“Yes, and poor Yamada-san won’t be seeing it again. He’ll probably go bankrupt.” Aoko shakes her head, and starts sharpening her pencil.

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

Kid appears again, and the reporters converge.

Aoko cleans out her bag, slamming each item down on the desk so hard it shakes. Kaito, balancing a ruler on his forehead while sitting backwards in his chair, ducks forward to keep it upright.

“Did you see the news? Kid returned the jewel in the middle of that monsoon.”

Aoko bangs down her bento; the lid goes flying off and clatters on the ground. “It’s just like him. Everyone’s amazed when he takes it; everyone’s amazed when he gives it back. Best of both worlds. And now poor Yamada-san has to be grateful. Grateful, to the thief who stole from him. Disgusting.”

“There’s just no winning with you, is there?” asks Kaito, with just a twinge of desperation; the ruler swerves alarmingly, and then tumbles off.

“No,” she growls, clapping the lid back on her lunch with a fierce look. “There isn’t.”

Kaito sighs and turns to pick up the ruler.

[livejournal.com profile] mr_warden Hang on to Each Other MGS: Dave/Hal

The end of April is still cold in New York, but Harold only sleeps in the city itself for the worst months of the year – in shelters if there are free beds, and in doorways if not. As soon as the frosts begin to thin out he gets as far from the suffocating crush of humanity as a man reliant on scavenging can.

The Oakwood parks are too busy in the summer for him, but now in the early spring with the cold air coming in off the Harbour they are mostly deserted, especially in the night hours. He sleeps under the scant protection of bushes or shrubs, wrapped in grimy coats and blankets.

When Harold is woken sometime in the false-dark of the city, a night that never passes dusk, his first reaction is to reach for his rifle. It’s only after several seconds of groping for it in a cold sweat, ears sharp for commands and the bark of machine-gun fire, that the ice-tinged air wreaking havoc in his bad lungs registers deeply enough to tell him he isn’t 21, and this isn’t ‘Nam. Harold shivers convulsively out of the past, and knows where it came from so suddenly: there’s a chopper landing nearby.

He crawls further back into the thick bush he’s sheltering under, and watches as the bird comes in low for a sloppy landing. It practically falls out of the air, right wheel hitting the ground nearly two feet below the left so that it rocks violently. The rotors cut out immediately and the lights go dead, but there’s no movement from inside the cockpit. The doors don’t open, and no one comes out.

Harold lies on the hard ground and watches the chopper as the sky slowly lightens behind it, turns from the yellowish glow of Manhattan night to a soft hypothermic blue and then a rosy alcoholic blush. There will be joggers coming out soon, and people with their goddamn dogs running around snarling and barking. When the horizon begins to turn towards orange, Harold sits up and starts packing his few belongings into the blanket that doubles as a bag.

Behind him comes the low rumble of a close-by motor, growing louder by the second; there are no roads in the park. Harold turns in time to see a dirty red pick-up truck shoot over a low verge, wheels turning up the muddy grass and spitting it out behind them. It comes to a skidding halt near the helicopter and the driver’s door is slammed open. Harold, beginning to creep away, freezes.

The man who tumbles out of the truck is dressed in strange tight clothes – far stranger than the ugly neon spandex of the runners – with a belt and harness that have several unmistakable holsters. Even without them, Harold would have known the man for a soldier; it’s in his determined stride and the sharp turn of his head as he checks his surroundings. Something in the way he holds his shoulders and an uneven turn of his hip suggest he’s hurt, but if so it isn’t impeding his quick movements in the least.

The soldier reaches the helicopter in seconds, comes right up to the cockpit door and wrenches it open without any pause. Harold has seen that kind of desperate necessity from medics, running forward and throwing themselves to the ground so sharply they dig muddy trenches with their knees to press firm hands over screaming men’s bright-red chests.

The man the soldier pulls from the chopper’s cockpit has red streaks across the doctor’s coat he’s wearing, but they’re the dull rust of old wounds. Still, the man stumbles as he’s torn from the helicopter with what Harold reads for an instant as violence. And then, seeing the soldier catch him in ready arms and hold him with a kind of gentle care as if the doctor were a scrap of burnt paper that might crumble to dust in his hands, Harold reads something else entirely into it. The doctor says something, shaking his head slowly, and then drops it forward to rest on the soldier’s shoulder. For a slow moment, as the sun rises over the horizon behind them, they hold each other tightly as two men left alive in the middle of a battlefield will – with the sense that there is absolutely nothing else left in the world but each other.

Far away, a dog barks, and they break apart. The doctor motions in a desultory fashion to the helicopter, but the soldier shakes his head and leads him to the truck. They cross to it, the soldier still with his military stride but more calmly now, the doctor with a downcast head and his hands in his pockets.

Harold watches as they get in and drive away, leaving the helicopter sitting abandoned in the dawn behind them. Wonders what it was they lost, and how much, if anything, they gained for it.

