DCMK: Heavy Silences (4/10)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Heavy Silences (4/10)
Series: Magic Kaitou/Detective Conan
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Follows Slip and Fall/Pride Goeth Before

Summary: "We would like Kid delivered by the 24th. For every day you're late, one bright face vanishes from the world." Children kidnapped, Nakamori has only one place to turn for help. Kaitou Kid.

Even before Kaitou Kid came barging into his life, Kuroba Kaito never needed much sleep, never stuck to a rigid cycle. It's served him well as the moonlit thief, and it's serving him well now, even though he's not sure who he's supposed to be.

He's wearing Kaitou Kid's clothes, silk rustling in the wind as he glides over Tokyo. The monster of a city is all fluorescence and steel, so he navigates by landmarks – the pink of Tokyo Tower, the shining towers of Disney Land, the rainbow Ferris wheels glowing brightly here and there like earth-bound stars, if stars were ever so colourful.

It's Kaitou Kid who's been called in, who's been threatened, in whose name children have been taken and families terrified. It's the thief who met the squad of men dedicated to catching him on the roof of their own building and listened to them beg for his help. It's the thief who met his smartest rival, pulled him out of his bed and, though not in so many words, begged for his help.

But under the white and blue silk, top-hat and monocle, it's Kuroba Kaito whose heart is clenched in petrified terror, because Aoko is one of the taken, and Aoko is beautiful and smart and – worst of all – brave. Because Aoko will not let others be hurt in front of her. Because her bravery means she will be the first to be hurt.

To be killed.

It's only when his jaw starts to ache that he notices he's grinding his teeth so hard it's audible even in the slick wind created by his passage through the relatively still night air. He forces himself to stop, to focus on seeking out the currents that will carry him back most efficiently to Police HQ. As soon as he stops concentrating on it, he's starts again.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Headquarters is one sky-scraper in the centre of a forest of sky-scrapers. He comes in from the east and lands on the nearest neighbouring building. The Seisan Building holds the offices of Naoka Plastics, Ishimoto Glassware and Tsurada Publishing, as well as numerous other small-fry. He memorized the immediate surroundings of the Police HQ – as well as the main precinct buildings and those most called on by the Task Force – a long time ago. The knowledge is just as accessible to him as how to integrate a function, or to find the mole of any given element, or to conjugate "to be," or any of the hundreds of other things he learns in school. He makes no distinction in his education, places no greater value on what he learns as Kuroba Kaito or Kaitou Kid. It's all of equal value, if not always equal use.

The Seisan building is taller than Police Headquarters by two stories, and as such he has a good view of the roof. And the cop dressed in black squatting in the shadow of the stairwell, back hunched in a way that suggests he's carrying something in his lap. Quite possibly something like his sidearm. A tranq. rifle, if he's lucky.

Stomach cold, Kid reaches up to his monocle and adjusts the dial at the side, squinting. The Seisan building also happens to command a view of the Squad's office, and Nakamori's beyond.

The lights in the Inspector's office are out, but the Squad's are on. He hardly needs the magnification provided by his monocle to see the team of Division Two officers searching through the Task Force's cabinets and desks.

He keeps watch for several minutes, squatting up against the roof's edge, but it was clear from the moment he glanced at the office that this is no search and seizure. It's a slow, meticulous examination of the Task Force's files, and unlikely to be finished in the next few hours. As if he had that kind of time to waste. He dials the magnification of his monocle down to zero and looks around, running over the map of the landscape in his mind's eye as he does so. Finds what he's looking for.

Well-trained as they are, his muscles are beginning to protest this seemingly endless night, this downward spiral of events that is drawing him down deeper and deeper into fear and allowing him no rest to deal with it. He hurries over to the south side of the building, catches sight of what he already knows to be there, and leaps. The glider struts slide out a moment later, wide spread of canvas catching the fierce updraft from the Seisan building's hot air exhaust with a noise like ripping paper. He rises, soaring like a hawk on a desert thermal until he has the height he needs to swoop around the side of Police HQ in a broad curve, attention split evenly between steering and searching for the window he wants. He finds it, counting panes furiously as he loses height in the dead air in the lee of the building. Passes it in a flash of white, own reflection shooting like an arrow along the dark glass of the 25th floor. Division Two's Superintendent Higashiyama's office is dark.

