Detective Conan and Magic Kaito characters, settings, and ideas do not belong to me but to Aoyama Gōshō.

Warnings: Overt discussion of suicide, self-harm, depression, and language

A Glimpse of Skin

By Taliya

It had been a simple flash of the wrist—nothing particularly extraordinary in today's society. But once upon a time, a glimpse of the delicate skin on the underside of a person's wrist incited feelings of privacy and intimacy: it had once been a privilege to witness such a fragile part of a person.

To see the wrist of Kaitou KID, however, was something extraordinary simply because it was never clear when the man had any actual skin showing at any given moment. An undeniable genius in the art of disguise, one never knew what his face actually looked like, though there had been rumors floating about that he looked uncannily like one particular member of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department's Division One Homicide Unit. When KID was not in disguise, he usually wore a full white suit with a deep blue button up and matching white gloves that were just long enough to keep his skin from showing at the cuffs.

That one glimpse of his left wrist right before he had taken flight on his glider…

That one glimpse had left him feeling horrified.

How do I find him?

That was the one thought that consumed one twenty-four-year-old Kudou Shinichi's mind. Hailed as the greatest deductive mind of his generation, Shinichi had been bestowed several titles: the "Modern-Day Holmes", the "Savior of the Police Force", the "Great Detective of the East", and the like. These were all names given to him by the media, and to these, he paid them little mind. Titles given by the media meant little to him. But two other nicknames—"Tantei-kun" and "Meitantei"—were ones that he regarded with more than just a derisive snort and a dismissive air. "Tantei-kun" and "Meitantei" were monikers that the phantom thief himself had called him by, and the nicknames had always been spoken with an undercurrent of deep, abiding respect regardless of the tone.

How the hell do I find a phantom thief?

Shinichi had come home from the heist, a deeply troubled frown furrowing his brows. The idea that Kaitou KID—the Kaitou KID—was in a bad enough mental state to resort to cutting was… terrifying. The fact that the visible section of the line of blood had stretched from the edge of his glove to the hem of his jacket cuff…

That wound had been inflicted in a desperate, silent plea for help with no expectation of receiving a response.

The Division One homicide detective leaned against his door, a hand ruffling his hair in agitation. Think! he snapped at himself. There had to be something—anything!—that could potentially lead him to the thief. Nobody was perfect, and there had to be evidence that even an artist like KID would leave behind.

The problem was that KID was a perfectionist. Shinichi knew that even if something managed to throw the phantom thief off from his original plans, he had backups for his backups—knew, because he was oftentimes the cause of said magician's need for backup plans. Shinichi toed his shoes off and stepped up into the hallway proper, flopping face-down onto the leather sofa in his living room. He twisted his head to the side so that he could breathe, eyes staring vacantly through his coffee table as he thought.

What can I do to find him? And once that is accomplished, what can I do to help?

It was not like he could waltz right up to KID and drag him to a psychiatrist. Shinichi liked to believe that KID trusted him to a certain extent, and he in no way, shape, or form wanted to jeopardize that trust. But that trust only extended to helping each other in outing criminals worse than the phantom thief himself. Shinichi in no way believed that their trust was strong enough for KID to handle being outed in such a manner.

The FBI, as one of the few agencies privy to his stint as Edogawa Conan, had provided him with counseling and various methods of psychotherapy once he had returned to being himself. It had been a long and arduous return, filled with depression, anxiety, and paranoia. He had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, and he had needed to learn how to deal with his symptoms and identify his triggers because he had wished to continue working in law enforcement. There were still nights he would wake up in a panic, images of Mouri Ran lying in a pool of cooling blood splashed vividly across his mind. Despite the fact that she was now his wife of one year and that he could hold her in his arms every night, the night terrors continued to haunt him.

Shinichi still dreamed of Gin, of Vodka, of Chianti and Korn, dreamed of them endangering those he loved. It had been a struggle to maintain an attitude of confidence as Conan when he had lived with the Mouris. The very real and terrible fear of them uncovering his identity had kept him up many a night, trembling under his covers as Kogoro snored in ignorant bliss just a meter away. It often made Shinichi wonder if his fight—if his continued existence—was worth the safety of his loved ones.

There had been nights when his dreams had become so blood-soaked he had eyed the Elasticity Suspenders hanging in the closet and considered how easily he could use them to snap his own neck. Or wondered how many refill darts from the Stun-Gun Wristwatch were needed to ensure he never woke up again.

