Disclaimer: "Detective Conan" belongs to Gosho Aoyama, and "Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon" belongs to Naoko Takeuchi.
This is an alternative story to my other fanfic "Encounter in Venice" and one of the possibilities of what could have happened if Ai had taken the antidote before Shinichi brought down the Organization.
Thanks a lot to my friends and betas Rae (Astarael00) and SN1987a and the Aicoholics on LiveJournal, without whom I would never have started this fic.
This chapter has been betaed by aritzen (SN1987a), who hasn't only kept me motivated for years but is even betaing the long fic now that it has ended. I can't thank her enough!
FS
g.
Ghost at Twilight
(edited version)
g.
Now that you...
Now that you're alone again, you regret having declined Kaito's offer to walk to the bus stop with him. You would have walked home, anyway, if he hadn't appeared so suddenly. So why are you still sitting here, waiting for the sun to go down? As always, it's hard for you to discover your true motivation behind so many different motives.
First, you're paranoid about Aoko-san seeing you two together if she randomly, on a whim, decides to fetch her husband from the bus station instead of waiting for him at her father's place; and second, there is this peculiarly long twilight you don't want to miss. Even though you're not five anymore and certainly don't believe in fairy tales or ghosts or witches (especially not in the witch Kaito so readily invented for you), you still like the idea of giving your life a story. The stranger and you have talked about living creatively, after all. So why shouldn't you wait on this bench until the sun goes down and give this story an appropriate ending instead of giving up at this point?
In a novel, this evening might be only the beginning, and the protagonist would go home and continue to fret about her misspent evening and her senseless life while the sun wouldn't go down before she has met her own ghost at twilight. In your case, however, you know very well that this evening is only one of many other evenings during which nothing really happens, which is actually a blessing. And your simple short story with the title "Waiting for Kudo" will conclude very well with "The sun finally goes down, and Shiho walks home alone in the night". There is something poetic about a young woman walking alone in the middle of the night, returning to an almost empty apartment with a just as empty fridge. It's a pity that such a scene looks much more romantic on the wide screen than it looks in real life. You will neither die from lack of food very soon nor is an empty apartment terribly depressing as long as you don't have to spend your whole life in it. In a movie, the setting is everything, contrary to real life.
As always, having convinced yourself that something must be true, your mind begins to search for arguments which destroy your previous statement and attempts to look at the matter from another point of view.
If you hadn't met anybody at this bench tonight, would you have recalled the story of the Ghost at Twilight and spent so much time contemplating true love and the lack of it in your life? Wouldn't you have waited for Kudo for a while and then go home to spend another cozy evening in bed with a mystery novel and a few cups of tea? And, without meeting Kaito, you certainly wouldn't have decided to stay here until the sun disappears completely. You only told him that you planned to wait until the sun has gone down so that you wouldn't have to go to the bus station with him. Are the happenings of tonight really random and unimportant, or could a few unexpected encounters change the course of your life?
It's not like you to ponder over useless theories.
After this sunset ends, you're going to walk back to Juuban and drop into Furuhata's bar to have a snack and a drink. Motoki-san's cheerful face and his pleasantly served truisms will certainly chase away the remnants of tonight's gloom. In addition to his appealing looks, he has the talent for making complicated things appear ridiculously simple, which might explain why his bar, his sister's coffee shop, and the game centre beneath them are so popular with troubled teenagers and young artists. Immediately after selling the Professor's house to Fusae-san and moving into your new apartment, you had taken notice of its popularity, but you had never been tempted to visit it, as it was always a tad too noisy for your taste. If Kaito hadn't suggested to try it out, you would never have entered it at all.
During your first date with Kaito, when you were watching Furuhata Motoki saunter from table to table, you were particularly impressed by his organized, calm, and efficient way of working. Furthermore, he seemed to have a good awareness of when his customers wanted to be left alone and when they would like to talk to him; and he obviously knew how to deliver banalities in the right tone of voice just as he knew how to make the old vanilla and chocolate ice-cream look like something one had never tasted before.
