This was my first Detective Conan fanfic that I wrote some time ago and figured while I was uploading my other one, may as do this one as well. It revolves mostly around Gin and his relationship with Sherry. (As in the summary, it said Gin/Sherry implied). A warning: this story does deal with prostitution (no, it's not Sherry), but there is nothing too graphic.
The title comes from the song that inspired it, "Tomorrow We'll See" by Sting. If you look up the lyrics, I doubt you'll miss the parallels.
I do not own Detective Conan, nor the song, the only thing that's mine is the prostitute. . . . that sounds so wrong.
Sprinkling rain streaked across the Far East sky, flashing occasionally as each liquid projectile passed a source of light to create a series of inconsistent patterns in the ray of the street light on the corner. The road glistened. It remained drenched from the day's downpour, not that that would keep any night creature's business from continuing as usual. Rain water dribbled to the drains and into the sewer system where the rest rushed beneath the city streets. Several fresh poisonous ashes dropped upon the curb, sizzling and snuffing out with several tiny puffs of smoke. Each puff floated along its own path while the embers dimmed into nonexistence. To compensate, high in the air, neon lights with far more colors than the rainbow, flashed and flickered, near and far. One flashed numbers in bright green of past the midnight-hour time.
Droplets splashed onto the candy apple red closed-toe stiletto heels. They slipped across the slick surface, smaller droplets clinging to the surface and leaving a noticeable trail. Several went right along to the pointy tip before dropping off onto the sidewalk while many others slid to the underbelly of the shoe. A clump of glowing embers and grey dropped nearby before the butt end of a cancer stick flicked into the drain, banking off the edge, scattering ashes onto the side of the road, before dropping down into the depths below.
Her breath came out as thickly as the cigarette smoke on the chilly night. One hand of carefully filed fingernails, albeit the lack of effort with the chipping nail polish, ran into the damp hair in attempt to fluff it back up a bit while the other held a pocket mirror for a small, but blurry, rain-speckled view. After a moment and upon satisfaction, she snapped it shut and slipped it back in the pocket of her cropped jacket, then pulled the jacket a little closer around her. The black velvet number provided little warmth with the lack of lining and cloth in general. It ended shortly after her bust and was never meant to button up. The low-cut top underneath clung to her skin though kept next to none of the night air out.
She daintily pulled out another cigarette, this would end the first pack of the night, along with her matchbook. Ignoring the phone number that would supposedly lead to her instant fortune, she flipped up the top, sighing to herself as the only match remaining was a dud, which she found easy enough to tell by the discoloration of the end. This too, she flicked down into the drains. As the matchbook left her hand, headlights appeared in her peripheral vision. Her eyes quickly blinked once to get over the initial shock of the bright light before looking more directly at it and more specifically, at the shadows the vehicle of creating. It did not take one long to learn the outline of a cop car, along with its every curve and shadow. This, was most certainly not that.
The windshield wipers lazily moved across the glass every now and again. Fresh drops smeared across, collecting in the rubber of the wipers, moving up to outline the clear, overlapping half-circles on both sides of the windshield distinctly. Second-hand smoke rolled about and licked the inside of the windshield before finding nooks and crannies to slip into. As the edges of the windows began to fog up, the driver plugged the car lighter coil back in and adjusted the heat in the black vehicle. The newly lit cigarette between his lips rolled a little into the corner of his mouth. The tip glowed brightly and smoke snaked around it before flowing elsewhere in the car.
His hat slipped down past his line of vision and the passenger pushed his hat back up, but not removing his sunglasses despite the time. The streetlights and other neon signs reflected against the black lenses, just as they did across the sleek black Porsche, and also hid whatever expression was underneath. Though idly, his hands were at work, wiping a semi-clean handkerchief across his gun, most of the cleaning having already been done. As he began to slide it back into his shoulder holster inside his suit jacket, his eyes caught side of the same thing his partner's did.
Down the street, on the corner, the headlights revealed under the lamp post a tangible, sinful midnight goddess in classic, but worn and tearing, fishnet stockings. The driver gave little reaction other than looking at his watch. His passenger looked over somewhat curiously.
"Aniki?"