On the nights when his thoughts turned that dark Shinichi instead took to the streets, preferring to walk in the shadows with solitude as his only companion. He knew that he could never do that to Ran. Killing himself as either Shinichi or Conan would have devastated her, regardless of how exhausted he felt in mind, body, and soul—how much he sometimes longed for that eternal silence and peace.

It also made him wonder about his own morals. As a detective, he had always done his best to ensure that murderers did not take their lives out of some misguided sense of remorse. Back then, in his pre-Conan years as his teenager self, he had felt it was his right to play judge, jury, and non-executioner, in a sense. After the fall of the Organization, Shinichi wondered how he could have been so arrogant as to believe that every criminal deserved punishment. Haibara was an excellent example of someone who was a criminal by situation and not by motivation. Had he still retained his pre-Conan mindset, Miyano Shiho would have been in jail long ago—and yet she remained free, coexisting peacefully with Agasa. Even he, himself, had unintentionally committed atrocities in his efforts to bring the Organization to light.

He held out a hand, gazing at the length of his fingers, the width of his palm, the creases at the joints. He had, on multiple occasions, almost given up hope of ever returning to being Kudou Shinichi. And then a miracle had occurred, in which Haibara had hit upon the right combination of enzymes: chief among them the specific type of DNA polymerase, along with a whole bunch of other things Shinichi had no idea what they were called. It meant that three months after the Organization was no more, Shinichi was finally able to return as himself.

Those periods of near utter hopelessness and unending exhaustion were something he hoped to never experience again. There were times he still backslid, but he coped with the aid of medication, meditation, exercise, journaling, and talking things out with his psychiatrist. While he had retired the Elasticity Suspenders and Stun-Gun Wristwatch upon becoming himself and had given them back to Agasa, Shinichi knew all too well the various other methods he could use to do the deed thanks to his exposure to murders over the years. It made him overly sensitive to anyone suffering with those kinds of thoughts.

So when that white gauze around his left wrist, otherwise unnoticeable when taken in with KID's entire ensemble, revealed a single straight stain of bright, scarlet-colored blood, it chilled him to the core.

Kaitou KID.

Bright, vibrant, and so very full of life KID…

…was suffering.

And Shinichi could not do a damn thing to help him. He curled his hand into a fist, nails digging into the flesh of his palm in impotent frustration as he slid his eyes shut with a sigh.

Useless.

Completely and utterly spec-fucking-tacularly useless.

Shinichi sighed, cocking his head first to one side, then the other in order to pop the vertebrae of his neck. The street-side shops of Ekoda moved in a slow blur outside his window as Takagi carefully navigated his car through the lunchtime traffic. The pair had responded to a reported body, and the death had been ruled as a suicide.

"Poor Yamagata-san," Takagi murmured, half to himself. "To lose her husband in such a manner…"

"Yeah…" Shinichi murmured, resting an elbow on the windowsill and leaning his chin on his hand. His heart was heavy, the way it always was nowadays whenever he visited a scene, though the ache in his chest was always worse if the case ended up being a suicide and not a murder. Suicides nowadays made him think of KID—made him wonder if the body he had been staring at had been the phantom thief's.

Takagi slowed to a stop at an intersection, and Shinichi's eyes lazily tracked the pedestrians that crossed the street as they waited out the red light. His eyes paused.

There was a man crossing the street in front of the car. That man—that man looked eerily like himself, only with a severe case of bedhead.

Wait.

He blinked again, straightening up and focusing his not inconsiderable attention on the man. There was a slight bulkiness to his left sleeve—indicative of bandages beneath? Long sleeves that… did not necessarily make sense in the late summer heat of August.

Wait!

The man stepped onto the curb on the far side of the intersection, blending into the crowd. Despite the royal blue of his scrubs, he seemed to melt into the press of salaryman blacks, whites, beiges, and greys.

WAIT!

Shinichi all but flung himself out of the car, barely paying attention to Takagi's squawk of surprise. He shouted something to the tune of, "I'll catch up with you later!" before he darted across the street, the crosswalk indicator now blinking red, desperate to catch up to that man.

The homicide detective pushed himself through the masses of people, muttering apologies as his eyes searched for a hint of disheveled hair or royal blue. His mental map of the area narrowed onto Ekoda General, which was just another block down the street.

Scrubs—he was wearing scrubs. He has to work there.

