Getting Past You
Notes: Might contain spoilers for the first two files of vol. 29
Meitantei Conan is copyrighted property of Aoyama Goushou, et al.
Written for the 52flavours community at LiveJournal.
She did not know half of the girls who came to visit her in the hospital; that's what happens when your friends are dead, she reflected, perhaps just the least bitterly. They all wished her a speedy recovery and were quite satisfied by her perfunctory nods, no doubt attributing her listlessness to the drugs that were being pumped into her system. Once her father walked in, watched her heavily bandaged head and the IV needle sticking out of her arm, put on a disapproving expression, and walked out again.
The young officer came, as well. He sat down on the bedside chair and cleared his throat before he spoke. "I should have stopped you," he said, looking down at his hands. She recalled how those hands had felt, supporting her broken body, when she thought she was really about to die, and who would bother to cry over her, anyway? "We are not supposed to involve civilians in cases like this."
She made a negative little hum, the most she could do without reopening her injury. "You know, sir detective," she said, "if I were not lying here riddled with sedatives and such, I'd punch you for making me repeat myself. I offered to be bait. It was my own fault I ended up here. Okay? Now let's not talk about it anymore."
He did not come again. She was surprised when she realized that she would not have minded, then it occurred to her why; he was a decent man, and she had not been acquainted with many decent people in her seventeen years.
---
The officer was waiting for her as she lurched past the hospital door, still not used to her crutches. "Are you all right?" he asked, holding her elbow to steady her.
"I'm fine. Thanks for the flowers." He had sent her fresh flowers almost every day, making her wonder how much they paid detectives these days. It could not be very much.
"Can I give you a lift home?"
"No, my father is going to pick me up." If he was truly a good person, all the more reason he should stay away from her.
Later, she toyed with the possibility that talking with someone might be more interesting than having to endure the rigid set of her father's shoulders and the monotonous highway zooming past the car window.
---
He called her three days later, asking her how she was doing. She tapped a finger on her leg. "May I ask you something, sir detective?"
"Please do."
"Are the police always this concerned about ex-victims in a criminal case?" She waited for him to say no, of course not, he was just getting back at her because she had called the police force useless, he was showing her that they could be trusted to keep an eye on what she termed as ex-victims.
"Well, actually - " The pause at the other end of the line grew so long that she wondered if he had dropped the phone. "Actually I'm worried about you."
Without warning warmth stole into her eyes. She could not remember the last time anybody was worried about her, or indeed, if anybody ever was. "You don't need to, I'm perfectly all right. I gotta go now. Good afternoon." She shut down her end of the conversation, then leaned back against the chair. She could hear a baseball match on television in the living room. The warmth was gone - had it even been there?
She resolved that she would not be caught off guard next time.
---
A week passed. Her headaches had grown more and more infrequent. The doctor assured her she could always hide the scar on her forehead with her hair, if she would rather not undergo a plastic surgery. Correctly surmising that her father would not have enjoyed paying for one anyway, she nodded assent. Besides, having a scar was not without its cool aspect.
Her phone rang as she pondered over this, and she replied without thinking, a smile in her voice. "Yes, hello?"
"You seem to be in a good mood," he remarked, sounding pleased.
After that, it seemed silly to refuse when he said he should like to meet her at the city park the following Sunday.