Finding someone helpful sequestered with the Superintendant was a long shot, but now he's without a ready source of information. Something has clearly gone down regarding the Task Force, something that resulted in an internal investigation. And a sniper on the roof. He's perfectly aware of the only likely explanation. Nakamori was caught meeting with him. Stupid, to hold it on HQ's own roof.

No. Just desperate. Prepared to muster whatever resources, to fetch whatever files might be needed at the drop of the hat. The files he's come back for, only to find no one here to dig them out for him.

Sneaking into Police HQ is nothing new and exciting; these days it's not even a meaningless thrill, just a lot of extra work with minimal pay off. He could be in the Squad's office in half an hour, but it's a given that security – there especially – has been tightened, and just thinking about the mental and physical agility that would be required makes him sink in the glider's harness. Two a.m. passed while he was soaring over the bright lights of Shinjuku, and even without the physical strain of flying between cities twice in one night, the emotional side has ground his stamina into ground. He feels as though he's been crushed into thick mud, unable to get up, with an unmovable weight on his back. He needs to get the files, to round up any information that might have a speck of gold dust in it. He's only got five hours until he meets Kudou – Conan – whichever. Only twenty-two until midnight. He needs to sleep, and he has no time to do it in.

If he goes into Police HQ now, he will be caught. And that's not an option.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it until his chest aches, he tilts his body and pulls the glider into a turn. Leaves HQ behind him and drifts south on weak currents. Towards the bay.

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

Closer to the bay the night breeze is stronger, and he's able to pick up some of the speed he's been missing, sheering time off the trip. It's just past three by his watch when he drops down onto the roof of a hideous beige apartment complex. It's the tallest building within close range of Nakamori's house – Aoko's house.

If the Squad's under investigation it's a certainty that Nakamori is too, that the Inspector's phones are being tapped and, quite possibly, his movements watched. Kid gives the neighbourhood a thorough look-over, aware as he does so that his hands are almost trembling, and sees nothing.

All he wants is to drop down on the roof – it would be so easy! – and end this endless night. But even exhausted he can't swallow that kind of slackness, and so he gives the house a wide berth and sticks to the shadows of the taller buildings as he swoops over the neighbourhood to land on another apartment complex with an opposing view. Scans the area again, eyes beginning to blur, and again sees nothing.

He hates himself for knowing he can't trust himself right now. Can't take the easy option, no matter how appealing it is.

In his haste and frustration he dives down steeper than is supportable in the thin wind, forces a scrambled landing and skins his knees. Cursing, he pulls off Kid's clothes, balls them up in the mantle and carries them along under his arm dressed in his Hattori outfit. He pauses under an orange streetlight and pulls out a mirror, adjusts the make-up he's still wearing into a face with different lines than the Osakan detective's but with the same dark colouring. It's a benefit, at least, for slipping into the shadows in the poor light. He wonders how often the other boy has taken advantage of that fact.

The Nakamoris live in a lower-scale neighbourhood for houses in Tokyo, but considering what living in a higher-scale one would cost it's not at all surprising. They've never had much money, he knows, Aoko forced to penny pinch with her clothes more than she'd ever admit. It's lucky she's got the brains to get into a top public school with low fees, instead of an exorbitant mid-range private school.

He's always thought, in a fuzzy and not very self-aware way, that he'll change that for her someday. The sentiment burns in his throat now.

The house is tiny. Cramped and mildly rust-stained, it clings desperately to a tiny strip of yard which is currently entirely in the shadows. Kid knows, however, that it's been carefully tended and staked out to yield the maximum number of vegetables while maintaining bright patches of flowers tucked economically into the corners and the most awkward spots. The neighbouring homes are prouder affairs, standing tall with roof tiles that shine in the now-thinning moonlight. Beika's storm front is moving in.