Shinichi scrambled towards the hospital's main entrance, barely avoiding braining himself on the automatic sliding doors in his haste. His eyes darted about the foyer, searching for that man. Everywhere he looked, there were medical staff in various colored scrubs, including the royal blue he had been chasing. He ducked his head, exhaling sharply in mounting disappointment—he had been so close!

"May I help you, sir?" The detective glanced up to find a young nurse watching him carefully. He absently catalogued details about her appearance—hair tied up in a low ponytail, practical and efficient; bad concealer job on her neck, a hickey from her husband based on the ring on her finger; bare, makeup-free face, focused on her job and not her looks—but blinked as she abruptly murmured with shocked, wide eyes, "Oh, wow, you look like someone on our staff…"

Shinichi silently thanked whatever deity was listening for this unexpected windfall. Grinning crookedly, he said, "Actually I'm looking for someone—the guy that looks like me, to be specific."

The nurse straightened her expression back into something more professional. "Do you have an appointment with him?"

The detective shook his head. "Honestly, I happened to see him out on the sidewalk and followed him here because I wanted to meet this person who looked almost exactly like me." He chuckled uncomfortably as he scratched his cheek and admitted, "Now that I've said that out loud I sound like a stalker…"

The nurse laughed. "You do," she agreed, "but then again it's not every day you run into your previously unknown twin." She grinned at him and said, "I'll page Kuroba-sensei for you. Please follow me."

"Oh, thank you!" Shinichi fervently sighed, weaving his way around other hospital personnel and guests as he ambled after the nurse.

She led him to the reception desk and dialed a number into the phone, the receiver pressed against her ear. After a long pause she said, "Hello Kuroba-sensei, Eikuma Hiromi speaking." There was another pause followed by, "I have a visitor down in the main entrance who would like to meet you." She listened, then retorted in response, "No, he does not have an appointment with you, but come see for yourself." She then hung up. The nurse gave Shinichi a wink. "His curiosity will have him down here in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Eikuma-san," Shinichi said, bowing politely.

Eikuma chuckled. "No worries. You're a good way to one up the man. This will be the best prank on him ever!"

The detective's eyebrow rose inquisitively. "Is Kuroba-sensei much of a prankster?"

"When is he not?" the nurse answered with a smile. "He constantly jokes and does little magic tricks to keep the kids that he sees giggling. The only times I've ever seen him serious were when he was in the OR."

"What is Kuroba-sensei's specialty?" he asked, a small grin curving his lips in the face of the woman's cheerfulness.

Eikuma's smile dimmed. "He's a pediatric neurosurgeon."

Shinichi felt his own smile dampen in realization. Pediatric neurology. Surgeon. A physician who treated children with problems pertaining to the nerves and the brain. A surgeon who removed brain tumors from babes, amongst other things. "He's a very strong man to do what he does," he remarked with quiet reverence.

The nurse sighed and softly agreed.

"Eikuma-san, you are so mean," a male voice echoed over the low din of the reception area.

"Am not," Hiromi called back over Shinichi's shoulder, "You're just super nosy."

The homicide detective turned to find a near identical copy of himself striding towards them. It was the same man: royal blue scrubs with white long-sleeved tee underneath, unruly espresso-colored hair, and eyes an indigo shade that differed ever-so-slightly from his own cobalt blue.

There was an air of mischief about him, though Shinichi somehow sensed that it was partly a cover to hide something else. The fact that the doctor's eyes had quickly flicked across everyone in the atrium one he had exited the elevator bay indicated that he was wary and had catalogued—what? Potential patients? Potential danger? Whatever it was, it felt strongly similar to KID.

It took every drop of will power in Shinichi's body to not stare at the man's left forearm to check for disguised bandaging beneath the silver watch that encircled his wrist.

The surgeon froze for a moment upon seeing Shinichi, a visible falter in his steps. Eikuma cackled with glee at the doctor's completely befuddled expression. "Is this a prank?" he asked, nearing the pair waiting for him.

Shinichi shook his head ruefully. "I wish it was. Kudou Shinichi," he said by way of introduction as he bowed politely. "Pleased to meet you."

"Kuroba Kaito," the doctor replied with a bow of his own. "Pleased to meet you."

Eikuma hummed, pleased that they were now introduced. "I'll take my leave here. I have some rounding to do in the NICU. Play nice, Kuroba-sensei."

Kuroba pouted. "Don't I always?" he called after her as she walked off.

