Detective Conan and Magic Kaito characters, settings, and ideas do not belong to me but to Aoyama Gōshō.

Evening the Odds

By Taliya

I: Chance

Word Count: 5 377

Total Word Count: 10 000

The pain was not the first thing he registered even as the blade of the knife sunk to the hilt in his stomach just below the ribcage. It was as if everything was happening in slow motion and that the imaginary dials for his senses had been twisted to extraordinary keenness: the rich smell of coffee that permeated the shop, the feel of the air conditioning circulating coolly on the back of his neck, the harsh grip on his shoulder keeping him almost flush against the other man, the murmur of the other customers, the wild, manic eyes set in the face of a man gone mad.

He had been laughing quietly, his killer, the grin wide and full of teeth in a parody of what should have been an expression of happiness and joy as he whispered poisonous words in his ear, the man's breath warm against his skin. The details of his murderer's face etched themselves into his brain, courtesy of his eidetic memory despite the shadows from the bill of his ivy cap, the scarf wrapped halfway up his chin, the sunglasses that had slid partway down his nose, and the flipped up collar of his jacket. Then his executioner withdrew the knife slowly, as delicately as he would treat a lover, before he swung out his gloved hand grasping the knife, the weapon flinging away droplets of blood after it had passed him. The blade arced cleanly across his throat before he was shoved violently backwards out of the line of customers waiting to order their drinks and snacks, and he was aware of falling as time suddenly rushed back to its normal pace.

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. They lied, he thought inanely, but another thought crowded into his mind. "He's a…" he mumbled just before his head cracked loudly against the tile floor, jolting him out of his daze as agony ruptured in his gut, his neck, the back of his head, and he was momentarily aware of the cacophony of screams and footsteps from the coffee shop customers, the warm wetness on his neck and the ferrous taste of blood on his tongue before he blacked out an instant later.

"Damnit!" twenty-nine-year-old Kudou Shinichi growled as he paced the width between his desk and the next behind his, resembling a caged tiger in his agitation complete with lashing tail. There had been a total of nine deaths so far in the past three and a half weeks, all courtesy of the aptly named "Coffee Shop Killer". Each time, they had been just a hair too late, the murderer blending in with the confused and panicked customers as they stampeded out of the coffee shops. The killer was meticulous, never leaving a trace of himself at the crime scenes. And yet there was no discernible pattern to his attacks aside from the time of day, which was always the early morning rush and was usually at extremely popular shops. They were scattered in terms of day and location within the metroplex, with no true centralized base he worked from.

Eyewitnesses would report variations on a theme regarding the suspect: a man wearing nondescript clothing consisting of a coat, scarf, gloves, flat cap, and sunglasses. The colors would vary, and in the dead of winter the description applied to the literally millions of men in Tokyo, so there was not much they could go on. Everyone who saw the murder happened described the exact same sequence of events: the killer would spin the person in line before him by the shoulder, stepping in to plunge the knife into his victim's stomach before stepping back and swiping the knife through the neck. This was always followed by a vicious shove that ended with his victims severely concussed as they would still be in too much shock from being knifed twice to break their fall. Except for his first victim, all of his targets had died of hypovolemic shock before medical help arrived on the scene.

Most of the coffee shops had security cameras installed, but their serial killer was smart. He would visit during peak morning hours when the lines were long and the spaces swimming with people, and he would execute his victim just out of sight of the camera angle. How he was able to calculate the camera's range of view was something of a mystery to the police. There was no DNA, no prints, nothing besides witness testimony. And there were too many coffee shops for the police to patrol within the metropolis, let alone in any given city.

"Goddamnit!" he snarled once more as his rubber-soled dress shoes hissed on the thin carpet as he spun once more.

"Calm down, Kudou-kun," Inspector Satou Miwako said as she and her partner Assistant Inspector Takagi Wataru walked into the office.

"I can't help it," he grumbled even as he gave in and sat down at his desk and crossed his legs, the foot hanging in the air twitching in his irritation. He scowled, initiating a glaring contest with the patterns woven into the carpeting.

The two veteran police officers shared a glance. They had never before seen the young deductive prodigy so anxious. "What's bothering you, Kudou-kun?" asked Takagi.

Shinichi rubbed at his head, ruffling up his hair with a grimace. "We're missing something, and I'm positive that he could tell us!"