A nice, relaxed, good-tempered man, probably someone a woman could spend a lifetime with and, alas, actually a specimen you've never found even remotely attractive. It's strange but true: that type of man, often as steady as a rock despite his flirtatious demeanour, usually attract the neurotic, high-strung type of woman, the ones that never know what they want and are never happy with the things they get. You, on the other hand, have always gravitated towards overactive, impulsive men who like to live dangerously, men who never really settle down and who manage to get into trouble as fast as they get out of them on their own. While the attraction is at times mutual—as evidenced by your two weeks with Kaito—your relationships with these overly independent men always start under unfortunate conditions. Considering how all your crushes ended, one might get the impression that you only fell in love when you knew it couldn't last—and that, in reality, you've never really wanted to have a lasting attachment to anyone at all.
g.
Before nodding off there is usually a moment when you can sense that you're leaving the real world to enter the realm of dreams. In such a moment, when you feel sleep overcoming you and your limbs growing heavier and heavier with every breath you take, you can dream and think about your dream at the same time, which you find fascinating and slightly disturbing for no logical reason. Unsettling...
"Isn't it unsettling how suddenly life could end?" Were those the stranger's words or Gin's? You remember they both said something similar at one point or another although they had obviously chosen different ways of living to deal with the fact. Remembering the stranger's lively smile and Gin's sardonic smirk, you know that, as time goes by, the former will fade away into the back of your mind whereas the latter will stay with you forever. You are the negative type. Therefore, it's probably normal that you can't forget the first time you fell out of love.
The events of that evening unfold before your eyes once again, not in disconnected scenes like in most of your dreams but chronologically, in sequences, giving you the feeling as if you were watching a movie again which you had watched only once and almost forgotten. Even though you have the feeling that this has happened more than once in the past and ended badly, you still take pleasure in the mixed feelings this dream always gives you: the sense of déjà vu and the uncertainty about what is going to happen, the premonition of imminent disaster and the joy of being able to revisit a time of your life when you were still naive and optimistic and very much alive.
The opening music of your movie is a catchy love song which, in your opinion, didn't suit the plot although it was extremely popular with the audience. If you had been asked to choose a theme song, you would certainly have chosen a different one. The first time you heard the lead singer's voice, however, you instantly fell in love with it. It made you neglect the excessive mellowness of the chord progressions and is probably the reason why you can't even remember the lyrics of the song anymore despite having a good memory for verses. You only have a dim recollection of its contents (something odd like an unrequited love between two people belonging to different stations of the galaxy) and remember you dismissed it as nonsense—just another love song which tried too hard to be romantic and tragic and unbearably sweet at the same time. The voice of the lead singer was the only thing worth remembering and perhaps—if you really want to be fair—the good instrumentalists and background singers. But that's all you liked about it.
You never heard it again because you were always busy with work or with Gin, who was a snob and only listened to music if it was played live by famous jazz musicians in expensive bars. In retrospect, you think he was more of a snob than an assassin. Once or twice, during uncommonly childish moments, you wondered whether he would have become a high-ranking member of the Organization if it hadn't been for the luxury the Organization offered, the expensive shampoos and eau de toilette, cigarettes and caviar, the Porsche and the tailored clothes... Perhaps, under different circumstances, he would have become a dealer or a lawyer or a politician instead...
You've just arrived at the border between consciousness and unconsciousness where you could simply leave your dream if you wanted to. But you don't want to, not during the pleasant part.
On the wide screen, the first scene opens in a small café where fifteen-year-old Sherry and her sister usually meet. You still know the setting well, can still smell the chocolate cake on the table and the hot coffee on your lips as if you were sipping it. The song from the two giant speakers at the bar has just ended, leaving you with a strange feeling of emptiness. You know you're supposed to be happy, waiting for the man you've been in love with since kindergarten, but it's hard for you to feel anything except impatience. A glance at your watch tells you there are still forty minutes left until your rendezvous with Gin, who is going to fetch you at the corner of the street near Tosho-gu Shrine. You still have half an hour to sip your coffee at a leisurely pace since, as you know him, Gin is not going to appear even a minute before the agreed time. You console yourself with the thought that he won't come late either. His punctuality will be his death some day!