"I guess not too late when there's guys like us still around this time of night," the driver stated flatly while placing both hands on the wheel again. The other man nodded a bit and looked back, being able to appreciate a female figure from afar with a bit of a smirk, that is, until she leaned out a bit, waving directly at them with each of her fingers wiggling playfully. He swallowed some, and even blushed a bit in the darkness as he was certain he saw her wink at them with a suggestive smile as they approached closer. His partner growled in aggravation.
"Relax, Vodka," he muttered. "She's just like any other hooker. She probably can't even see you in this darkness anyway." Gin had a hard time not being reminded of Vermouth with her mannerisms, though he found that he believed it to be even below her to dress like that and stand out on a street corner at any time of day or night. He had no desire to know of her choice of recreations, but her tastes were not cheap by far. His pale green eyes could not not notice the short pleather skirt that was incapable of becoming any shorter before being no more than a belt around her waist. The exposure of flesh made her quite noticeable in any setting to either sex simply due to the fact it was there. He glanced back to the lights and watched as they turned red. The agent cursed under his breath and pressed his foot down on the brakes upon reaching the crosswalk.
The soiled dove saw this as an opportunity and scampered, half sauntered, into the empty street. Her heels clicked loudly, nearly echoing. She made her way over to the car and leaned down, knocking on the passenger window. She watched as the broader, but shorter man, jumped in his seat, startled. Smiling, she looked in, waiting expectantly and glancing to the driver, who was blatantly ignoring her. Pouting, she gave them both a lonely look that no man had yet to resist.
"Just ignore her," Gin grunted, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green so that they could drive off and leave her to wait for some other equally lonely soul to come pick her up and enjoy her company for part, or maybe even the rest of the night if they were rich enough. He pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and reached down, popping open the ashtray and letting the fully burned end fall off into it. He heard the gentle knocking on the glass again. Gin looked over in irritation. Gentle or not, any sort of hitting of the glass was one of his pet peeves when it came to the care of his car. The whore prostitute was still there, only this time she had an unlit cigarette in her hand.
"I think she wants a light," Vodka said.
That's not all, or primarily, what she wants, Gin thought to himself. "Well give her one, then maybe she'll go away." Vodka nodded and rolled down the window after taking out of the lighter coil. The woman leaned in a bit with an appreciative smile. She put the cigarette between her lips and Vodka lit it for her. She inhaled and blew the smoke out into the night rather than inside the car. Winking, she smiled at them.
"Thank you," she said in a melodious voice. "You boys are out late. Looking for some fun?" Gin looked over at her a bit with boredom.
"No thank you," he responded flatly. Gin glanced back to the light. Vodka did not answer, not knowing really what to say, especially when she was so close to him. Surely, she could smell is anxiety, just like Vermouth always seemed to.
"But I'm very lonely," she pouted. "You don't want to leave a girl like me all by myself at this time of night do you?" Gin did not look back at her.
"You seemed to be doing just fine by yourself until we arrived."
"I was waiting just for you two," she said, her tone growing somewhat sultry. "We could pick up one of my friends just a few blocks down . . . Or if that doesn't matter, I assure you there's enough woman here for the both of you two." A playful smirk crossed her painted lips, causing Vodka to give out a small laugh, though more out of embarrassment of not knowing what to say in reply. Gin looked back over, now glaring.
"We're not interested," he snapped. "What the hell is so hard to understand about that?" The hooker leaned in a little more, her somewhat wavy, shoulder-length hair falling in around her face.
"My, you're so mysterious!" she exclaimed, feigning innocence like that of a child. She then gave him a smirk that reminded him all too much of Vermouth. "But I quite adore that in a man . . . It really turns me on." She turned her attention to Vodka. "Just like not knowing what's behind those shades, big boy."
Gin was about to retort for her to get lost when the stoplight turned green, but he did not press on the gas. Instead, it triggered him to pay more attention to the light shining on the woman's hair. While the shade did not match perfectly, just a bit lighter, the reddish-brown locks did not fail to trigger various things in his mind. The way it flowed was off, but its movement as the woman attempted to seduce his flustered partner maintained some familiarity to his memories. As he stayed lost in his own reality for what seemed like an eternity, despite the mere seconds that past, he gripped the steering wheel harder with each memory that passed through his thoughts.
"Secrets, secrets!" her voice broke through his thoughts at last as she was shaking a finger at Vodka. Gin turned more to face her.