"You mean… Kuroba-san?" the assistant inspector clarified.

"Yes," the young inspector agreed with a growl. "Except he's been in a coma ever since." His hands curled into fists.

The sole survivor of the Coffee Shop Killer's string of murders was his first victim Kuroba Kaito, a young man his age who had established himself as a magical sensation on the world stage a few years ago. The magician had survived because the blade had nicked his carotid artery instead of fully severing it, and also due to the efforts of one of the customers, who happened to be a trauma surgeon on his day off. The doctor had elevated Kuroba's feet and applied pressure on his abdominal wound, all the while shouting out instructions for the few still-functioning bystanders to call for ambulances and policemen. There was not much he could do about the slashed neck, since with a near certain head injury from his fall, the doctor had not wanted to shift his patient more than was absolutely necessary. The man had still been breathing and so did not require cardiopulmonary resuscitation, although it had been through his throat and not his nose.

Kuroba had still ended up suffering from hemorrhagic shock in addition to a severe concussion and his physical wounds, and the paramedics had barely managed to stabilize him once he reached the emergency bay at Ekoda General Hospital. He had remained in a coma ever since.

Shinichi was anxious for Kuroba to recover not only because he alone might be able to identify his assailant. The detective had a vested interest in the magician's wellbeing because he knew that Kuroba Kaito was the civilian identity of the infamous Phantom Thief 1412—better known throughout all of Japan as Kaitou KID. The two of them shared a long and complicated history that had begun in their teens when he had been forced to masquerade as a six-year-old Edogawa Conan, with the both of them alternately opposing and cooperating with each other depending on the situation. KID had aided Shinichi in bringing down the Black Organization, and for that alone, the detective could not—would not—ever turn the magician in for his crimes. Corner him at his heists, most certainly, but turning him over to Division Two was out of the question.

During his time as Conan and despite the fact that Kaitou KID was a criminal, Shinichi had come to regard the phantom thief as a friend he could rely on when the situation called for it. KID had a genuinely good heart, and he had never harmed anyone on any of his heists—except perhaps for the occasional bruise or scrape incurred during the chase and a deflated ego or two. But Shinichi knew that KID had enemies of his own, and had for the past decade and a half since his return to his original form attended all of the magician's heists whenever he could. Admittedly, his attendance track record had been abysmal at best, because it seemed murderers tended to seek him out, rather than the other way around.

The gunmen who were after KID were not nearly as crafty and elegant as the members of the Black Organization he had taken down with the help of the CIA, FBI and Secret Police, but they still eluded him simply because he had not truly applied the full force of his attention on catching them, focused as he was on the day-to-day homicides that occurred frequently around him. He also had faith in KID's abilities to outwit them despite the gravity of his circumstances, and so had spent more of the heists playing cat and mouse than being the detective he truly was, simply because most of the time the gunmen failed to show. Now, he wished that he had taken the threat against the phantom thief more seriously so that it was one less threat against Kuroba Kaito he had to worry about.

It was particularly disquieting for him because on a handful of occasions he had been able to catch up to KID only to eavesdrop on rooftop conversations that generally involved threats of bodily harm to KID—or Kuroba Touichi, as they had called him—as well as demands to hand over "Pandora". Shinichi eventually reasoned out that the men thought they were still dealing with Kuroba's long-dead father, but to this day he still had no idea what exactly Pandora was, as the enigmatic thief had been uncharacteristically tightlipped about the topic.

Shinichi had parsed out that Pandora was a gemstone, the target of every single heist Kaitou KID held that was not a challenge. The fact that he also performed a "full moon check" at the conclusion of every theft had been another clue, whereupon he would return his prize in a timely manner. Yet aside from knowing that Pandora was a jewel, Shinichi had no idea what conditions needed to be satisfied in order to identify Pandora, nor did he know what Pandora's significance was to both KID and the men after him. "The less you know, the safer you'll be, Meitantei," the gentleman thief had admonished with a gloved finger on his grinning lips and a conspiratorial wink from his uncovered eye the first time Shinichi had asked. It had been aggravating hearing that phrase from KID, for had he not used that same logic when he had been poisoned into becoming Conan?

"It's nearing four weeks now," Satou commented carefully, watching the young inspector fidget and taking note of the bags under his eyes. Usually by four weeks a comatose victim would wake; if not, then the chances of them waking up dwindled dramatically. Most comatose patients who did not wake within that four-week window generally never woke up again. Shinichi prayed to any god listening to give Kuroba another chance at life. Out of anyone, the detective felt the magician deserved it.