They stared at each other for a moment before Kuroba huffed. "It's like staring at one of those funhouse distortion mirrors you find on a fairground."

Shinichi chuckled. "Right?" He pulled out his phone. "Mind if I take a picture to show my wife? She won't believe that I met my doppelgänger without evidence."

The surgeon shrugged. "Fine by me," he said, and leaned towards Shinichi to ensure that his grinning face was in the shot. The detective took the picture, checked it to make sure it met both his and Kuroba's satisfaction, and thanked the doctor for humoring him with the impromptu meeting.

"Not at all a problem," Kuroba said in reply. His eyes lit up with sudden mischief. "Mind if we swapped numbers? I have ideas for pranks I'd like to pull on my friends with your help."

"Sure," Shinichi answered agreeably, and inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief. There would be no need to cajole the man for his contact information. They exchanged numbers, and Shinichi privately beamed at seeing the new entry of "Kuroba Kaito" in his phone's address book. "I really am happy that I got to meet you—it was such a shock looking up and seeing what looked like my face waltzing across the pedestrian crossing in front of me."

The surgeon chuckled. "'Waltzing'? That's the most flattering compliment I've heard yet, since I have two left feet!"

Liar, the detective thought as he shared a laugh with his lookalike. "Somehow I doubt that, Kuroba-sensei."

Kuroba opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a vibrating buzz on his hip. He checked the pager clipped to the waistband of his scrubs, then bowed politely. "Sorry, Kudou-san," he apologized, "I need to run."

"Oh, no," Shinichi said, holding up his hands, "Don't let me keep you. I also need to return to work."

The two bid each other farewell before heading off in the direction of their respective jobs, and Shinichi's pleased smile melted into a worried frown as he flagged a taxi to return to police headquarters.

Shinichi initiated a delicate dance between himself and KID's civilian persona, beginning with simple requests to meet for lunch and later on expanding to dinners with Ran. It was heartbreakingly slow progress, but Shinichi wanted—needed—the foundation for their friendship to be indisputably built on an unshakable trust.

It was a trust that was vastly different from the kind he had managed to cultivate with Kaitou KID. With the phantom thief, there was an understood expectation that they would help each other out for the greater good, but when it was just the two of them—just detective and thief—all bets were off.

Shinichi's relationship with Kaitou KID was one of outrageous acts of give and take.

He wanted his relationship with Kuroba Kaito to be one of unwavering reliability.

It was easy at times to forget just how much Kuroba hurt. With how he joyously he laughed, how brightly his eyes gleamed, how widely his lips smiled, it was disturbingly simple to forget that this man purposely slashed lines of red into his skin in his loneliness, that he inflicted physical pain on himself to assuage the agony he felt in his soul.

Shinichi had done his research on the doctor, as he had wanted to know what kind of person Kaitou KID was when he was not in costume. Kuroba's father had passed away during a show in what had been ruled as an accident—though based on the reports, Shinichi had his doubts as to the validity of the document. His mother had fled not long after, and the young eight-year-old Kuroba had then been forced to fend for himself. Kuroba had essentially been forced to grow up alone, and Shinichi could only begin to guess at what sort of scarring that had left on his friend.

Kuroba was a man who lived alone due to his circumstances, though Shinichi had suspicions that it was purposely and by design. He had spent so much of his young adult years focused on being KID—and later becoming a pediatric surgeon—that he had lost out on winning over the heart of one Nakamori Aoko. The detective could see why Kuroba had chosen not to pursue his childhood sweetheart: the daughter of the head of Division Two was now an officer in the police force herself, and a very vocal advocate of putting the phantom thief behind bars. That she had also ended up marrying Hakuba Saguru had likely not helped.

It had taken months of coaxing the man into outings with both himself and Ran to turn the surgeon from "Kuroba-sensei" to simply "Kuroba", and it was a victory that Shinichi relished. Kuroba still laughed and still smiled, but the detective had noticed the barest change within it after becoming honest friends with him. The laughter was less brittle and the smiles more genuine, and it eased some of the tension that wound tightly around his heart like razor wire.

The bulkiness of the bandages on his forearm had remained, and despite the blistering heat they had experienced during the summer, Kuroba had steadfastly refused to wear short-sleeved shirts. With the fact that autumn had rolled on by, that winter was now upon them and that layers were to be expected, Shinichi no longer had a visual way to gauge his friend's mental condition.

