This was inspired by the DC fanfic that I think is called Puppeteer. I read it on livejournal, and now I can't find it, but I would really recommend it. It was a horror story, and it was really creepy. A very good case file type fic.

Hurt
August 10: Way of difference
Word Count: 570


"I would hurt you right now," Ai says with deadly calm, "if you weren't already in a hospital bed. And I may decide to do it anyway." Her face is drawn with the effort to be unemotional, and Conan isn't sure if this is better or worse than the time she held a gun to his head. At least then he got flowers.

"It's good to see you too, Haibara," Conan says, favoring her with a weak grin.

"Dammit, Kudo," she snaps. "You could have died!"

"I had to know," Conan protests stubbornly. "He had to be stopped."

"Then you search for clues. You do /detective/ work. You don't make yourself /bait/."

"There wasn't enough time. I had to know the truth."

"And what good would the truth done if you had taken it to the grave?" Ai demands harshly. "He could have," she cuts herself off. "You know damn well what he would have done if we hadn't found you in time." She turns away, a sharp motion, and Conan knows she's trying to regain control.

"I couldn't let him hurt anyone else," Conan says softly, trying to be soothing, but Ai whirls back around, scowl deepening.

"And what about you, Kudo? You were given a high dosage of gamma hydroxybutyrate. You could have gone into a coma. You could still suffer side effects. Insomnia, respiratory problems, muscle spasms. Do you even /understand/ the meaning of consequences?"

"It was worth it," he says softly, stubbornly.

Ai makes an impatient noise and turns away again. Conan knows they won't agree. They sacrifice themselves in different ways, and neither likes the other's methods. Usually they try to ignore the problem, but obviously Ai has decided that's not an option tonight. Conan feels a headache coming on through the painkillers.

"Tell me next time," Ai orders quietly, and Conan, surprised, lifts his head to hear her. He hadn't expected this. Ai turns back around and looks him in the eye. "Promise me you'll tell me about your cases: who your suspects are, what you plan to do. I'm not going to be your Watson, so don't even make the joke," she says, and Conan closes his mouth. "But I'll watch to make sure things don't get out of hand, and I'll know immediately where to send backup so that this never happens again."

Implicit is /I'll check you myself if I think you're getting reckless/ and Conan mentally chafes at the restriction (he's always worked alone before; he /doesn't/ need anyone else). But Professor Agasa told him about all the hours Ai spent running around Tokyo with the police, helping them follow the tracker signal in his glasses, and maybe he feels like he owes her something.

"Alright," Conan says, and he can tell Ai is surprised by his capitulation. "On one condition," he sees her tense and forces a smile, weak but there, "you get me a better bouquet than last times. I don't really like yellow flowers." She scowls for a moment, upset that he won't be drawn into a serious conversation (but he's so tired, physically and mentally), before letting it slide with a noisy sigh.

"Isn't it supposed to be the boy who gets the girl flowers?" she asks dryly, a sardonic peace offering.

And things aren't alright (not by a long shot), but they can pretend for a while. Maybe someday they'll manage to make it real.