In Which Kaitou Kid Just Wants a Day Off

His nose was dripping. Again.

Kid the Phantom Thief gave a very loud, very inelegant sniff. His nose didn't clear. In fact, the snotty trail continued to flow even harder. He cursed and conjured what looked like a bunch of tissues out of thin air, then proceeded to make a lot of trumpet-like noises. Damn that stupid old man and his stupid challenges. Damn the police, and damn that shrunken detective as well!

"Everyone wants Kid," the thief muttered bitterly, crawling out from the tight vent space and making his way into the moonlit corridor. "Sure, just send him a notice and he'll come straight to you. It's no trouble at all. Never mind that he might have his own plans."

His nose started to drip again. Kid let out a whole string of curses this time and even dipped into a few foreign languages to mix up his choice of expletives. By the holy gods, if his nose didn't stop dripping like some bloody leaky faucet, he was going to—

"Well, well," an amused voice said from behind him. "It seems that even the uncatchable Kaitou Kid can't run from the common cold."

Kid froze and then closed his eyes in a repressed sigh. He would know that sarcastic little voice anywhere. As such, he was not surprised when he turned around to find a small boy with glasses standing in front of him.

"Detective," Kid greeted coolly. Except he had to go and ruin the effect with another loud sniff.

Gah. This was why Kid had wanted to put his heists on hold until he recovered from his illness. It was a fact that a magician-turned-thief had no hope of capturing any audience, let alone a prized jewel, when he was rosy cheeked with fever and had to decide between taking the risk of orchestrating a whole chorus of sniffs, thus giving away his presence, or just stuffing some tissues up his nose and being done with it. If only that old man Suzuki had just left him alone. What Kid wouldn't give to be at home in bed right now. Even standing upright was taking monumental effort, and his head felt like it was weighted with bricks.

Conan's eyes narrowed. "You know, you really don't look so good. Those tricks tonight were sloppy as well. Not up to your usual standard at all."

Kid waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "We all have our off days."

"You don't," Conan said pointedly.

Kid stared at the boy with the unimpressed look he usually reserved for Aoko when she had said something particularly inane. So the white-clad magician was renowned for being a meticulous planner and putting on spectacular shows for his heists. Big whoop. Tonight, Kid had simply done the motions. And he didn't care one bit. In fact, he was steadily losing what little patience he had for this whole night. So, instead of making a witty retort, he just conjured more tissues and blew his nose with a defiant, trumpet-like toot.

Yeah, that's right. I'm bloody Kaitou Kid and I just blew my nose in front of you. Deal with it.

The mini-sized detective raised his eyebrows. "Did you ever consider just not showing up for the heist?"

Kid rolled his eyes. "This is Jirokichi Suzuki we're talking about. Can you imagine how obnoxious he'd be if I didn't show? It'd be even worse than what he's like when I do. In fact," the thief continued, warming up to his imagined scenario, "I wouldn't put it past that crazy old man to stalk me all the way to my house and find a way to challenge me there, just so he can prove that he really can capture me." Kid placed a hand against his forehead, sighing in that theatrical way only he could pull off. "Besides, if it's not Suzuki leaving a calling card, then it's some nutcase criminal trying to impersonate me so they can lay their crime at my feet. And if it's not one of those shady types, it's some obsessed fangirl trying to lure me into her dungeon room where she keeps all her chains and leather, and—"

Conan's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "You sure you're not the one who's mentally unstable?"

Kid folded his arms across his chest. "My point is that even Phantom Thieves need to have a sick day now and then, but that's a bit difficult when people keep bombarding me with their needy little notices and impersonation letters!" He scowled and averted his face. "Geez, I do have a life outside of stealing jewels, you know? Not that anyone cares. It's just all 'Oh, Kid, you've been quiet lately. No, that can't be because you have exams to pass or a mop-wielding girl to appease. Please come and steal this jewel from me so I can feel important again.'"

The little detective stared at him blankly for a moment. Then his mouth twitched. Then the twitch became a smile, and then Conan was outright chuckling. Kid felt the colour drain from his face as he realised far, far too late just how much information he had given away with his fever ramblings. Damn it. This was why he wanted to stay home! Poker Faces went to hell when he was sleep-deprived and sick.

Kid leaned forward so that he was eye level with the detective. "You are not to repeat that to anyone. Not a soul, got it?"

Conan managed to repress his laughter. "Fair enough. You've kept my secret, after all."

Kid nodded in satisfaction and straightened to his full height. "Glad we understand each other. " He pulled out the jewel from his pocket. "Now for this."

Conan frowned at the gem. A detective was still a detective, after all. Kid ignored him and raised the stone up to the moonlight, watching to see if it would change colour. It didn't.

"Catch," Kid said, and tossed the stone.

Conan caught the gem in his hands. "Why do you even bother when you just give them back?"

Kid's mouth curved into a smile. "Because one day, little detective, I just might find the jewel I've been looking for."

Charm. Presence. Mystery. The whole line and delivery had it in oodles. Oodles! Until Kid sniffed, that is.

"Well," Conan said dryly, "while you're out hunting for that jewel, maybe you should get yourself some cold medicine."

Kid just groaned pitifully and conjured more tissues. "I hate you."

Conan smiled and stepped back, already knowing what was coming next. Kid didn't bother to tip his hat in goodbye; instead, he let out one last, trumpet-like toot and then vanished in a cloud of smoke. No hellish soccer balls were fired that day.