"And?! Just how many secrets are you keeping yourself, damned woman?!" he snapped, louder than he had intended. Vermouth's voice and favorite saying had begun dancing in his head again and again.
The woman blinked at him, staring momentarily. Even Vodka looked over, his mouth dropping open a bit at the outburst of his partner. After a moment, the prostitute pulled her head out from the window and stood up straight.
"Why, nothing, honey," she stated with a smile. She motioned to her body. "What you see is all there is." A bout of silence swept over them and the only sound was that of the windshield wipers streaking across the glass. Gin looked back out ahead of him. His words remained short, to the point and blatant.
"Let her in, Vodka." Vodka's mouth dropped open further.
"Aniki?!" Vodka exclaimed, more in shock than questioning his partner in crime. But Gin still turned and looked at him.
"Do it," he responded firmly. Vodka only waited a moment longer before opening the door on his side and getting out. The woman waited patiently, though smiling, pleased at what seemed to be another victory for her. The man in shades pulled back his seat and stepped out of the way. She smiled in thanks, blowing him a kiss as she slid into the back seat, finding the leather to be quite comfortable.
"Lovely ride you've got here," she stated as she ran her fingers over the leather. Gin grunted and waited for Vodka to get in, close the door and roll up the window. The driver took no more time crossing the street and continuing them on their way. He glanced into the rearview mirror, not that his long bangs revealed he was doing so, and watched the woman in the back seat. She had her mirror out once again and was looking herself over, wiping a bit at lipstick in the opposite corner of her mouth from the cigarette that was still dangling from her lips.
Meanwhile, Vodka tried to refrain from staring at Gin. Despite the fact that now and again Gin did manage to surprise him, this most recent action certainly overshot the definition of surprise. He had failed to notice Gin's journey into nostalgia earlier due to his own discomfort, which had now certainly escalated as he felt the woman's blue-grey eyes fall upon him now and again. Whatever Gin had in mind for this woman, Vodka desperately wished he could be let in on the secret before long. Particularly before they reached the nightclub to report into Vermouth.
The classic car became swallowed up in awkward silence that even the prostitute began to comprehend and feel herself after a moment. She crossed one leg over the other, her miniskirt riding up hips further. The passenger's behavior certainly made her wish to coo in reaction to the cute bashfulness, but the driver would remain her target, as he wanted her, and she knew it. The sense of want did not match up with what she usually sensed from her customers, or lovers if one attempted to even compare the words, but something common did somewhat slip through -- desperation. Men felt desperation for many reasons and by the time they were done, she usually knew why. Occasionally she could guess before then, but with this one . . . She did not have a clue. A mystery now and again could prove as refreshing.
"Sooo . . ." she began as she leaned forward between the two seats. "Did you want to go pick another playmate?" She looked to Vodka and continued. "There's Vicki two blocks East . . . And if that's not your tastes, Charlie is in the exact opposite direction." Vodka turned and looked at her, shifting in discomfort.
"No," Gin cut in before anything more could be said. "We have our destination set." The woman looked over to Gin now.
"Do you always speak for your friend here?" she inquired as she ran a finger down his arm. Gin lightly brushed her away, lighter than Vodka expected.
"He's not my friend," Gin said with irritation. "Now sit back and be quiet."
"Oooh, the commanding type," she observed with a sly smile before doing as she was told. These were the final words said before they pulled into the all-night club's parking lot ten minutes later. Gin parked them nearly as far as he could from the doorway and the light. He set the car in park, but did not do much else. Vodka sat there with him for several moments, wondering what was going to happen now.
"Get out," he ordered, looking directly at Vodka.
"What should I tell Vermouth . . . ?" he asked as his hand fell on the door handle. Gin growled, shutting off the car, but leaving the keys in the ignition.
"What I do when not around her is none of her damn business. Get going. I won't be long, Vodka."
"Okay, Aniki . . ." he said slowly while opening the door and starting to get out. He still felt bewildered, but nothing could be done now, at least, nothing he could think of. Upon shutting the door, he looked in and watched as the woman's hand slinked forward, over the top of the front seat and onto Gin's shoulder. He also watched Gin remove the cigarette from his mouth with his right hand and brush her hand away again with his left. Vodka's eyes widened behind his shades, but he turned away, walking stiffly in the direction of the club.