He skirts around to the house which backs on to his target; from there it's easy to slip through the narrow side path into the adjoining yard, hopping and skipping over stray potted plants and water buckets. The larger yard he exits into is in the shadow of its house and he's forced to navigate entirely by feel, pulling back when his foot sinks into damp garden earth, tripping over a thorny bush and cracking his ankle against a jagged rock. Hissing between his teeth he finally reaches the back fence which, predictably, has a thick row of shrubs growing along its length. He tests the strength with his fingers, finds it strong and firm. He drops the bundle of his clothes on the ground, and leaps.

It costs more than it should for him to scramble up to the top of the fence, but once he's up he squats easily on the thin wood, balancing without thought or issue. Sits crouched like an alley cat and peers into Nakamori's yard. Not that he needs to. The man is sitting on his porch, back-lit by a dull light from within the house. A still-glowing cigarette lies on the porch next to his leg, forgotten. He's staring, wide-eyed, straight at Kid.

Kid, watching the shadows rather than the inspector, jerks his head and hopes the moonlight is strong enough that Nakamori catches the movement. He certainly pulls himself together enough to grab up his cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray next to him. He stands jerkily, lack of coordination suggesting either a moderately debilitating state of drunkenness or more simply dizzy emotional exhaustion. Or both. He makes it across the yard without trouble, though, picking up momentum as he goes so that he's standing straight with stiff shoulders by the time he reaches the fence to look up at Kid.

"Are you being watched?" Kid doesn't look down, continues scanning the deep shadows on either side of the house, keeping his eyes off the buttery glow seeping out from inside to protect his night-vision. If Nakamori's surprised at his ignorance of the situation he doesn't say anything.

"There's a pair out front, another doing a roaming sweep of the neighbourhood." Nothing closer. That the Inspector knows of.

"I need some files." He pulls a folded scrap of paper out of an inside pocket and hands it down, held carelessly between two fingers. Nakamori takes it and opens it with a quiet crackling whisper.

"Can't read it out here. What?"

Kid tells him, feels absurd sitting on Inspector's back fence making clandestine requests in someone else's voice and face. As though it's any less absurd than his usual acts.

"Can you get it?"

A considering pause. Kid's close enough that he should be able to see every line of the Inspector's face, to read him like a book. But the light's bad, and the man's in a bizarre mood, and he's tired. Gods, he's tired, and still miles to go before he sleeps. Damn poetry; only ever remembers it at inopportune times. It seeps unwanted into his brain, thin and bright like gasoline in water.

"I can't, but … I can arrange it. Could, if I had a clean phone."

"While I'd love to lend you mine, Inspector, I'm afraid that's a little too far across the line." As a matter of fact, Kaitou Kid doesn't have one; Kuroba Kaito's is safe at home on his desk. He might be a bright kid, but he still is a kid, and arranging and juggling cell phone contracts like beanbags would raise too many eyebrows. Not to mention the fact that with the constant improvements in tracking their calls it's much too risky. Kid sticks strictly to pay-booths: old-fashioned and embarrassing but safer. "I could carry a note for you." He says it with neutrality because, although he needs to be open to these options, playing errand-boy would be exhausting, and probably eat away the rest of the night.

Nakamori's silent for long enough that Kid looks down at him, catches a glimmer that tells him the Inspector is staring straight at him. Evaluating. He's a born actor, has nothing to worry about in the hours of daylight, but here Nakamori's judgement will not be made based on what he sees, or even hears, but what he imagines. And for a man with such boundless commitment, he's got a surprising measure of kindness. To which Kid himself can bear witness.

"What you got wouldn't be worth the effort you put into it," he says at last, gruffly. "I can – wait," he pauses, and Kid hears the rustle of his shirt as he stiffens. "You can make the call from a payphone. Make it as me."

The thought hadn't occurred to him, and that says a lot about just how worn down he is. But Nakamori's already walking across the yard. Kid stretches, muscles cramping, feet beginning to turn numb from overly-bent ankles. Nakamori's back in a minute, holding up a piece of paper – the same one Kid gave him a minute ago.

"The number's for a friend of mine in the Admin Bureau, Lieutenant Toshibu. Tell him what you need, and where to have it dropped off. He'll be able to get it, but it'll take a few hours. There's a full investigation going on at HQ."