"I know that," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair once more before he stood.

"Maybe you should go home and sleep," Takagi suggested, and Shinichi paused on his way to the door.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep even if I tried. I'm going to visit him again," he announced tiredly and marched off, aware that both Satou and Takagi watched him leave with concerned eyes.

The monotonous beep of the cardiac monitor was a comforting sound, confirming the continued existence of one Kuroba Kaito. Shinichi quietly shut the door to the magician's room, taking in the sagging balloons and wilted flowers sent by his friends and fans. It was early evening, and visitor hours were nearly over. There was a single sign that someone had been here recently: an indentation on one of the faux-leather armchairs, still warm, pulled next to the bedside with Kuroba's non-monitor finger-clipped hand resting atop the blankets. By the size and shape he would guess a woman, and likely KID's wife, Kuroba Aoko née Nakamori.

Shinichi wondered if she knew her husband was the infamous Kaitou KID, and he wondered how well she had taken it if Kuroba had indeed told her. It had to have been quite a spectacle, considering how her father, Nakamori Ginzo, had spent the better half of his life chasing after Kaitou KID—both the original and the revived one. And from what he had heard around the station—not to mention heard himself from a ways down the central hallway—Division Three's Sergeant Kuroba Aoko had a temper just as fiery as her father's.

He stepped up to the patient and stopped by the armchair, taking in the pale, slack face so like his own that was illuminated by a single light in the ceiling that cloaked the room in semi-darkness. The magician was dressed in the standard pale blue hospital gown and covered with beige blankets to just below his shoulders, though both his arms rested atop the blankets. Gauze was wrapped around Kuroba's throat right about his Adam's apple, hiding the stitches holding his neck closed as his body healed itself of the damage—a severed trachea and partially-severed esophagus. His head, neck, and shoulders were cushioned in a brace to keep him from moving his neck more than necessary. The arm with the EKG finger clip also had an intravenous drip that disappeared into the crook of his elbow. The thin, clear nasal cannula ran from his nose, looping over his ears before snaking to the wall, where it was attached to the flowmeter that provided oxygen. A nasogastric tube had also been prematurely inserted and taped to his nose, ready to provide food once he woke up and desired sustenance while at the same time allowing his esophagus to heal. Below the blankets, compression sleeves hissed as they massaged his legs with bursts of pressurized air, encouraging circulation through his lower extremities.

In the sterile, white hospital setting it was difficult to recognize this man as the same one he had chased on countless heists. Kuroba Kaito, though usually dressed in white, had always been so animated, so vibrant and full of life. It was chillingly eerie to see the man who was Kaitou KID this still, barely hanging on to life. He reached down and delicately grasped KID's free hand, studying the slender fingers that were covered in faded scars from practicing his various tricks. He gently squeezed the phantom thief's hand, watching the multiple colored plastic bands with various bits of personal information and barcodes slide down his wrist. "Wake up, KID," he murmured, easing the man's hand back down onto the blanket. "There are those here who need you, like your wife. We need you to help us find the killer." He hesitated before adding, "And I need you too. You can't leave me hanging here—not when I've your baddies to find and a game to win against you."

He exhaled noisily, hanging his head in exhaustion as he rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he should go home and rest, as Takagi and Satou had suggested. His wife, Kudou Ran née Mouri, knew he had been running himself ragged with this particular case. Shinichi had told the lawyer his theories regarding Kaitou KID's identity years ago and after all the hijinks Shinichi had gotten himself into as Edogawa Conan, she knew that her husband owed the phantom thief his life several times over.

Shinichi turned and headed for the door. He would come again tomorrow, the same as he had every day since Kuroba had been admitted into the hospital. His hand had barely touched the handle when he noticed a change in the beeping from the electrocardiogram. The beeps indicating heart rate had accelerated from its steady sleeping-state forty-eight beats per minute to a more conscious sixty-five beats per minute. He was immediately at Kuroba's bedside and sitting in the armchair, intently watching the man's face for signs of awakening.