Gin's eyes watched Vodka walk away, not moving from his spot in the driver's seat. The car was quiet and cooling off. He put the remainder of his cigarette in the ash tray and watched as his only company did the same. After a moment, he felt her hands on him again. One reached underneath his coat, running across his chest.
"He could have stayed, you know," she purred. "Or are you shy?"
"I'm just not into that," he grunted. She felt across his chest more, feeling for his heartbeat through the thick sweater. She got so little reaction out of him verbally and in his body language, she wanted to see if his heart followed suit.
"Are you going to make me come up there or are you going to come on back?" she asked, leaning forward and blowing into his ear, or rather, the hair over his ear. Her breath smelled like cigarettes obviously, plus a hint of wintergreen Lifesavers. He grunted once and she took that as her cue to come on forward. She abandoned her jacket and heels in the back as she crawled forward, ending up half in his lap. The close quarters did not give them much room, but it would work. She looked up and saw him blankly looking down at her.
"Hmmm . . ." she mused as she reached up, tipping his hat back to get a better look at him, not that it really mattered if she saw his face or not in her profession. Much like Gin's own profession really. It did not matter what the individual looked like, or if he really knew in the end what color their eyes were. If the identification matched up with what he had been told, then they had to die and that was his job. Nothing would be lost should he forget their face by the next morning.
When she first began, she tried to remember each man that came her way looked like, all of each of their quirks. After a while though, they began to merge together into one blurred image of what a man was. Now and again, one stuck out, one became his own individual portrait. She felt this man would certain do just that. The whore pushed back his coat some, leaning in, tentatively placing a kiss on his jaw. Some men were rather particular, though he was giving her no signals what-so-ever other than that small sense of desperation that still lingered.
He felt her lips lightly touch his skin and simply looked down at her hair. It smelled like smoke, which hers never had until the end of their time together, but more like cinnamon. Her weight against him felt a little lighter, not that she had ever been all that heavy, but perhaps taller. She then kissed him on the lips, feeling the lack of return, not sure what to make of it. The woman ran her hands over his torso with a bit more suggestiveness than he remembered. The make-up was heavier than hers, brighter and more apparent. She ran a hand across his shoulder holster, mentioning nothing of it as she kissed his response-less lips.
Given her profession, he assumed this was not the first time she had encountered his equipment and weapon. By common law, they were criminals. Prostitution and assassination -- two not-so-kindly looked upon offenses, though nothing of the sort that concerned anyone who remained in the business long enough. He killed people without remorse, she slept with various individuals for their lustful desires. Neither required a conscious to do the job effectively, perhaps exactly the opposite, depending how one looked at it. He felt her kissing and suckling at was exposed of his neck, trying to get a reaction out of him. Not that it mattered to him, but it did cross his mind that perhaps she had seen at least a good fraction of the deaths he had.
Sherry . . .
It seemed a disgusting, sickening thought to sell one's body for money, as this woman seemed to have been doing for some time considering her casual mannerisms. After selling something so personal, so vital to one's existence, it seemed impossible to have any sort of self-esteem, the ability to care or even like one's self. Though what made himself that much different? In the most simplistic of terms, he killed people for a living, for money. Though beyond that, he too had sold not only his body, but his very soul to the Black Organization. The woman attempting to pleasure him at the moment had simply skipped the middle step, being more precise in her profession than he. She sold her body for money, cold, hard cash. And himself? Just what did he sell himself for, other than a reservation in Hell with his name on it. In the very end, what reward would he get out of it? Other than the momentary satisfaction after dealing with a traitor.
Sherry . . . Sherry . . .
Her lips pressed against his more forcefully. She could see in his half hidden eyes that he was somewhere else and most certainly not anywhere that included her, or so she at least believed. With a flick of her wrist, she knocked his hat off and behind them into the back of the Porsche. She pulled back momentarily. She herself could go much longer without air except through her nose, but she knew nothing of this man, nothing but that desperation, as though he was grasping for something. She kisses him short several times before placing one passionate one upon him. Through his blonde bangs, she watched his eyelids fall half shut, the first reaction she had gotten out of him all night really. Though she had no idea that his mind had told him that surely there was an even smaller hint of cinnamon beneath the wintergreen.
Sherry, Sherry . . .