The two of them had become close in their months of acquaintanceship, of that, Shinichi had very little doubt. But was their friendship strong enough for the detective to broach the reason he had instigated their meeting in the first place? Kuroba had done well in never once slipping up that he was the alter ego to the infamous Kaitou KID, and Shinichi had no desire to startle the doctor into hiding.

Kuroba had done exceedingly well in ensuring that however well he believed Shinichi knew him, there was always a facet of his personality that was locked away—and that facet was none other than Kaitou KID. Had the detective never known that they were one and the same, it might have been possible to keep his suspicions allayed. Similarities between Kuroba Kaito and Kaitou KID regarding love of magic and physical appearance aside, there was no evidence whatsoever to prove that they were one person.

"What do I do, Ran?" he pleaded one night as he and his wife cuddled against each other after a long day of work for the both of them. Shinichi had, in bits and pieces over the months of knowing the surgeon, told the lawyer the reason he was so very invested in a friendship with Kuroba. The detective nestled his face into the crook of Ran's neck, seeking confirmation that his fear and indecision were over a worthwhile endeavor—over someone who was so very worth the effort.

Ran hugged her husband tighter around his shoulders, pressing a cheek against ruffled strands of hair. "I don't know, Shinichi," she admitted softly in reply. "Both of us know that Kuroba-san isn't likely to take well to you poking your nose in his affairs—" Shinichi snorted at that particular understatement of the century, "—but I suppose if you are going to press this issue, you need to make it explicitly clear that you are doing so only because you care for him."

Shinichi moaned pitifully. "Like it's that easy," he grumbled into his wife's shoulder before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her neck in unspoken gratitude.

"It's exactly that easy," Ran said, leaning away to cup her husband's face to meet her gaze in the dark. "Kuroba-san knows what you are like and who you are. If you prove your sincerity in wanting to help, I'm sure he'll let you. You just have to be prepared to fight him for the chance."

"What did I do right in a past life to end up with an angel like you?" Shinichi murmured, his voice reverent and humbled and ever so in love with the woman beside him. "I honestly don't deserve you."

Ran smiled and pressed a kiss to the tip of Shinichi's nose. "You'll figure it out," she whispered encouragingly. "It's what you've always been best at."

Shinichi grumbled to himself and curled more tightly around his wife, his fragile hopes for helping Kuroba buoyed by Ran's steadfast belief in him.

He only hoped he could live up to Ran's faith in him.

Spring crept in with white and pink buds in the cherry, pear, and magnolia trees, breaking the brisk chilliness of winter. It meant longer, warmer days, picnics and outdoor events, and lighter clothing.

Kuroba continued to wear long-sleeved shirts despite the weather heating up.

Shinichi continued to spot the flash of crimson on KID's wrist every so often.

The detective managed to corner the phantom thief—in the men's bathroom of all places—almost immediately after the magician had released a decoy for the Task Force to chase. It had not been an easy undertaking, but somehow Shinichi had managed to do so while keeping both dignity and consciousness intact. The two stood in the space before the sinks, the buzz of the fluorescent lightbulbs overhead casting everything in a pale blue hue.

"I must say I am surprised, Meitantei," KID murmured as he leaned against a stretch of wall without a hand dryer, "this is rather forward, even for you. What would your wife say?"

Shinichi snorted, not about to be sidetracked but acknowledging the teasing and responding with his own. "Ran would be perfectly happy to know that this is happening," he replied with a deadpan expression, though the corner of his lips twitched in stifled amusement.

The phantom thief's eyelashes fluttered coquettishly. "Oh be still, my heart," he sighed melodramatically as he pretended to swoon, and Shinichi was unable to stifle the resulting chuckle. KID grinned at him as he straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest. "So, Meitantei, what was it that you wanted to discuss? Because I know you wouldn't have gone through all this effort singling me out and helping to divert Division Two's attention without some ulterior motive."

The expression on the detective's face twisted into discomfort. "While I do have something to tell you, I—" Shinichi shut his mouth with an audible clack of teeth and spun on his heel, growling in frustration. He paced the length of the bathroom, stopping at the far end to glare at the tiled floor.

Just spit it out! one part of him shouted, while another whispered, It needs to be broached with utmost delicacy.

He ruffled his hair in agitation, knowing that he needed to approach the topic with care—yet he also knew he had a history of blurting things out rather bluntly when nervous.

Shinichi was very nervous.

"Meitantei…?" KID prodded softly, his tone worried.