The magician's eyes twitched beneath his eyelids before the lashes cracked open ever so slightly before immediately shutting. Apparently the single light was still too bright for Kuroba's eyes, used as they had become to the darkness behind his eyelids. Shinichi held his breath, elation and hope thrumming in his blood as Kuroba once again opened his eyes, squinting as he allowed his vision to become accustomed to the minor illumination. He hissed a sigh of discomfort as his brow furrowed, and Shinichi belatedly realized that Kuroba was probably not on pain medication since he had been comatose. He reached for the bed's controls, which were built into the side railing and pressed the call button for the nurse. "Shh," he murmured soothingly as the magician's expression wrinkled wordless in agony, and Kuroba's pain-hazed eyes rolled unsteadily to his. "I know it hurts, but you'll be okay. The nurses are on their way." The door behind him opened, quickly admitting two nurses from the circulation desk. Shinichi twisted towards them and exclaimed with an immensely relieved smile, "He's awake!"

The next week passed with Kaito phasing in and out of consciousness, and each time he woke up he stayed awake slightly longer than before. Oftentimes he awoke with hissed, near-silent screams to Aoko's worried and relieved face, along with his mother's and Jii's, and they were usually accompanied by members of the police, along with a few good friends he had made at university and through his work.

Hakuba Saguru, his longtime rival-turned-friend, had taken a last-minute trip from England to visit him upon his waking. The half-Japanese detective currently occupied a position within Scotland Yard and was working his way towards gaining a position in INTERPOL, wherein he had confided to his former classmate that once there he would devote his career to catching Kaitou KID. Kaito had grinned silently, eyes dancing with the prospect of the challenge and the support. Hakuba had smirked in return, for they both knew that Kaito was KID and that KID had enemies. Hakuba had all but promised backup for the white-clad thief in his future confrontations with the Syndicate while he continued to complete his father's work.

Inspectors Satou and Takagi were frequent visitors, Superintendent Megure less so, and Inspector Kudou more so. Come to think of it, Kudou was there almost as often as Aoko. The inspector was usually off in a corner, patiently watching him but not yet asking the questions Kaito knew would come regarding his near-murder. It was readily apparent soon after Kaito's awakening that he had no recollection of how he ended up in the hospital. The last memory that he could recall was his desire to take a walk that morning and veering off to the coffee shop to purchase a cup of hot chocolate. That he could not consciously remember the event did not, however, keep him from dreaming about when he slept. Every night he would wake up sweaty, shaking, and hissing what would have normally been screams of terror. But each time he awoke, the memory would slip away like fine sand in a coarse sieve. Frustrated, he would stay up only go back to sleep to relive his near-death once more.

Kaito had quickly discovered that any attempt to make noise vocally was a really, really bad idea. Not only did his throat feel like it had been doused with gasoline and lit when he tried, but he found it rather difficult to coordinate his jaw, lips, and tongue well enough to form some semblance of words, even for lip reading purposes. It did not help that he repeatedly screamed—or at least, tried to scream—in his sleep, further damaging his cords. The surgeons had come in during one of his longer periods of wakefulness on the second day of his awakening and had explained that his larynx had been slashed open. They had needed to reconstruct his vocal cords, along with his trachea and esophagus, and that until his throat fully healed, there was no way for him to speak lest he risk damaging his still knitting larynx.

Aoko, Jii, and Chikage had all been in the room, along with the nearly ever-present Kudou when the surgeons told Kaito of their diagnosis, and they all wondered how this would affect Kaito's ability to perform as KID. Kaitou KID was renowned for his ability to bend his voice to imitate nearly anybody, a particularly impressive feat when he disguised as a female. Those sort of vocal acrobatics were currently beyond Kaito's reach—possibly for good, since reconstructive larynx surgery generally left the patient with a markedly diminished vocal range and a general inability to speak loudly. The doctors had warned that due to the extensiveness of the reconstruction Kaito had undergone, there was a distinct possibility he would never retain his ability to speak normally. He might, effectively, be mute.

"Kaito…" Aoko whispered after the doctors had left, though she had no idea what else to say. And what could she say? That his days as Kaitou KID were over? Was it even possible for Kaito to stop being KID, when they all knew the Syndicate was still out there looking for Pandora? The family of four—including Jii—had long forgotten about the inspector, who stood in a corner of the room mulling over the doctors' prognosis. The magician closed his eyes, his head and shoulders still immobilized, and a breathless, quiet sob escaped his lips. Immediately the other three surged around the bed, murmuring soothing words of comfort and encouragement as the man who was once Kaitou KID silently cried under the watchful, troubled gaze of the homicide detective.