"I know," says Kid, in a tone which is meant to be light but merely comes out as tired. Nakamori shifts again.

"You'd better come back after you make the call and tell me how it went – if it comes down to it I'll need to know what I said."

"Just tell them I did it."

"As far as the investigation's concerned, we never met. You are not involved."

"You think you can bluff your way out?"

"I think we don't have hell of a lot of options." Nakamori's voice is sharp and biting, but Kid's fairly certain the anger isn't directed at him. Fairly certain who it is directed at. But this is all damage control, and they don't have time for that now. There will be time to pick up the pieces later.

"Alright. I'll make the call."

"Don't get caught."

Kid grins, more out of habit than anything else. "No worries there, Inspector."

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

He walks slightly crooked, knees complaining at their long compression. Too bad his family's not got much interest in tradition of the regular kind; never had much call for practicing seiza.

The nearest payphone is three blocks away in front of a 24-hour convenience store. He keeps his head ducked, face in shadow, as he dials the number scrawled on the back of his own note.

It rings four times, then goes to the answering machine. He curses, hangs up, and dials again. It takes another two times before there's an answer, halfway between sleep and rage. "Hello?"

"Toshibu? It's Nakamori." He realises suddenly he has no idea of the man's first name, doesn't know what to do if someone else has picked up the phone, if he's just given himself away.

"Inspector?" Irritation retreating into confusion. Kid sighs, tilts his head and adjusts his throat.

"Listen, Toshibu, I need a favour. A big favour."

"Something to do with Section Two turning on itself? What's going on? The rumours are running high 'n wild." An older voice, with just a hint of a Kansai accent.

"There's been an incident…" here his own emotions clog up his throat, forcing him to cough and then clear it. "Kidnappings. Aoko, and four other kids from the Squad. Sawara's wife."

"God," hisses Toshibu on the other side of the phone, low and stunned.

"Section One's investigating, but … look, the less you know, the better. Can you get copies of some files for me? You'll have to root them out from the internal investigation team; I don't know who's running it." Nakamori probably does, but he didn't think to ask. Damn, but this is sloppy. "It's urgent, Toshibu," he grinds out, with no idea how close he is to stringing the man along, no idea of his connection to Nakamori. How big a favour he owes.

"Right, sir," comes the answer, curt and clipped and ready. Kid blinks, caught off guard by the readiness. It takes an effort not to stammer.

"Then this is what I need. Got a pen?"

"Just a minute… okay, sir."

"Copies of all the records of a call made to my office phone yesterday evening. The reports on the kidnappings for," he pauses, pulling the names out of his memory with only a sliver of effort, "Oogawa, Sawara, Yamamoto, Takarai, Washio. My own as well," he adds in a slight afterthought.

There's a long pause on the other end, longer than it would take to write the names down, but he can hear heavy breaths. Then a terse, "Yes, sir."

"How soon can you have them?"

"It'll take me a while to track them down and get the authorisation. Say three hours."

Kid glances at his watch. 3:18. "Alright. You'll have to drop them somewhere, I can't pick them up myself." Somewhere nearby, somewhere on his way to Beika. Somewhere empty enough at six thirty in the morning that a forgotten envelope won't be immediately noticed. "Do you know the apartment complex by my house? Fourteen floors, beige, across from a laundromat and a ramen shop? Tower Hills." Not a great description, but it's the tallest building in a two block radius and nothing else is coming to mind.

"I can find it, sir."

"Leave the reports in a corner of the garbage enclosure in a brown envelop. I'll call you if I don't get them."

"Yes, sir. And, Inspector if you need anything else…" It's not an empty offer or simple office brown-nosing. It's immediate and genuine. Suddenly, this begins to feel like a trespass where it never has before. He's never imitated anyone for any reason other than to confuse, to give orders to direct situations away – or, on occasion, towards – himself. This is different, this is personal and trusting. Should be personal and trusting. With a sour taste in his mouth, Kid forces himself to answer.

"Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."

"Right." There's a click, Toshibu doubtless hurrying off to get started on the task Nakamori's given him. Kid wonders who Nakamori is to the man, that he's willing to risk his career for him. Willing, and eager.