"Sorry, KID," the detective apologized as he about-faced to gaze at the visibly concerned phantom thief. KID was no longer leaning casually against the wall, and instead had silently crossed three-quarters the length of the restroom to approach him. Shinichi waited until the magician came to a halt before him before shamefacedly admitting with lowered eyes, "I just—don't know how to bring this up with you."

Shinichi could feel the weight of KID's stare, and it was a long moment before the thief said softly, "Then just say it." His tone indicated that he was mentally bracing himself for whatever horrible truth was about to be uncovered, and Shinichi felt a swell of overwhelming admiration for the thief's bravery—along with a tidal wave of something nameless that nonetheless made his heart feel as though it was about to burst at the depth of trust KID had in him.

He pulled out a white noise generator from his jacket pocket and switched it on, allowing the thief to see it before dropping it back into his pocket. Swallowing thickly, the detective pried his gaze upwards from the magician's white loafers to squarely meet KID's indigo gaze. He disregarded how rude it was to maintain eye contact, knowing that what he was about to say required that the phantom thief read in his eyes what his words could not convey.

"I've… deduced something about you," he began, and winced at the vagueness of the statement.

KID did not externally react, and instead replied with quiet seriousness, "And what have you deduced, Meitantei?"

Nerves getting to him, Shinichi dropped his gaze once more. "That—that you could use someone to talk to."

"Talk to…?" There was a world of confusion in the phantom thief's words.

"Talk. To me, I mean," Shinichi said, and carefully reached a hand out to grasp the outside of KID's left wrist as gently as possible. "Please," he whispered, tracing his thumb along the inside of the clothed and fully-covered wrist, "please, tell me what's hurting you."

KID snatched his arm back and flung himself backwards, crossing the length of the bathroom so fast it was as if he had teleported away. Shinichi's head had snapped up at the other man's reaction, and he could only helplessly stare as Kaitou KID stared wide-eyed back at him, face ashen and chest heaving as though he had just run a marathon.

"Y—You…" KID stuttered as he pressed himself against the opposite wall, "How did you…?"

Shinichi's eyes flicked to the ventilation shaft, which was closer to KID than to him, and mentally resigned himself to having destroyed the phantom thief's trust beyond all recognition. "I just happened to see bleeding on the gauze you used at the Meridian Sapphire heist, just before you escaped." He allowed his gaze to roam around the restroom, unable to look at the other man. "I know that something of this nature is very much private—" and yet somehow his eyes found KID's once more, "—but I couldn't ignore a cry for help like that."

Fingers painfully clenching around each other, Shinichi continued his metaphorical crucifixion in Kaitou KID's eyes. "I know who you are, too. I spotted you in the pedestrian crowds on the way back to the office, chased you back to your civilian work location, and befriended you. My desire to get to know you was not only because of what I saw, but also because I have long wanted to meet the man behind the monocle."

The detective smiled tiredly, wryly. "I found you because I saw something that might be related. And after months of getting to know you, I can't—I can't imagine you not being here. I know the kinds of demons that you could be fighting. I know because I have many of my own. And it's a struggle—day in and day out—to push past them, to get yourself out of bed because you feel like it's not worth the effort. I know what it's like to hear those whispers that tell you that you aren't worth the effort, that no matter what you do you won't make a difference."

Talking about his personal demons always brought Shinichi to tears because no matter how deeply he had made his peace with them, had come to terms with them, they would always be a part of him that was so incredibly raw and sad and hateful. He swiped at his eyes, sniffling quietly and clearing his throat. "But I want to tell you that you do make a difference, that you mean something to not only to me, but to Ran, to your family, your friends, your coworkers and patients. You make life better for so many people…" He chuckled wearily and added as he smirked at the thief, "And you're also an idiot for not being able to see that."

KID appeared stunned. His mouth had dropped slightly open, and the exposed eye glistened suspiciously. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat before he said quietly, "… I don't know what to say, Meitantei."

Shinichi snorted and snarked to add a little bit of levity, "I've rendered the silver-tongued Kaitou KID speechless. This is a day for the books." The magician barked a startled laugh in response, and it brought a smile to the detective's face. "I meant what I said, KID. If you want to talk, I'll listen—or if you would rather talk to a psychologist, I know several reputable names for your consideration. Until then…" He turned towards the restroom exit, stopping before he pulled the door open to finish, "Just… take care of yourself, okay?"