His eyes fell completely shut, his last sight being the color of her hair in the shadows, darkening to that perfect shade of reddish-brown. Gin's hand nearly lifted from the steering wheel, possibly to actually touch her. He felt her lips leave his and his parted slightly.
"Sherry . . ." he breathed, barely audible. The prostitute ignored the name, perfectly used to such things. Sometimes she heard men even say the names of the very wives they were cheating on. She came close to touch her lips to his again, sensing his hand hovering just over her shoulders. A familiar sound then buzzed through the walls of the glove compartment. She thought a curse to herself.
"You don't have to answer that, you know," she told him with a soothing tone as she brushed her lips against his as she reached down for his belt, ignoring the cell phone herself. It continued to ring and finally Gin opened his eyes, growling in aggravation. He reached out and pulled open the glove compartment just as the phone stopped ringing. It then beeped once after a moment, telling him he had a voice mail. Flipping open the phone, he pressed the button to play it and held it up to his ear, ignoring his company.
"Hello, Gin, dear," Vermouth's voice purred through the phone. "I do hope you're enjoying yourself, not that I enjoy the idea of you possibly making martini with anyone else, but don't be so terrible as to steal all her secrets. Please come in when you're all done though. I'll be waiting." The phone then beeped again and repeated the date and time at which the message was made. He growled and glared at the phone, immediately deleting the message. Gin looked down, seeing the woman was going to undo his belt and he batted her hands away.
"Enough. We're done," he ordered as he took the keys out of the ignition. The prostitute looked up at him, blinking at his sudden speech. She then feigned hurt and disappointment.
"You're going to leave me lonely?"
"Yes." Gin grabbed her with both hands, but not too roughly, and promptly moved her over into the passenger's seat before fixing his belt. he then reached back into the back behind his seat and grabbed his hat. "Now get out."
The woman watched him before slowly smiling. "I see . . ." she finally spoke. "I couldn't fill her void, could I." Gin reached into his pocket, throwing several bills at her.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he snapped. "Get out or I'll force you to . . . Permanently." She smirked a little, collecting her things from the back and stuffing the bills in her cleavage before starting to get out.
"I'm petrified," she teased. The woman leaned down into Gin's vision, watching him put on his hat. "Toodles." She waved to him, as playfully as she first had before turning to go, wandering across the parking lot. Her shoes were in one hand while her jacket was in the other. She looked over her shoulder, her hair bouncing a bit as she smiled softly, sauntering along without regret. "Adieu."
Gin dropped his cell phone back into the glove compartment and slapped it shut. "Damned woman," he muttered as he pulled out a cigarette. As he lit up, he saw something in the rearview mirror sitting in the back seat. He turned and grabbed it, feeling the wrapper crinkle, finding a wintergreen Lifesaver in his hand. Scowling, he dropped it into the ashtray before getting out.
Snapping the phone shut in her well cared for hand, Vermouth smirked, clearly pleased with herself. She leaned her elbow against the bar and looked over to Vodka. He looked down at his drink, obviously embarrassed and uncomfortable with the whole situation. She looked at him confidently, sticking her phone beneath the counter.
"He should be in shortly," she stated. "Besides, it takes vermouth and gin to make a martini . . . And sometimes vodka." She winked at him and stood up straight, tying her hair back a little tighter. Vodka swallowed and hesitated, but then drank some of the dry martini she had prepared for him upon his entrance. "How did you know anyway?"
Vodka did not answer her, thinking out as Gin held his cigarette in his right hand. There were very few times he had actually seen his partner do that. Ninety percent of those few times having been when holding Sherry to avoid the smoke getting into her hair as he touched it, or the lit cigarette itself actually singeing her locks. It had been only then had the color of that woman's hair become obvious to him. He took another drink, looking down at the bar through his sunglasses.
Vermouth watched him. "Well . . . I suppose it doesn't matter." She took a clean, but wet rag and ran it across the bar, doing the cleaning now when the customers were so very few. As she was going back over the area with a dry rag this time, she heard the door open and glanced up. "There he is now, and oooh, he looks as cold and harsh as ever. I do hope it's not because of anything I did." She smirked and winked once more at Vodka, who only blushed and looked away, glancing to his partner. Gin came over, sitting down beside the shorter man without a word, lighting up another cigarette