He hangs up the phone with a heavy hand, click quiet in the thicker silence of the lazy neighbourhood.

Wishing his head were clearer, he pads back to Nakamori's fence.

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

Nakamori's ready for him this time, sitting dark and watchful on the edge of the porch. He crosses to the fence in one straight trip, standing with – Kid suspects although can't actually see – his arms crossed, under the thief.

Kid relates the conversation in short sentences, clean as old bones. Locks out all emotion.

"I figured it would be best to give an address near your house," he tacks onto the end, prompted by the ever-vigilant care which has kept him out of a cell this past year and more. But he seriously doubts that tracking him down is the first thing on Nakamori's mind now. Doubts it's in his thoughts at all. He's almost ashamed that it's in his, clothes clutched tight under one arm ready for a quick escape. Although at least less from Nakamori than his watchers.

"Makes sense," is the flat answer, giving away nothing. Probably, there's nothing to give away.

There's a long silence. Kid, legs aching, aware that it's almost an hour's walk from here to his home, current breeze not strong enough to carry him there with only a fourteen storey starting point; Nakamori caught up in his own thoughts.

"Three hours," says the Inspector eventually, "until the pick-up. Got somewhere to sleep?"

Not at all liking where this is going, Kid shifts, feels his traitorous legs beginning to fill with pins and needles. He could have made some easy quip before – Kaitou Kid doesn't lack for beds to sleep in, Inspector – you're not my usual type – I'm sure I can rustle something up (leer) – but with his age no longer a secret between the two of them that's not an option. "Thanks for the kind offer, Inspector, but I have my own bed." It's the best he can think of, curt with an allusion to his mysterious home life to distract. He needs to get out now, he knows, end the conversation before it gets any further into already dangerous territory.

Accordingly, he stands, meaning to take an easy step off the fence into Nakamori's neighbour's yard. And, betrayed not by his balance but his muscles, tumbles forwards into the soft earth of Aoko's garden. He retains enough presence of mind to scramble immediately to his feet, cringing inside at the flowers he's doubtless crushing with the awareness of what Aoko would do to him for his clumsiness. If she were here. Fire burning in his gut, adrenaline spike momentarily driving all fatigue from him and replacing it with over strung tension, he feels Nakamori's hand fall on his shoulder and spins so fast he really does lose his balance. Tears himself desperately away and hits the fence with a dull thud, heart pounding and eyes narrowed fiercely, nearly snarling.

"Christ, kid," hisses Nakamori, "calm down." His voice is sharp enough to cut through the storm of emotions clouding Kid's mind, and even enough not to provoke him further. The kind of voice, in fact, used to talk to spooked horses and hissing cats. The thief forces himself to stand still, locks his joints and slows his heart. Tries to regain objectivity, control. "Come on," says the Inspector gruffly. "You'd better lie down for a while, you're in no state to be wandering around. Don't worry, I'm not going to take a sponge to you while you're asleep," adds the older man in a disinterested tone as he turns to stalk across the garden.

It might be the exhaustion, or the realisation of his need. Or it might be just a child's response to a strong parental figure. He follows the Inspector.

The light is still on, a guiding beacon in the darkness. Nakamori resolves from a shadow to a man wearing a dark blazer, back not quite straight. He doesn't pause at the door; takes off his shoes and goes straight in without looking back, somehow aware that to offer Kid a chance to argue his way out of this will be to lose him. Kid slips his shoes off, the only part of his costume he didn't bother to change when meeting Nakamori, and stands on the threshold.

He – Kaito – has been in the house dozens, hundreds of times. Used to chase Aoko through the hallways, used to be chased by her up and down the stairs. Has played board games on the floor of the front room and made snacks in the kitchen. He knows every room, every corner, every piece of furniture. But when he crosses the threshold, it still seems like the first time. A first something, at least. He's not sure he likes it, cold chills running down his spine, teeth setting themselves sharply.

The light inside the house turns out to be the kitchen light, barely illuminating the front room and casting the shadow of prison bars through the stairs' banisters onto the white wall beyond.