The week following the heist was spent on tenterhooks for one homicide detective. Shinichi had left KID in the bathroom without getting one last look at the man's expression, and therefore had no idea how well his sales pitch had overall been received. He was afraid of contacting Kuroba, apprehensive of being actively rejected by the doctor. Ran had done her best to keep Shinichi's ever-working mind off that particular topic to limited success. The three-day hunt of a serial killer halfway through had done wonders to keep Shinichi occupied and exhausted enough to shut his brain off entirely by the time he finally flopped into bed on the third night.

The Saturday after found Shinichi in the library of the home in Haido that he and Ran had purchased several years back, absently paging through The Valley of Fear. Ran was out for the evening for dinner and drinks with a few of her fellow attorneys, leaving Shinichi somewhat at loose ends.

A ring from the doorbell startled him, and he padded over to the intercom to see who had come to visit, and Shinichi's breath caught at the sight. The screen next to the keypad connected to a camera built into the doorbell, and it showed Kuroba Kaito nervously shuffling just outside the front gate.

"Ku-Kuroba…?" Shinichi said, pressing the button to activate the microphone.

The surgeon visibly jumped at being addressed before tentatively waving at the camera. "Ah, hi, Kudou…"

A helpless grin curled Shinichi's lips in sheer amusement at how unnerved the both of them were. "Please, come in," he invited, and electronically unlocked the gate. He met Kuroba at the front door, offering a pair of house slippers.

"Pardon my intrusion," Kuroba had intoned politely before following Shinichi to the kitchen despite his protests that he need not wait and watch him make tea. They ended up seated at the dining table instead of in the living room, and once they were comfortably settled with mugs of green tea before them, Kuroba spoke.

"I'm here to talk," he announced with a waver in his voice, cheeks flushing in embarrassment and eyes darting away uncomfortably. Hope and awe and amazement and pride unfurled in Shinichi's chest at just how strong a man Kuroba was, and the feelings were reflected in a smile that the detective would have been very hard-pressed to wipe off despite his own embarrassment at the display. When Shinichi failed to verbally respond, Kuroba chanced a glance, eyes widening upon seeing Shinichi's expression.

"Let me state for the record," Shinichi said, voice uneven with the strength of his own emotions. While his instinct was to hide what he was feeling like a model Japanese male, he knew that openness with the other man was not only necessary, it was more than worth the chip to his pride to help his friend. "Whether you are Kuroba Kaito or Kaitou KID, you are one of the most amazing people that I know—and never let anyone tell you different."

Kuroba ducked his head, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. "Even…" he began tentatively, and set his hands on the tabletop away from his mug, "even if I have these…?" He shakily pulled back his left sleeve, revealing pale lines that scored half the length of his forearm, thin streaks that crisscrossed each other in raised serpentine chaos for a moment before tugging the cuff back down.

Shinichi once again slowly reach out, giving Kuroba more than ample time to pull away as his fingers gently encircled that damaged wrist. "Especially if you have these," he confirmed, "because it shows you are a fighter."

The surgeon caught his gaze and tentatively smiled back. "I don't feel like much of a fighter…"

"You are," Shinichi assured him, "because if you weren't, you wouldn't be here at all."

It had been a simple flash of the wrist—nothing particularly extraordinary in today's society. But once upon a time, a glimpse of the delicate skin on the underside of a person's wrist incited feelings of privacy and intimacy: it had once been a privilege to witness such a fragile part of a person.

To see the wrist of Kuroba Kaito, however, was something extraordinary simply because it was a part of him that had long since been hidden away from the public eye. A brilliant surgeon in the field of pediatric neurology, his hands were his work's lifeblood, steady and nimble as they were when both operating and performing magic tricks. The pale lines that decorated his forearm were not deep enough to truly damage muscle or nerve, but more than enough to leave permanent traces behind. It was silent proof of a desire to connect, to know and be known to someone who would understand.

That one glimpse of his left wrist bare for all to see on his dining table…

That one glimpse had left him feeling privileged.

Author's Note: My deepest respect to everyone in healthcare for their bravery in the face of COVID-19. Stay safe everyone, and social distance if you are absolutely unable to self-quarantine! I began this a while ago but only recently had the urge to finish it. I feel like it rambled a little, and it was perhaps a little aimless and OOC as well. Whoops. The baring of the wrist is a reference to geisha mannerisms. Extended eye contact in Japan is generally considered rude. I hope you enjoyed it, and feel free to poke me on Twitter at taliya_writes.

Completed: 27.04.2020