[livejournal.com profile] conceptkiller Moonlight: DCMK, Kaito, Conan

Truces are wary things, and among other factors they generally mean that neither side does much in the way of preparation to keep their traps from affecting temporary allies. Kid has no qualms about using knock-out gas, and apparently none about knocking out his new theoretic partner as well as their enemies.

When Conan first begins to wake, all he’s aware of is a bobbing warmth below him. As he opens his eyes that slowly resolves into the dark blue of a jacket covering the uncomfortable boniness of a thin shoulder. A burst of adrenaline clears his thoughts further, well enough to know he’s being carried piggy-back by someone who smells of face powder and wig glue. His limbs feel leaden and cold, and although he tries to scramble down the movement ends up as little more than a shrug.

An unfamiliar face cranes to look back over the dark shoulder. “Ah, you’re awake,” says Kid’s voice.

Conan tries to glare, but only manages a twitching of his eyes. Kid can’t see it anyway. “Warning would have been nice,” he says, slurring the words more than he’d like to. Kid shrugs; it’s like riding with the swell of a wave.

“Opportunities were scarce. I’d rather carry you than be shot. It’ll be a while before it wears off for you, though,” he adds, in a flat voice.

Conan frowns. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Just as well; I wasn’t going to give you any. Facts are facts, Detective.”

“You could have left me somewhere. You don’t have to take me home,” retorts Conan, stung.

“Well, yes, I could have left an unconscious child lying in a street somewhere. I like to have a marginally higher opinion of myself, though. Besides, if I did your girlfriend would probably hand me my balls if she ever saw me again. Another fact,” he says, with a touch of defensiveness.

Conan doesn’t rise to the bait. They walk along for a minute in silence. Finally Conan, beginning to feel warmth in his hands and feet again, says, “You can put me down now,” and twists to press his sharp elbow into the centre of Kid’s back between his shoulder blades. Kid does so with alacrity, bending low to let him jump down, and then standing slowly. As always, he’s wearing different clothes and a different face – where he stows his costume, Conan has no idea.

“Another fact, Kid,” begins Conan; the thief raises a theatrical eyebrow. “If you do that again, I’ll hand you your balls.”

From the way Kid laughs as he fades off into an alley, though, Conan has the gloomy feeling that the kaitou has no intention of listening.

[livejournal.com profile] frauleinfrog 俺じゃなきゃ君じゃなきゃ: Saiyuki, Sanzo/Goku (In other news, I did not realise this was THAT SONG until I watched it. ZOMG. Man, you could write fic for that music video, about how poor blue just wants to have fun but red is so uptight and bitchy, but sometimes he spontaneously breaks into song and is super-cool, and they have a blast. And then he gets bitchy again and they argue over parking. ANYWAY.)

Sometimes, Goku’s so aware of all the things only Sanzo can do that it actually hurts. Sure, Hakkai’s an amazing doctor, and Gojyo’s the number one womanzing barfly Goku knows (and yeah, okay, he’s pretty good with the shakujou), and Goku himself’s a real good fighter, but those are all things anyone could do. Anyone with talent and dedication, at least.

Whereas Sanzo… Sanzo by his nature is unique. No one else in the whole world holds the powers of the Maten sutra, the power to purify a whole battlefield. But it’s more than that. No one else in the world ever heard Goku calling them, and for damn sure no one else climbed all the way up to Mt. Gogyo to find him. No one else can stop Goku when his limiter breaks.

The idea that all that uniqueness is bottled up in Sanzo frightens him. Somehow things that are too special, too strong, have a way of breaking. And, selfish as it is, Sanzo is nearly everything to him.

Sometimes, though, when they’re alone together and Goku turns him to place an open-mouthed kiss at his throat, Goku thinks maybe he shouldn’t worry so much. Maybe they all have more uniqueness than he gives credit for. After all, in the whole world, he is the only one Sanzo let follow him. More than that. In the whole world, he is the only one who can make Sanzo feel real unconditional joy.

[livejournal.com profile] vhasbls Above and Below: Magic Kaitou This is a fic I've been wanting to write but I have no idea how you could do it POV-wise or even at all with the OC cast it would have to have, so here have some exposition instead!

Nakamori Ginzo is 18 years old when he meets the love of his life. Hanano Murasaki, two years older than him, the vice-president of the university’s crime club. Nakamori already intends to go into the Force upon graduation, so he has a perfect reason to join the club. He studies far harder to have intelligent things to say at the biweekly club meetings than to do well in his courses, and slowly but surely begins to excel at the mysteries the club creates for its members to solve. He comes to recognise the ones Murasaki creates: some way or another, they always involve an upright character acting out of a sense of right and wrong rather than for any other motivation.