When Kaito managed to pull himself together after his crying bout, he breathed shakily, "Ao-ko?" There was no hint of his actual voice, merely the strength of his exhalation carrying the syllables his lips and tongue clumsily formed.

He gazed at her with eyes that expressed more than he could ever say, and his wife bent down to rest her head carefully on his chest. "I know," the policewoman replied, answering his unspoken question as she squeezed his hand. "We'll figure something out."

The following weeks saw Kaito improve physically in leaps and bounds as he regained his motor skills. Mentally, nothing had changed aside from his post-traumatic amnesia, much to the relief of everyone. He was still as sharp-witted as ever, and he had given Inspector Kudou an extremely detailed account of what he could recall the day he was hospitalized. Unfortunately he did not recall anything about the event itself, only that he had made the decision to get a cup of the hot drink on his way to work at a security firm as a software engineer. Between his own innate determination and his physical therapist's direction, the magician was soon able to walk fairly steadily on his own. He was still in the process of fine-tuning his motor skills, and he had begun to practice the most rudimentary of sleight of hand tricks, but he had been healthy enough to be released from the hospital.

The one thing that did not seem to be coming back as quickly as he would have liked was his voice. His throat had finally knitted enough to where he could begin speaking, and he had immediately gone to a speech therapist. He had been able to regain his ability to speak after several weeks' worth of coaching, though it was raspy and a ghost of his smooth cadences.

Kaito knew it pained Aoko deeply to watch him begin to slide down the slippery slope of despair, but he was sorely frustrated at the abysmally slow rate of recuperation it was taking to regain his voice. There was a deep, creeping terror that he might never regain his vocal ability, and though he never once voiced that dread he knew Aoko knew all too well that his fear was a distinct and real possibility. Aoko did her absolute best to remain upbeat for Kaito's sake, and though he was highly appreciative of her efforts he knew as well as she did that he saw through her façade of cheerfulness. At night he held her close and whispered his gratitude, but even then he oftentimes retreated behind his Poker Face, refusing to allow himself to grieve just yet, and the repression generally expressed itself in horrific night terrors that left him quaking in his wife's arms.

This went on for two weeks before Aoko decided something had to give. "Kaito," she murmured one weekend evening after dinner when the both of them sat together, cuddling on the couch with his arm around her shoulders. "What can I do to help?" He squeezed her once in reply, and she remained quiet, allowing him to think through his answer. Kaito nuzzled her hair, breathing in the scent of her floral shampoo as he pondered his reply. Usually he had something quick and witty to reply to nearly any question thrown at him. It was one of the traits that annoyed Hakuba like nothing else.

"I don't know," he finally whispered with a tight throat, and Aoko made a small noise of commiseration. She burrowed her face deeper into his chest, trying her best to wordlessly convey her love and support to him as they sat in the quiet for several long moments. "Aoko," Kaito breathed, eyes staring sightlessly ahead, and she stirred slightly to let him know she was listening. "What do I do now?"

Aoko said nothing and Kaito could not, would not begrudge her lack of answer. How could she respond, when it was not even her problem to deal with? They were interrupted by the ringing of the front doorbell. The pair glanced quizzically at each other, conveying with their eyes that each had not been expecting a visitor. Aoko rose from the couch and disappeared around a corner to the genkan. Kaito heard her greeting sputter and die on her lips upon opening the door.

A low male voice greeted his wife. "Good evening, Kuroba-keiji." It was familiar—too familiar. What was he doing here?

"Kudou-keibu," Aoko murmured, "Good evening. May I ask what brings you here?"

"May I speak with your husband?" he asked.

Was he here to ask about the serial murderer? His memory of that event was still beyond his reach, and it was utterly frustrating.

"O-Oh, of course." Aoko sounded somewhat shocked and surprised, but recovered enough to invite him in with a soft, "Please."

"Excuse my intrusion," Kudou murmured and soon enough the pair rounded the corner after Aoko stowed away the inspector's coat and scarf. Kudou settled into one of the armchairs that bracketed the ends of the coffee table, sending her husband a disarming smile.

"I'll make some tea," she said and made quick work of producing three mugs of steaming macha. She returned and set the cups on the coffee table to the murmured appreciation of both men before sidling into her previous spot by Kaito's side, though she remained upright.