Noticing the eyes of the other customers on you—it's no wonder as you're dressed up to the nines and sitting alone at a table for two—you pick up the newspaper on the stand next to your table and pretend to immerse yourself in it. On the front page, there is a screaming headline about a Gruesome Locked-Room Murder, which had been solved by "the savior of the police force" teenager-sleuth Kudo Shinichi.
Interesting guy, you think, contemplating his radiant, proud, innocent blue eyes. How can someone who has just solved a murder case smile so innocently at the camera? The guy was either a genius or a machine. It's not like one must lose one's ability to smile after seeing a corpse to prove that one is human, you admit, but usually people would be visibly affected by the sight of a mutilated corpse for at least a few days. Only extremely stupid, tough, or intelligent people (who are able to regain their composure in an instant) can still smile like that after looking at the corpse as it was described in the news—and you doubt that Kudo-kun belongs to the first category.
There are the familiar sounds of the bell and the cold breeze which enters the café every time a new customer arrives, and you turn your head to look at the newcomer.
It's not Gin, as you've already known instinctively when the door opened. Your sixth sense (or is it just your fine nose?) is as good as ever. The person at the door is infinitely more delicate and refined and a complete stranger to you. She is a graceful girl about your age or slightly older, with conspicuous reddish-brown buns and eyes of the same colour, who looks a bit too ladylike and totally out of place in her ornate red evening dress and reddish-brown makeup.
Sherry, the heroine of this movie, looks just as out of place in her elegant little black dress (sans makeup), which is probably the reason why she is smiling at the young woman now. You can watch Sherry smiling because, in this dream, you exist twice. Sometimes, even when you're awake, you have this feeling of complete dissociation, as if you were both the actor and the observer at the same time.
The young woman seems to have been encouraged by the smile, as she walks to Sherry's table and asks her whether Sherry had seen a young blonde man in a blue suit or not.
"I'm a bit late," she explains, "and I'm afraid he might have thought that I haven't come. You see... I told him not to wait because I probably wouldn't make it." For a moment, her serious eyes are twinkling mischievously. "I've just skipped a class to come here."
There is a pleasant tea-like smell about her which is almost too natural to be a perfume. Sherry, whose fine nose likes fragrant plants, identifies it as sweet osmanthus.
No, she hasn't seen any young blonde man in a blue suit, Sherry replies—actually, she hasn't seen any blonde man at all during the last thirty minutes, and she is a very good observer. It seems "he" is late, too...
The redhead sighs, again with a smile. It appears that "he" habitually comes late. She often wonders why he is always in a hurry and still comes late all the time.
Sherry remarks that it's—ironically—always the people who are always in a hurry who are also always late. Most of them are a klutz as well, which can't be a coincidence.
The stranger laughs.
"Oh, I know such people, but he is really not one of them. He is extremely organized and agile, not what anyone would call a klutz. That's why I can't understand why he always behaves as if he were chased by someone."
She smiles. And for a moment, she seems torn between leaving (prompted by her good upbringing?) and sitting down, yielding to the spontaneous good rapport with the girl she has just met. Sherry, who has noticed her indecisiveness and who is in a friendly mood, indicates the chair opposite her.
"I'm waiting for my boyfriend, too," she says, secretly rejoicing in the fact that she has called Gin her boyfriend for the first time. In reality, it's also the first time that he has asked her out for another purpose than questioning her about the development of APTX.
"Oh, what a coincidence! And your boyfriend is late, too?"
"No, it's me who is early. I'm paranoid about coming late."
The distant sound of an engine is growing gradually louder as it advances, and then dies away in a beautifully smooth diminuendo. At that moment, the camera leaves the two girls to pan to a motorbike which has just stopped in front of the café. The driver, a sporty young person in a blue biker's suit and a blue helmet, lingers indecisively at the door for a minute and then returns to his bike—leaving the door of the café open—to honk rapidly. The camera zooms in to his face, which is almost completely hidden by the helmet, to show his troubled eyes, and then slowly zooms out before returning to the two girls, who are still chatting with each other.