Murasaki is the most beautiful, intelligent and funny woman Nakamori’s ever known, and he has no idea how to even approach her. He looks at his feet when she glances at him, and blushes when she reads his name among those who correctly solved the meeting’s mystery. He excels in the crime club for the first year and a half, and makes up his mind to ask Murasaki out after the summer vacation. But when he comes back he finds her seat empty; she is finishing her last semester by studying abroad.

Nakamori continues in the crime club, and although he works less hard at it he by now knows all the patterns and aces the exercises regardless – he is vice president in his third year, and president in his fourth. Touichi mocks him for his diligence; he dropped out of the drama club after second year.

Nakamori Ginzo is 22 when he meets Murasaki again, victim of a break and entry. It’s one of his first cases, his notebook nearly empty and his uniform so new it still has the original press marks on it. Even without knowing her name beforehand he would have recognized her: she is even more beautiful now, long hair braided neatly, lithe form emphasized by a lavender blouse and a pencil skirt, bright eyes wide and shining. More surprising is that she recognizes him; he laughs and blushes, but takes the report in perfect form and promises the case his full attention. A week later the burglar enters a second apartment in the same building and they catch him, regaining Murasaki’s stolen jewellery. Two weeks later, egged on relentlessly by Touichi, Nakamori calls and asks if she’s free for the evening.

Nakamori Ginzo is 23 when he and Murasaki are married, a formal Buddhist wedding to offset Touichi’s recent Western church-marriage. It’s a sunny day and the silver cranes embroidered on Murasaki’s white kimono shine; they are nothing in comparison to her beauty, and he tells her so.

Later that year, Kaitou 1412 makes his first appearance, a thief wearing a white suit and top hat. No one takes him seriously, and his file is put with several others on Nakamori’s busy desk.

Over the next two years, the files thin out until only one remains. Some idiot reporter misreads 1412 as Kid, and the name sticks. It is, at least, easier to say.

Nakamori Ginzo is 25 when his daughter is born. It’s a long, uncomfortable pregnancy for Murasaki and a long, uncomfortable delivery. By some miracle Kaitou Kid doesn’t run any heists during the last month of Murasaki’s pregnancy and when the time finally comes Nakamori is free to accompany her to the hospital, but even his presence doesn’t ease the birth. Murasaki hardly notices, but her doctor stepping out to call in the hospital specialist – and the fact that he arrives breathless – is the most frightening thing Nakamori has ever seen. But eventually Aoko emerges, large for her gestation, bright red, and furious. Nakamori is glad to hold her, but it’s only when he sees Murasaki smiling at him and reaching to take the baby’s small hand that he begins to cry.

Three months later, Touichi’s son is born. Murasaki and Chikage are already planning out the kids’ entire future lives together, including birthday parties, schools, and careers.

For the next few years, Kid’s heists are relatively thin on the ground.

Nakamori Ginzo is 30 when he first notices Murasaki’s greyness, and the breathlessness that climbing a few flights of stairs seems to cause her. He mentions it to her, but she brushes it off as lack of exercise. A few weeks later she falls while walking down the hallway – a hall she’s walked through thousands of times. Two days later, she drops a glass while drinking from it. Nakamori takes her to the clinic, and then a specialist. Probably nothing, anaemia, just a few tests.

It isn’t anaemia.

Nakamori Ginzo is 31 when Murasaki dies, and it feels like the end of his world. Like the sun has set, and will never rise again.

He takes a leave from the Force, putting Oogawa in temporary command of the Squad, and sits at home slowly building a wall between himself and the world out of beer cans. Touichi comes by often. At first it’s to drink with him, but over time he shifts his efforts more and more towards trying to get Nakamori to go out. Look after Aoko, take up his job again, get a hobby. Nakamori ignores him, keeps Aoko at daycare or with Chikage and Kaito, and keeps piling up the cans. Touichi, growing more and more frustrated, calls less and less.

Two months later, Kaitou Kid steals a national treasure. Nakamori, outraged despite himself, takes up his position again. From that date onwards, Kid commits nearly a heist a month, Nakamori soon chasing after him enthusiastically at every opportunity. Chasing Kid means he isn’t at home in the empty house in his empty bed. Means he can forget the pain, even for a little while.

Eventually without him constantly picking at it, the hole in his heart slowly knits over without Nakamori ever really noticing.

Nakamori Ginzo is 35 when Kaitou Kid disappears for no reason anyone can find; the same year that Touichi is killed in an accident, to Nakamori’s shock and sorrow. Over the next six months Nakamori’s hope and the Kaitou 1412 Task Force slowly dwindle away. It’s only then that he realises just how completely he replaced one sun with another, and now his sky is once again dark.

He goes home to a child he finds he hardly knows, and tries to be a better father. She is already growing into the image of her mother, and he is as pained as he is proud.

Nakamori Ginzo is 43 when Kaitou Kid returns to the moonlit roofs of Tokyo.

It’s one of the happiest days of his life.
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