In all his visits to the house, he's never seen it like this. Silent. Eerie. Empty.

He follows Nakamori carefully up the stairs in the near-dark, remembering that he is not supposed to know the house, to know where they're going.

"Front room's too open. You can sleep in here; I'll get a futon." The Inspector switches on the hall light and throws open the first door on the right. Aoko's.

He didn't think about it, should have, but that's just another drop in tonight's cup of regrets. There are only two bedrooms in the house, and Nakamori knows better than to press this odd trust by having Kid share his own.

He stands just inside the doorway, staring into the gloom. The dim light has sapped all colour from the room, rendered it artificially grey. It's been a couple of years since he's been here, and he can't pick out the true colours. There's nothing to do here that they can't do downstairs, Aoko said, front room better equipped with a table and television and closer to the kitchen, and her room is smaller and more cluttered. Really, though, she has simply grown into the age where having a boy alone in the sanctuary of her room is an embarrassing, awkward thing. Kaito, who would have to be subject to the embarrassing awkwardness, has been just as glad to stay on the first floor.

It hasn't changed much as far has he can see, the same foundations with different dressings. Aoko's bed stands along one wall, made neatly, bedspread a dark charcoal grey patterned with lighter mouse-grey flowers. A dresser with attached mirror stands against the opposite wall, a set of bookshelves next to it. At the foot of the bed a neat desk, Aoko's homework stacked carefully next to a curved lamp. Pictures and posters hang on the walls, enough to give the room a lively, cheerful feeling without cramping the small space. All of them coloured in a spectrum of ashes.

Kid – Kaito – walks over to the window without knowing why, retaining enough sense to keep his weak shadow off the drawn blinds. There's a row of glass figurines along the window sill, thin and fragile and bright as rainbows, he remembers. They've always been in Aoko's room, always here on the windowsill to catch the sunlight and throw it back into the room in peacock-coloured slivers. Always the only thing she wouldn't share, wouldn't let him near. They belonged to her mother, he knows. The mother who died when she was four, who Aoko must hardly be able to remember, who he never knew. Who Nakamori lost, just as he's now so close to losing his daughter.

They're killers. I don't mean mercenaries or assassins. I mean they kill people who get in their way. What guarantee do you have that they haven't killed them already?

None.

The conversation echoes in his head, razor sharp against a dark thrumming background. He has no guarantee. No proof. No reason, even, to believe she's still alive. To believe, standing here in her bedroom smelling of rose and lavender, that she is not at this minute lying cold and limp and wide-eyed on some basement floor.

"Fuck," he hisses, and slams his fist into the wall hard enough that the plaster gives way under it. Curses again as he grinds his knuckles harder against the cracking drywall, eyes screwed closed. Mask shattered into cutting shards and letting his emotions flow in freely. Strong enough to drown him.

He feels like pounding his fist into the wall again and again until it's slick with blood; he feels like climbing up to the top of the damn apartment and leaping off and engaging the glider so late his landing turns into a gritty, tearing, scraping roll; he feels like sinking down on the thin carpet and crying. He does none of these things. Stands stock still, fist in its impact crater, head leant up against the hard corner of the windowsill, back bent. Stands until his blood cools and his breathing slows. Then he drops his aching hand and turns.

Nakamori is standing in the doorway, a folded futon with a blanket and pillow piled on top in his arms. His face is set into one Kaito knows well, one Kid knows perfectly. He'd never suspected the Inspector had such a good poker face.

"You need some ice?" he asks, stepping into the room and dropping the bedding. His eyes are watching Kaito's, not his fist, not his tense stature. There is no rebuke there, nor any compassion. Complete neutrality, simple and unbinding.

"No. Thanks."

"I'll be next door." He turns and walks out without another word, not bothering to close the door behind him. He leaves the hall light on.

It's by that dull glow that Kaito unfolds the futon and lays the pillow and blanket, then arranges himself for the night – what little of it is left.

Three hours later, he is woken by Aoko's alarm. He's out of the house before Nakamori wakes, bedding folded neatly in the centre of Aoko's room. That and the hole in the wall are the only proof he was ever there.