"I think your boyfriend is honking at you," Sherry says, thinking that it's amazing that such a well-mannered lady could have fallen in love with such an ill-mannered guy. It's the classical story of opposites attract.
"Oh God!" the stranger exclaims, rising from her chair. "He told me he would be wearing a blue suit... That's why I'm wearing this dress. I thought we're going to some fancy place where one had to wear formal clothes."
"Didn't he tell you where you two were going?"
"No, he never does. He only told me it would be a place I like. But I see he won't come in." She smiles for the last time, automatically straightens out her dress, and then gives a deep bow. "It was extremely pleasant to chat with you. I hope your boyfriend will come soon, too."
"Have a good time," Sherry says. And she—and you—gaze after the stranger's retreating figure with mixed feelings while her outlines dissolve in the blinding light.
The atmosphere changes rapidly with the scenery, and you find yourself standing in front of Gin's beloved Porsche, enjoying another rare sight: Gin is smiling, beaming at you from beneath his new black hat. You wonder whether you're the only person who notices that he changes his hat every month and whether he changes them out of vanity—they all look remarkably similar to each other—or out of paranoia.
"You look smashing," he says in a fake old English accent, regarding you with a single long look of appreciation. His English is much better than you've expected, as if he had studied it very well or started to learn it when he was very young.
"I suppose you expect me to return that compliment," you laugh quietly, breathing in the familiar scent of his perfume and cigarette while climbing into the passenger seat. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere where we won't meet the whole crew... I'd like to be alone with you for once without the whole gang knowing about it." He lights himself a cigarette and starts the car. "But there is a job I need to do first. Just got a call about it from Vodka. Business before pleasure, I'm afraid."
You remember Gin once hinted that his job was to ensure that the most important financial transactions of the Organization proceed as smoothly as planned. Therefore, when the Porsche stops at an unappealing side street next to a little flower shop, you almost expect him to go in and tell you to wait for him inside the car until he returns. He doesn't attempt to leave, however, and only lights himself another cigarette, this time offering you one.
No, thanks! What are we doing here? Are you going to buy me a flower?
The smoke has begun to irritate you. It annoys you that he is not trying to tell you any details about the job he has to take care of, that Vodka always appears either in person or in the form of a phone call whenever you're with him, that he never lets you distract him from doing his job... You even begin to wonder whether you haven't mistaken his attentions for love.
Not here, he replies. According to Vodka, the person he is waiting for has entered the shop about ten minutes ago. They should come out at any moment. There they are!
You turn away from him to glance at the entrance of the shop and discover to your great surprise the stranger you just met in the café. Behind her is her sporty blue-clad biker, who has just put on his helmet and is now taking her hand to pull her towards his bike in a hurry. Once again it strikes you how exquisite and out of place she looks, like an expensive exotic flower in the middle of the pavement. The impression is strengthened by the gorgeous bunch of roses she is carrying in her arm, a huge, exquisite bouquet, in which three radiant roses are glowing brightly amidst a cloud of tiny green, pink, and white flowers. The colours of the roses immediately catch your attention: snow-white, golden-yellow, and a deep scarlet.
Strange choice in combination, in your opinion. Usually, people would stick to one or two colours when they buy roses, especially roses of such colours and dimensions. Other people passing by seem to be thinking the same, judging from the look on their faces when they catch sight of the bouquet.
"Must have cost a fortune!" Gin remarks.
"The flowers or the woman?"
"Neither. I saw a similar bike in a shop a few years ago. Was too extravagant even for my taste."
The stranger and her boyfriend, in the meantime, have climbed on his overpriced bike, which is now racing down the main street at breakneck speed. In an instant, a midnight-blue car, which has been parking on the other side of the street, also starts its engine to drive in the same direction. Gin throws a glance at the car, puts out his cigarette, and begins to follow them at some distance.
"I know the girl," you say quietly, deciding that telling him the truth now is better than letting him discover it on his own later. "We just met at the café."