"Kuroba-san, Kuroba-keiji," Kudou began, and there was a gravity to him that had not been present before. "I have a—proposition of sorts for the both of you, though it is more heavily focused on Kuroba-san." The inspector's cerulean eyes studied the pair, and Kaito kept a politely interested face on as he studied the detective back. He felt more than saw Aoko turn her inquisitive gaze on him, and he swiveled his head to meet hers. She quirked the corner of her lips and she nodded once at him.

"We're listening," Kaito murmured quietly to the waiting detective, the husband and wife pair watching Kudou attentively.

The homicide detective set his mug down on the coffee table and leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped loosely between his legs. His expression was as serious as Kaito had ever seen, and just as intense. "What do you think about me voicing a heist for you, Kuroba-san?"

Whatever he had been expecting, Kudou offering to help him on a KID heist had been the absolute last thing on his mind. Though his Poker Face kept him from visually expressing his shock, Aoko had no such compunctions.

"Wha—what—huh?" stammered the policewoman, eyes wide with panic. "Why would my husband be Kaitou KID?!" she shrieked, jumping up from the couch in indignation. She promptly began a rant about KID and how he needed to be captured, repeating words from years ago that she now no longer believed. Kaito had to hand it to his wife, though she had no Poker Face to speak of, she certainly recovered fast enough to fool most people. Unfortunately for them, Kudou Shinichi was not "most people". Indeed, he had not batted an eye at Aoko's vexed outburst, which was directed at him.

"Kuroba-keiji," he said calmly, and somehow it managed to cut through the policewoman's diatribe. "I have my reasons to believe that Kuroba-san is Kaitou KID."

Aoko mulishly glared at the inspector. "Oh?" she asked, drawing out the single syllable. "Then by all means do lay them out for me," she snapped, standing protectively before her husband.

Kaito watched Aoko's valiant attempt to defend him with warm fondness curling around his heart. But when his wife threw down the gauntlet he decided he needed to defuse the situation. And so he reached out and grasped one of her hands, his fingers curling around hers gently. Aoko whirled around to face him, the fire in her eyes dying into troubled reservation. He smiled reassuringly and softly tugged her down into the seat next to him, curling an arm around her shoulders and pressing a loving kiss to her temple. "We can trust him," he breathed so quietly she barely heard him. Kaito once again observed his longtime rival and unspoken friend. "You're not here to ask about the serial killer, Kudou-keibu?" he asked instead, not bothering to voice a confirmation or a denial to Kudou's question.

The inspector shook his head. "Unless you recover your memories, there's no way to identify him," Kudou answered simply, though there was frustration in his voice.

Kaito sighed in silent apology. He had yet to visit that specific coffee shop since his discharge from the hospital since he still reacted rather badly to any coffee shop he passed if he managed to catch a whiff of the aromatic beverage. He knew he needed to get a lid on himself and go, but he had been having difficulty gathering the courage to return. Aoko, having been party to a small number of murder and attempted murder cases over the years, understood the trauma survivors faced and was careful not push her husband past his limits.

"So what do you think?" the homicide detective asked, turning the conversation back to his original inquiry.

"Why do you want to do this?" the magician immediately shot back, expression equally as solemn as Kudou's.

The inspector released a sardonic snort. "Is it so wrong to want to help a friend?" When Kaito revealed nothing on his face, he expounded, "You've helped me rather frequently for a criminal—especially when I was running around as Edogawa Conan. I thought I could at least pay down some of my debt to you."

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to simply turn me if in you know my civilian identity?" he asked, and he felt Aoko tense up beside him.

Kudou grinned, shark-like and cunning. "I could, but then where else would I get my fun chasing non-violent thieves who return what they steal?"

Kaito laughed, as much as he could laugh. It came out more like a wheeze. When his laughing spell subsided, Kaito grinned at the detective and asked softly, "Would you like to go out and get some coffee?"

Author's Note: Decided to try my hand at a slightly different writing style and genre, so if it reads kind of funny, that's why. Although, I can't completely abandon what I'm comfortable writing, which is angst, apparently. Had this one sitting on my jump drive for a while, and a conversation with KensyEcho rekindled my interest in finishing this fic, so this one is for you, Kensy. This fic sort of unintentionally turned into an entry for Poirot Café's 10k Writing Competition #3: Lost and Found. I hope you enjoyed it.

Completed: 23.09.2015