Gin shoots you a quizzical look.
"And…?"
"Well, I didn't expect her to have anything to do with the Organization."
"She doesn't. She is just another stupid good girl falling for the stereotypical bad boy." He grins. "But he is one of us."
"So it's him and not her? What kind of business do you have with him?"
"I'm only giving him a red card. He has stolen important information to store it on his personal computer. The Boss doesn't want him dead, though. The official explanation is that he hasn't tried to sell it to anyone. In that case, I think it would be better to kill him now before he finds a buyer. Traitors should be taken care of properly."
"Maybe he is only keeping the information to ensure his own safety," you remark weakly, as you don't like the direction your conversation is heading.
"He shouldn't have stolen it in the first place! But the Boss likes him for no apparent reason. Hence we're only allowed to give him a few scratches. A little warning, not more."
"So how are you going to give him the scratches?" you ask and suddenly remember. You remember that you're dreaming and that the past has been similar to this dream, which you've had over and over again in many variants without really remembering it after waking up.
Vaguely, you remember the expression of horror and disbelief on her face when her eyes met yours, the scratching sound of the motorbike against Gin's car, her scream and the feeling of the steering wheel under your hand... Gin's grip around your wrist and his cool, steady voice as he told you calmly, "Don't ever do that again."
"Isn't it unsettling how suddenly life could end?" asks Gin's voice quietly, ironically, his sad little smile fading away as the world around you turns into night. You can feel Gin's lips on your cheeks and his hand in your hair while you're staring at the stars in the sky, thinking of the other girl, who is probably still lying on the pavement.
Just another innocent victim who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time while her boyfriend got a red card. She had survived, so Gin had told you, just as her boyfriend had, although she certainly received more than just a few "scratches" after what you had witnessed... You don't have a rational reason to feel guilty, especially since your attempt to intervene might have saved her life. Why is her face still haunting you in your dreams?
You know you will not remember her face after waking up—you never do... But her delicate little smile and slightly melancholic eyes will linger somewhere in a dark corner of your memory, reminding you of the reason why you can never love anyone unconditionally again.
It has become incredibly quiet, you realize, as if all sounds had died.
"Haibara," says Kudo's voice, breaking the silence. "Were you going to sleep here?"
The starry night disappears with the sensation of a pair of warm hands on your shoulders. When you open your eyes, he withdraws them immediately, taking a step back to frown at you. Blinking at his silhouette against the twilight, you try to suppress the shiver running through your body. The air has become extremely cold during your nap.
"Where have you been?" you snap at him, putting all the frustration you've accumulated during the whole evening into one sentence. "It's almost... no, it's already midnight!"
He throws up his hands in defeat, which is a gesture so uncharacteristic of him that your anger vanishes.
"I tried to be on time! But... It's a long story."
"Give me the short version now and the long one later!"
"I..." He seems, for once, lost for words. "I overslept."
Oh wonderful, you think. You've been waiting for him like a lovesick idiot, sleeping on a park bench until midnight to find out that he had been napping at home for the whole evening! Your eyes must have expressed exactly what you're feeling, judging from the look on his face.
"I hadn't slept for two nights because of my last case." He sighs. "So the snooze at noon turned out longer than expected. When I woke up it was already seven. Afterwards I went directly to your place since I expected to find you there. I tried to call you, but you probably left your mobile phone and your badge at home again. Then I waited for hours at your door because I thought you were caught in the traffic jam on the way home. But since you didn't come home, I went to Furuhata's..." His voice trails off.
Furuhata's... You have to repeat it once in your head before your mind grasps its meaning. The other thought going almost simultaneously through your head is that the sky has still not changed even though it's midnight. When your eyes leave his face to look at the sky, Kudo, following your gaze, turns round.
With a start, you notice that the sun is visibly sinking, draining the last reddish tints from the sky. While the shadows underneath the lamps deepen, other shadows are fading away, their outlines dissolving into the darkness with the last rays of natural light.
g.
A/N: Here is the next GaT chapter just as promised. SN diligently betaed it before her weekly piano lesson. :P ;)